Miranda. “No, I don’t think you made a mistake.”
The sharp smell—a kerosene kind of smell, Sandy thought in her back brain—got stronger suddenly and she shifted backwards in her chair. The path to the front door was blocked by the two tables to her left, but the arch to the kitchen was directly behind her and on the other side, the front hallway.
But that was silly. No one was going to hurt her. Not over bunco. It wasn’t that important. Not like they had skin in the game. Not like her.
Then Miranda and Cass rose; Cass’s chair fell with a clatter—she ignored it, poised in a semi-crouch, just like Miranda. The way they stood, knees bent not quite right, the planes of their faces not quite right—they had changed, shifted in some indefinable way, and as she watched Sandy saw it: the base of Cass’s nose broadened between the eyes, lips lifting from teeth that were not made the way they were before.
“I told you,” growled a voice from the pit. Shel. Her partner four rounds back. They had lost, Sandy making sure it was her last loss. “I told you she cheated. Second time she subbed.”
Dumb bitch, thought Sandy with useless clarity through her pooling fear. I fooled you the first game too, and you though it was sub’s luck.
Miranda growled, her lips lifting, her snout—it was a snout, her face shifting, malleable as Play-Doh—extending out of her formerly placid face. Sandy scrambled backwards, tipping her chair over in front of Cass to give her a few more seconds, retreating into the kitchen and, abandoning purse and coat, making for the hallway. The blinds over the sink were up and a small part of her, seeing the moon rise over the neighbor’s rooftop, understood.
It wasn’t even a full moon, a blobby something somewhere between full and half, not even photogenic. Seemed like cheating to her.
Of course, that was only fair, considering.
The arch to the hallway was blocked by three looming forms—small plump Gwynne, her back humped up under a pink silk blouse, her fangs protruding over her lower lip, her petite fingers now claws. Lydia and Shel loomed behind her, their faces molded flat and feral like Miranda’s.
Sandy whirled around, her heels slipping on the linoleum. Cass’s shoulders, enormous and hairy, were bursting out of her dusky purple jacket, part of the suit she wore every Monday, or when clients were in the office. Sweet, kind-of-frumpy Cass, eating yogurt every morning and heating up her Lean Cuisine at lunch. Harriet-called-Harry, who had a meeting with her fifth-grader’s teacher that afternoon and was bemoaning the fact that she only came up with fantastic retorts three hours later at dinner, drooled down her T-shirt, her eyes huge and yellow.
Sandy backed into a table loaded with the dirty dishes from dinner; one tipped to the floor and spun around with a clatter of silverware. More crowded into the kitchen: Tessa, Maggie, Mia—whose ears had grown up pointed, still pierced with Cookie Lee earrings. Lexie, impossibly broad and squat. Dionne, her body still human, her face a beast’s.
“Keep her in here,” snarled Cass. “I just got the carpets cleaned.”
Sandy backed into the cold expanse of a sliding glass door and fumbled at the latch; it was closed and locked tight. She slammed the glass, trying to break it, but glass is tougher than it looks and that only works in movies, and this wasn’t a movie.
If this were a movie, you would have seen a reverse angle of the sliding glass door and a scarlet spray across it.
The kitchen was very clean by the time they were done. Everyone was always careful to help clean up.
“Did you win?” Cass’s husband shifted over to make room for her. He’d taken their daughter to the movies, knowing neither of them belonged here on bunco night—not a scary movie, with blood across a window, but something with princesses, and spells, and little bit of death, suitable for a seven-year old.
“The hostess never wins,” she
The sharp smell—a kerosene kind of smell, Sandy thought in her back brain—got stronger suddenly and she shifted backwards in her chair. The path to the front door was blocked by the two tables to her left, but the arch to the kitchen was directly behind her and on the other side, the front hallway.
But that was silly. No one was going to hurt her. Not over bunco. It wasn’t that important. Not like they had skin in the game. Not like her.
Then Miranda and Cass rose; Cass’s chair fell with a clatter—she ignored it, poised in a semi-crouch, just like Miranda. The way they stood, knees bent not quite right, the planes of their faces not quite right—they had changed, shifted in some indefinable way, and as she watched Sandy saw it: the base of Cass’s nose broadened between the eyes, lips lifting from teeth that were not made the way they were before.
“I told you,” growled a voice from the pit. Shel. Her partner four rounds back. They had lost, Sandy making sure it was her last loss. “I told you she cheated. Second time she subbed.”
Dumb bitch, thought Sandy with useless clarity through her pooling fear. I fooled you the first game too, and you though it was sub’s luck.
Miranda growled, her lips lifting, her snout—it was a snout, her face shifting, malleable as Play-Doh—extending out of her formerly placid face. Sandy scrambled backwards, tipping her chair over in front of Cass to give her a few more seconds, retreating into the kitchen and, abandoning purse and coat, making for the hallway. The blinds over the sink were up and a small part of her, seeing the moon rise over the neighbor’s rooftop, understood.
It wasn’t even a full moon, a blobby something somewhere between full and half, not even photogenic. Seemed like cheating to her.
Of course, that was only fair, considering.
The arch to the hallway was blocked by three looming forms—small plump Gwynne, her back humped up under a pink silk blouse, her fangs protruding over her lower lip, her petite fingers now claws. Lydia and Shel loomed behind her, their faces molded flat and feral like Miranda’s.
Sandy whirled around, her heels slipping on the linoleum. Cass’s shoulders, enormous and hairy, were bursting out of her dusky purple jacket, part of the suit she wore every Monday, or when clients were in the office. Sweet, kind-of-frumpy Cass, eating yogurt every morning and heating up her Lean Cuisine at lunch. Harriet-called-Harry, who had a meeting with her fifth-grader’s teacher that afternoon and was bemoaning the fact that she only came up with fantastic retorts three hours later at dinner, drooled down her T-shirt, her eyes huge and yellow.
Sandy backed into a table loaded with the dirty dishes from dinner; one tipped to the floor and spun around with a clatter of silverware. More crowded into the kitchen: Tessa, Maggie, Mia—whose ears had grown up pointed, still pierced with Cookie Lee earrings. Lexie, impossibly broad and squat. Dionne, her body still human, her face a beast’s.
“Keep her in here,” snarled Cass. “I just got the carpets cleaned.”
Sandy backed into the cold expanse of a sliding glass door and fumbled at the latch; it was closed and locked tight. She slammed the glass, trying to break it, but glass is tougher than it looks and that only works in movies, and this wasn’t a movie.
If this were a movie, you would have seen a reverse angle of the sliding glass door and a scarlet spray across it.
The kitchen was very clean by the time they were done. Everyone was always careful to help clean up.
“Did you win?” Cass’s husband shifted over to make room for her. He’d taken their daughter to the movies, knowing neither of them belonged here on bunco night—not a scary movie, with blood across a window, but something with princesses, and spells, and little bit of death, suitable for a seven-year old.
“The hostess never wins,” she
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