would rise up again, teeth snapping, hands curled into limp claws. It had been her dad, then it had become something else. And now it wasn’t anything at all.
There was the sound of movement out in the hall. Footsteps shuffling along carpet. Amy’s breath caught at the back of her throat. The kitchen door slowly began to creak inward. She looked for the frying pan, then remembered tossing it across the room after smashing open her dad’s head.
Amy tried to get up, but her legs shook and her bare feet slipped on the bloody floor. She kicked out frantically, trying to find purchase as the door swung open all the way, revealing a familiar figure framed in the doorway.
‘Mom?’
A low moan burst like a bubble on her mom’s withered lips. Another sound came from somewhere within Amy herself. It was a raw, primal scream. Not fear, but something much more. Terror times ten.
Her mom jerked into the kitchen like a bad animation, and immediately slid in the blood puddle. There was a solid thump as her face battered against the kitchen floor, but whatever was driving her on didn’t seem to notice.
She crawled forwards across the remains of her husband, her fingers squishing through the cheesecake of brain that had spurted from his caved-in head. She moved like an old drunk – slow and clumsy, her limbs trembling. Amy flailed out, searching for a weapon – something solid she could defend herself with.
Her hand found the handle of the dishwasher. She yanked the door down. Her arm bent backwards as she tried frantically to reach inside.
And then her mom was at her feet. No, not her mom, just a thing that looked like her. Her mom was long gone now. The thing’s mouth was opening, its gnarled fingers grasping at Amy’s jeans. Amy kicked with her free foot. Once. Twice. The thing that looked like her mom’s nose burst open in a spray of dark red goop, but still she held on, still she kept coming.
Amy grabbed the first thing she could find in the dishwasher. It was a plate. Crumbs of that morning’s breakfast clung to it like barnacles. Amy took the plate in both hands and smashed it down across her mom’s head.
Her mom groaned, but kept coming, her fingertips pressing hard against the flesh of Amy’s leg, as if trying to worm their way through her skin.
Another plate. Another smash. Amy kicked again, screaming as those fingertips threatened to dig right into her flesh.
Her shoulder clicked and pain stabbed down her arm as she tried to reach deeper into the dishwasher behind her. A knife. A knife. If she could only find a knife.
Her mom’s mouth was wide open now. Her tongue hung limply over her teeth. Blood oozed from her gums and dribbled from the corners of her mouth, and – just for a moment – something seemed to crawl beneath the skin of her neck.
Amy’s hand wrapped around something metal. She yanked it free, hoping for the big chef’s knife her dad had chopped carrots with the night before.
Instead, she found the ladle her mom had used to dish out the soup. Hot breath seeped through the leg of her jeans as the thing’s mouth closed in on Amy’s ankle. Amy swung with the ladle. It was small and not very heavy, but it made a loud clonk sound as it battered against the side of her mom’s head.
It wouldn’t be enough, though. A few smacks from a kitchen utensil wouldn’t stop the thing. Amy Banks would die there on that kitchen floor, aged nineteen and two months, unless she thought of something fast.
She swung with the ladle again to get the thing’s attention. Had to keep it distracted. Had to stop it chewing through her leg.
Amy kicked with her free foot again, driving the heel against her mom’s cheek and snapping it to the left. Something popped in the thing’s neck and the head titled at a sickening angle. Amy’s mom’s mouth opened wider. The tongue unfurled like a tatty rug. Another groan echoed from within the cavern of her throat.
And Amy saw her chance. She turned the ladle so the
There was the sound of movement out in the hall. Footsteps shuffling along carpet. Amy’s breath caught at the back of her throat. The kitchen door slowly began to creak inward. She looked for the frying pan, then remembered tossing it across the room after smashing open her dad’s head.
Amy tried to get up, but her legs shook and her bare feet slipped on the bloody floor. She kicked out frantically, trying to find purchase as the door swung open all the way, revealing a familiar figure framed in the doorway.
‘Mom?’
A low moan burst like a bubble on her mom’s withered lips. Another sound came from somewhere within Amy herself. It was a raw, primal scream. Not fear, but something much more. Terror times ten.
Her mom jerked into the kitchen like a bad animation, and immediately slid in the blood puddle. There was a solid thump as her face battered against the kitchen floor, but whatever was driving her on didn’t seem to notice.
She crawled forwards across the remains of her husband, her fingers squishing through the cheesecake of brain that had spurted from his caved-in head. She moved like an old drunk – slow and clumsy, her limbs trembling. Amy flailed out, searching for a weapon – something solid she could defend herself with.
Her hand found the handle of the dishwasher. She yanked the door down. Her arm bent backwards as she tried frantically to reach inside.
And then her mom was at her feet. No, not her mom, just a thing that looked like her. Her mom was long gone now. The thing’s mouth was opening, its gnarled fingers grasping at Amy’s jeans. Amy kicked with her free foot. Once. Twice. The thing that looked like her mom’s nose burst open in a spray of dark red goop, but still she held on, still she kept coming.
Amy grabbed the first thing she could find in the dishwasher. It was a plate. Crumbs of that morning’s breakfast clung to it like barnacles. Amy took the plate in both hands and smashed it down across her mom’s head.
Her mom groaned, but kept coming, her fingertips pressing hard against the flesh of Amy’s leg, as if trying to worm their way through her skin.
Another plate. Another smash. Amy kicked again, screaming as those fingertips threatened to dig right into her flesh.
Her shoulder clicked and pain stabbed down her arm as she tried to reach deeper into the dishwasher behind her. A knife. A knife. If she could only find a knife.
Her mom’s mouth was wide open now. Her tongue hung limply over her teeth. Blood oozed from her gums and dribbled from the corners of her mouth, and – just for a moment – something seemed to crawl beneath the skin of her neck.
Amy’s hand wrapped around something metal. She yanked it free, hoping for the big chef’s knife her dad had chopped carrots with the night before.
Instead, she found the ladle her mom had used to dish out the soup. Hot breath seeped through the leg of her jeans as the thing’s mouth closed in on Amy’s ankle. Amy swung with the ladle. It was small and not very heavy, but it made a loud clonk sound as it battered against the side of her mom’s head.
It wouldn’t be enough, though. A few smacks from a kitchen utensil wouldn’t stop the thing. Amy Banks would die there on that kitchen floor, aged nineteen and two months, unless she thought of something fast.
She swung with the ladle again to get the thing’s attention. Had to keep it distracted. Had to stop it chewing through her leg.
Amy kicked with her free foot again, driving the heel against her mom’s cheek and snapping it to the left. Something popped in the thing’s neck and the head titled at a sickening angle. Amy’s mom’s mouth opened wider. The tongue unfurled like a tatty rug. Another groan echoed from within the cavern of her throat.
And Amy saw her chance. She turned the ladle so the
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