light passed over her bed Mallory saw what hid within the darkness.
A girl.
A girl with short purple hair. Splattered with blood.
Mallory gasped and the girl’s head snapped up. She gazed back with black shark eyes, baring bloodstained teeth in a hideous snarl.
Shock stole Mallory’s voice, and no sound came when she opened her mouth to scream. She wanted to run, but her gaze remained fixed on the girl by her bed, on the dried blood splashed across her bone-white skin and crusted around two overlapping letter Ks that had been cut into her forehead.
The girl lunged.
Before Mallory could find her voice, the girl shot over the bed on all fours with the speed of a springing spider.
Pain pinched her throat, seized her limbs.
Pinned under her attacker, Mallory could only gaze upward as the girl’s dead-white face loomed into her vision, black eyes gleaming. Her lips parted, revealing those bloody teeth.
“Dad—,” Mallory managed to get out when she heard her father call her name, but then the black-eyed girl clutched her jaw with one hand, forcing her mouth open and—
—shoved her other hand into Mallory’s throat.
A new pain exploded inside her chest.
Pain beyond pain.
Hell.
And with it came a terrible revelation: the girl gazing down at her was dead. Mallory knew it without doubt. Through the horror and torture her mind still detected the cold touch of the girl’s skin, the stiff feel of her flesh.
Mallory gagged, convulsing in terror. Her legs kicked wildly, her hands closed over the appendage groping farther and farther into her throat. It was cutting off her air, choking her, trying to grab something
She pulled at the girl’s arm, dug fingernails into her skin. But the girl wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t relent. And just when panic had no more meaning, Mallory felt her fingers sink into the rotten meat of the girl’s forearm, piercing dead muscle and severing spongy bone until—
The girl’s hand
Mallory watched in perfect clarity as the girl drew her arm backward, trailing only a putrid black stump. And yet the fingers of the hand inside her still scampered and twitched and clawed to get deeper.
Mallory grabbed the thing’s wrist, seizing it with both hands, but when she tried to pull it free, the soft meat simply stripped off in her grasp, like oily skin sliding off an overcooked chicken.
Free from her grip, the hand plunged down her throat. She could feel her neck bulge as the slime-greased thing slipped past her esophagus, digging toward her stomach.
All she could do now was thrash about, clenching the muscles of her abdomen, trying again and again to lurch the hand up. She jerked from side to side, kicking and flailing, and—
“Mallory,” her dad cried. “Wake up!”
She jerked awake, still trying to lash out, stopped only by her dad restraining her arms.
“Mallory!”
Now the room came into focus. She saw her dad at the bedside, BJ huddling behind him, looking scared.
She stopped thrashing, relaxed. Lingering fear kept her heart pumping at a runner’s pace, but she managed to calm her breathing and sit up. Her dad released her and she wiped sweat-soaked bangs off her forehead.
“Are you okay?”
Too embarrassed to say anything, she merely nodded. But with the nod came a sob, and with the sob came tears.
Crying, she clutched her dad in a hug. He held her tight, stroking her hair like when she was young. He told her she was safe and that he loved her and that it was only a dream.
“Everything’s okay,” he said after she’d gained control again. “You’re safe.”
She wiped her cheeks dry. “I know. I’m fine now.”
“You sure?”
She nodded.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No way.”
He smiled, and she smiled back, even if it was forced.
“All right, then.” He ushered BJ out of the room and turned off the light. “Goodnight, Mallory. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
After they’d gone and she found herself alone in the darkness, Mallory scrunched down in her bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, just like BJ.
CHAPTER 16
Harry finally had an excuse to visit the Andersons.
Earlier in the week, when he’d spoken to Jerry during his walk, the man had shocked him with the news that he and Margaret planned on attending church the coming Sunday.
“Maybe we could all go together?” Jerry had asked, looking sheepish and prepared for ridicule. True, Harry’s jaw almost dislocated from the surprise, but the man had obviously come to him looking for support, and it warmed his heart to hear the Andersons had actually developed an interest in God.
But neither of them had showed.
Harry meant to ask them about it yesterday, but then he’d noticed Father Kern’s car in their driveway and guessed the Andersons had called him for whatever spiritual advice they’d been looking for. The priest stayed for a long time, too, well into the evening, and Harry eventually decided to let the matter rest for the night.
Now he noticed Kern’s car had returned, parked in the exact same place, almost as if he’d never left.
He ascended the front steps and rapped on the door. Like a shot out of some old detective movie, the unlatched door clicked open on the first knock and drifted inward to reveal a scene of devastation: the staircase railing lay in ruin, its banisters reduced to firewood kindling.
Harry stood silent, his gaze taking in the damage.
“Jerry?” he called. “Margaret? Is anyone here?”
The air inside the house attacked his lungs the second he spoke, tainted by a smell that dredged up memories of Saigon hospitals ripened by the heat. He took a tentative step inside, his gaze fixed on a number of rust-colored smears leading toward the back of the house. His breath caught at the sight, and though his better judgment told him he should run back to his house and call the police, he needed to know what happened to his friends.
“Jerry,” he called louder. “Father Kern? Anyone?”
He ventured farther inside, following the reddish-brown trail toward the back of the house. It led out the rear door, across the patio, past the barbeque pit. From his place at the doorframe, he focused his gaze on where the marks terminated in the garden.
His mouth dropped open at the sight.
