Ash's eyes dart back and forth over his fingertips, quickly scanning the room for something, anything to break the door down with. He remembers dropping the shotgun when he threw the book in the fireplace, right before he walked out the front door and everything — everything — went to hell, but it's gone, and even if it wasn't, it's not what he needs right now. (Never thought you'd say that, huh?) Scotty had the axe, but that's gone too. Maybe he took it with him when he left the cabin and tried to take his chances in the woods, but Ash didn't see him leave with it. Did he?
His mind reels with the implication like it's been slapped, the ground feeling more unsteady under his feet. But he doesn't fall. No. Not now.
The gun, gone; the axe, gone. Quentin, gone. But isn't he forgetting something?
In the back of his head, a voice whispers that there's still one place he hasn't checked yet.
The workshed.
Downstairs, Cheryl lets herself be pulled in by Quentin, but she doesn't go boneless. Her body is a tightly wound coil, feverishly warm against Quentin's chest, but she doesn't resist him, and she doesn't look up.
"Ash won’t help us."
Her voice is hoarse and hollow. Across from her, the gourds continue to sway, as though guided by a gentle breeze, but there isn't any wind down here — just empty, stale air that carries the underlying smell of dust and decay.
And blood.
"He's a murderer," she says emphatically, hushed, drawing the word out like it's a particularly salacious piece of gossip.]
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Ash's eyes dart back and forth over his fingertips, quickly scanning the room for something, anything to break the door down with. He remembers dropping the shotgun when he threw the book in the fireplace, right before he walked out the front door and everything — everything — went to hell, but it's gone, and even if it wasn't, it's not what he needs right now. (Never thought you'd say that, huh?) Scotty had the axe, but that's gone too. Maybe he took it with him when he left the cabin and tried to take his chances in the woods, but Ash didn't see him leave with it. Did he?
His mind reels with the implication like it's been slapped, the ground feeling more unsteady under his feet. But he doesn't fall. No. Not now.
The gun, gone; the axe, gone. Quentin, gone. But isn't he forgetting something?
In the back of his head, a voice whispers that there's still one place he hasn't checked yet.
The workshed.
Downstairs, Cheryl lets herself be pulled in by Quentin, but she doesn't go boneless. Her body is a tightly wound coil, feverishly warm against Quentin's chest, but she doesn't resist him, and she doesn't look up.
"Ash won’t help us."
Her voice is hoarse and hollow. Across from her, the gourds continue to sway, as though guided by a gentle breeze, but there isn't any wind down here — just empty, stale air that carries the underlying smell of dust and decay.
And blood.
"He's a murderer," she says emphatically, hushed, drawing the word out like it's a particularly salacious piece of gossip.]