[Little clouds of dust fall from the ceiling as Ash scurries to the front of the house. With her face obstinately buried against Quentin’s shoulder, Cheryl’s voice sounds that much quieter, the little noise she makes before she answers Quentin nearly swallowed up by Ash’s heavy footsteps as he runs back outside.
“He killed his friends. Scott, Shelly…”
She grabs a fistful of Quentin’s shirt and clenches as she makes that funny little noise again that makes her voice rattle, like she has something caught in her throat. Like she’s trying to talk through a mouthful of dirt.
“I watched him do it,” she whispers, a secret between her, Quentin and the dirt motes floating in the air around them. “I saw him.”
Ignoring the searing pain in his gut, Ash sprints down the driveway with his sights set on the rickety shed in the corner of the yard. His feet skid out from under him, and it’s by sheer dumb luck that he catches himself before he hits the ground, pushing himself to keep going keep going keep going—
“I saw what he did to Linda,” Cheryl continues lowly as her other hand slithers up Quentin’s other shoulder. Her fingers are like claws, the thin fabric of Quentin’s shirt a flimsy barrier against her nails as she grabs hold of him. “The love of his life.”
Her shoulders shudder as she makes that noise again. She’s laughing. In her voice is the impression of a grin, all teeth bared.
“He used to play with her hair and plant little kisses on her head…”
The workshed’s door is already open, like it’s been waiting for him. Once inside, Ash gropes around for the light switch, finding the ball-chain cord and nearly yanking it off the old light bulb it’s connected to.
He knows, even without seeing or how he’s supposed to know, that what he’s looking for is sitting on the shelf above the workbench.
“…Right until he cut it off her pretty. Little. Neck.”
Cheryl’s grip on Quentin tightens. Her voice is getting progressively louder, each word ground out through a mouthful of black mold and clenched teeth. Do you understand? her nails seem to ask as they dig into Quentin’s shirt, scraping. Do you really?
The light bulb sways in the workshed, casting shadows that dance with it, and once it settles it illuminates the shelf and the old chainsaw sitting on it like a sickly yellow spotlight. Ash gingerly hefts it up off the shelf, testing its weight.
It feels good. It feels right. And when he tugs on the start cord and the engine roars to life, goddamn if it doesn’t inspire something he hasn’t felt in a good long time.
Hope.
“He KILLED HER,” Cheryl screams, voice cracking and distorting. “JUST LIKE HE’LL KILL YOU. HE’LL KILL ALL OF YOU.”
She tears her face off Quentin’s chest. Her eyes are bone white and rimmed with tumorous pink, empty and inhuman.
“AND THEN YOU’LL COME TO US.”
With that, she plunges her mouth into the side of Quentin’s head, catching his ear between her teeth, and pulls.]
no subject
“He killed his friends. Scott, Shelly…”
She grabs a fistful of Quentin’s shirt and clenches as she makes that funny little noise again that makes her voice rattle, like she has something caught in her throat. Like she’s trying to talk through a mouthful of dirt.
“I watched him do it,” she whispers, a secret between her, Quentin and the dirt motes floating in the air around them. “I saw him.”
Ignoring the searing pain in his gut, Ash sprints down the driveway with his sights set on the rickety shed in the corner of the yard. His feet skid out from under him, and it’s by sheer dumb luck that he catches himself before he hits the ground, pushing himself to keep going keep going keep going—
“I saw what he did to Linda,” Cheryl continues lowly as her other hand slithers up Quentin’s other shoulder. Her fingers are like claws, the thin fabric of Quentin’s shirt a flimsy barrier against her nails as she grabs hold of him. “The love of his life.”
Her shoulders shudder as she makes that noise again. She’s laughing. In her voice is the impression of a grin, all teeth bared.
“He used to play with her hair and plant little kisses on her head…”
The workshed’s door is already open, like it’s been waiting for him. Once inside, Ash gropes around for the light switch, finding the ball-chain cord and nearly yanking it off the old light bulb it’s connected to.
He knows, even without seeing or how he’s supposed to know, that what he’s looking for is sitting on the shelf above the workbench.
“…Right until he cut it off her pretty. Little. Neck.”
Cheryl’s grip on Quentin tightens. Her voice is getting progressively louder, each word ground out through a mouthful of black mold and clenched teeth. Do you understand? her nails seem to ask as they dig into Quentin’s shirt, scraping. Do you really?
The light bulb sways in the workshed, casting shadows that dance with it, and once it settles it illuminates the shelf and the old chainsaw sitting on it like a sickly yellow spotlight. Ash gingerly hefts it up off the shelf, testing its weight.
It feels good. It feels right. And when he tugs on the start cord and the engine roars to life, goddamn if it doesn’t inspire something he hasn’t felt in a good long time.
Hope.
“He KILLED HER,” Cheryl screams, voice cracking and distorting. “JUST LIKE HE’LL KILL YOU. HE’LL KILL ALL OF YOU.”
She tears her face off Quentin’s chest. Her eyes are bone white and rimmed with tumorous pink, empty and inhuman.
“AND THEN YOU’LL COME TO US.”
With that, she plunges her mouth into the side of Quentin’s head, catching his ear between her teeth, and pulls.]