Gooseflesh rippled down her arms and thighs, sweat trickling down the curve of her spine. Her coat was in the hallway closet, but the thing leapt again, and this time she heard splinters. It’s coming, she realized with a sucking sensation that ran from her throat to her pelvis. It’s coming for me.
She grabbed the afghan off her bed and ran for the window, knocking over the little clay pot and its paper flowers in the process. She grabbed the lock and wrenched it, then pressed clammy hands against the pane to shift the window open. But the thing wouldn’t budge. Breaths coming sharper, Layne dug her fingers between the sash and the jamb, tugging, wrenching, snapping one fingernail, then tearing another.
“Move, move,” she pleaded.
The scent of smoke stung her nostrils, then her eyes. She blinked back tears, only to notice a spot of flame near her ankles. The paper flowers had landed on the baseboard heater and burst into flame.
Gasping, Layne jumped back, patting her pajama leg to put out any embers. The kitchen bucked as the creature slammed into the basement ceiling again, hard enough that her door opened despite the locked knob.
The flames from the flowers jumped to the cotton drapes and ate them whole, consuming them in one bite like a snake.
“Oh God, help me,” she whispered, backing away from the glow that lit the whole room orange. The heat burned away the sweat on her skin, but not the gooseflesh. The bumps grew stiffer and more plentiful as the fire first leapt left to the other curtain, then right to the Scottish pipes, which seemed to give out a soft wheeze of defeat as its Gore-Tex melted.
Turning around, Layne ran.
She couldn’t remember the last time she really ran. Even when Henry fell while installing the floorboards, it had been more of an unsure hobble. She bolted into the short hallway, and the thing jumped at her, sensing her presence. Her feet barely kept purchase. She made it to the kitchen, where the beige linoleum was splitting, before the monster attacked again, widening the split to two fingers’ width. She fell, her bad knee hitting hard as she did, but her arm flew out in front of her, saving her skull from cracking against the floor. Still, the room spun for a moment. She blinked in the dim glow of the porch light seeping through the window, smelling the smoke following her path. She spied the remote control beneath the sink and stared at it a long moment, realizing some past part of her should have been rejoicing.
The monster leapt right beneath her heart, and the kitchen floor gave, caving in right at the center, dipping between the fridge and the Lazy Susan. A weak wail climbed up Layne’s throat as she slid toward it, caught as though in a whirlpool. Beneath that crack something glowed, like the fire building behind her, but this something was dark and slick, oily and noxious.
She planted her sweaty hands against the linoleum. Got her better knee under her and slowed her descent. She had to grab onto the counter to get to her feet, then nearly fell over again as the entire house began to buckle. A gnawing cry shot up from the ever-growing crack in the floor, rattling her bones, finding purchase in them. The refrigerator door swung open, and bottles of condiments fell onto the floor, glass shattering, plastic rolling into the maw.
Gritting her teeth, Layne ran and leapt, barely clearing the break in the linoleum. She landed and fell to her knees again, crying out as pain burst through her right one. Scrambling for the back door, she barely had the thought to grab her loafers as the creature’s arm burst up into the kitchen and reached for her, cold touch licking her heel as she crawled out into the snow.
She didn’t remember putting the loafers on, but they were on, the afghan pulled tight around her shoulders. Snow crunched underfoot as she bolted across the covered lawn, the tree line in the distance nothing more than a smear of black beneath a sky nearly as dark. The only light was the east half of the house, readily consumed by fire. For a second, or a sliver of one, Layne thought maybe the blaze would kill the beast. Put her out of her misery. But as she looked back to the brilliant orange waves, she saw it crouching there atop the mound of dirt, resting against the makeshift cross, watching her with dark, liquid eyes. Its body bubbled and writhed, and when it breathed in, it took the air in her lungs with it.
Layne stopped moving. Stopped breathing. She could only watch, petrified, as the creature moved toward her, elongating with every step, its true body never leaving that grave. It had been born there, after all. Created with every shovel of dirt, each fallen tear.
If only Layne had realized then how horrible her grief would become, she might have done something differently.
But now it clawed forward, never once breaking eye contact.
And consumed her whole.
BASKET OF STRAWBERRIES
By Dan Hilton & Steve R. Yeager
1,200 Words
Prompt: Basket of Strawberries, freshly picked
“I WON’T DO that!” the redheaded child said.
“Neither will I,” mumbled another child, this one with his thumb planted in the corner of his mouth.
The other children began to echo what the redhead, who was obviously the leader, had said. But then one spoke out against the crowd. “I will,” she said meekly.
“So brave, you are,” the thief-meister breathed, moving to pat the little blonde girl on the head and then separating her from the others. He gathered her to his side, squeezed her tight and smiled back at the rag-tag group of children before him.
“Sweet, children. There is nothing to fear. It is not stealing, it is simply a reacquisition of wealth we mean to distribute to those less fortunate than ourselves. And this time a special circumstance requires a slightly different approach.”
The redheaded child stepped forward. His cheeks were smeared with dirt, his hair a shocking mop of tangled strands, and while he was small, the way he led the group of children made him seem much larger for his age.
The thief-meister scratched the back of his neck and gazed at the child with a wary eye. Usually with children, he knew, once the leader was persuaded, the rest would fall into line. The job he had for them was not overly difficult or complex. But it was dangerous and something they had never done before.
“We won’t do it. Not for the meager scraps of food you provide us. Not for the rags you give us to wear. We steal for you and you gots nothing to give us for it.”
“Boy, I’ve provided a home for you children. Where else would you end up? Most of you proved worthless to your pitiless parents. You were just a burden to them. That is why they sold you to me. And I care for you all. I care a great deal. I keep you warm at night and feed you and care for you when you are sick. What more would you ask of me? Yet all I require of you are simple tasks that help provide the bread we all eat.”
“It ain’t ‘nough!” said the child. The others mumbled in agreement.
The thief-meister rubbed the head of the blonde girl and smiled down at her, then peered back at the larger group. “Ah. I see the problem now. This child is brave. Much braver than the lot of you. She is appreciative of what she has been given.” The thief-meister turned fully to confront the redheaded leader, ensuring the boy knew he was being spoken of. “Yet some of you are so scared you’re willing to risk her life because of it. If she attempts this task on her own, she might not make it back alive. Would you want that on your conscience? Would you want to be responsible for her death when you could have so easily prevented it?”