by Dan Wells
The demon hadn’t taken any of Neblin’s organs yet, which meant that any second now, he’d come barging back out of his house, desperate to regenerate. If I hid the body first, he might wither away and die. I grabbed the body by the shoulders and pulled it upright. My gloves slid wetly across the blood from the wound, and I let go abruptly—I was covering myself with evidence. I stepped back, fighting with my paranoia. Did I dare link myself to the crime? I’d been so careful—moving quietly, hiding my tracks, planning for months to keep myself completely distanced from any of the attacks, and from any of my responses to them. I couldn’t throw it all away now.
But was there any other way? Hiding the body was my one chance to kill the demon, but I couldn’t do it without covering myself in Neblin’s blood—if I tried to keep blood off myself, by dragging the body by the feet, I’d leave a trail of blood that would ruin the whole plan. I needed to keep the blood off the ground, and that meant getting it all over myself. I took off my coat, wrapped it around Neblin’s head and shoulders like a bandage, and grabbed him by the shoulders.
A sudden howl from the house cut through the silence. I dropped back, my eyes darting first to the back door, then to the front, back and forth, wondering from which direction the demon would emerge. Mr. Monster, screaming in my head, told me to run, to get out of there, to get away safely, and try again next time. That was the smart thing to do, the analytical thing to do. The demon would live, but so would I. I could stop him eventually without risking anything of my own.
My eyes fell on Neblin. He wouldn’t leave, I thought. Neblin had gone out of his house in the middle of the night, knowing full well that there was a serial killer on the loose, because he wanted to help me. He did what he needed to do, even though it put him in danger. I’ve got to stop thinking like a sociopath. Either I endanger myself, or Crowley kills again. Two months ago, even two hours ago, the choice would have been obvious: save myself. Even now I knew, objectively, that it was the smartest thing to do. But Neblin had died trying to teach me to think like a normal human—to feel like a normal human. And sometimes normal, everyday humans risked their lives to help each other because of the way they feel. Emotions. Connections. Love. I didn’t feel it, but I owed it to Neblin to try.
I grabbed Neblin by the armpits and pulled him toward me, feeling his bloody shirt slap against my coat and cover me in incriminating DNA. There was another howl from the house, but I ignored it, heaving Neblin backward and pulling him out of the car until his legs—still clean of blood—flopped out onto the driveway. The blood stayed on my clothes rather than dropping to the ground, and I gritted my teeth and started to move. The body was heavier than it looked; I remembered reading that dead and unconscious bodies are harder to lift than active ones, because the limp muscles don’t compensate for movement and balance. He felt like a sack of wet cement, ungainly and impossible to carry. I kept his head and shoulders pressed tightly against my chest, my arms wrapped under his armpits and locked across his sternum. Turning my body carefully, I balanced on one foot and tugged on the door with my other, getting it nearly closed before Neblin’s arm fell to one side and his body weight shifted awkwardly. I fell against the car, clinging tightly to the body and trying to hold it straight. No blood had dripped down, at least not yet.
There was a crash from somewhere inside the house, as if Crowley had fallen against something—or shattered it in a fit of rage. I nudged the car door closed and turned farther, until I was fully facing the street, then began backing slowly into the Crowleys’ backyard. I went cautiously, step by step, relying on memory to lead me safely past the neatly shoveled snow without disturbing it or leaving any traces. Step by step. I heard another crash, closer now, somewhere on the ground floor, and gritted my teeth. I was almost there.
I reached the shed and maneuvered Neblin’s legs farther out into the driveway. The shed sat parallel to the driveway, with the door facing the street, so I had always shoveled a walkway in front of it, leading off from the driveway. It was only a few feet long, but it went just far enough for me to step around the far side of the shed and pull the body into the narrow gap between the shed and the wood slat fence. I tugged Neblin in as far as I could go, without poking out myself from behind the short shed, and dropped him heavily in the snow.
The back door clattered, and I held my breath. Neblin’s feet were still stuck out past the front of the shed, though just a few inches. This whole gap was shaded from the still-bright headlights by a wall of snow, so the demon might not see the feet. But if it came looking, if I’d left any kind of visible trail, it would see them for sure.
I held my breath for ages, listening to every sound: the low rumble of the car, the soft ding of the dashboard, the beating of my own heart. The demon took a few footsteps on the other side of the shed, arrhythmic and weak, then stepped or stumbled into the snow. The top, frozen layer crunched under its feet—once, twice, three times, followed again by normal steps back on the cement. He was unsteady and slow. This might actually work.
I listened to the footsteps drag themselves down the driveway: step-stop, step-stumble. I didn’t dare to breathe, closing my eyes and willing the demon to keel over and die, to give up and be done forever. Step-stop, step-pause, step-grunt. It moved slower than it ever had. I stayed perfectly still, afraid to move an inch, and the cold, snow, and bitter air began to take their toll on me. I felt again the same sense of physical breakdown I’d felt when I first discovered the demon, when I’d hidden in the snow at Freak Lake, aware of each slowed heartbeat and faltering sense. My hands and feet were on fire with pinpricks, which faded to a tingling numbness, which faded to nothing at all. My body was like a spent clockwork machine, softly winding down until the last gear turned, the last spring popped, and the whole thing stopped forever.
Balancing carefully, with no good places to put my feet in the narrow gap, I bent down and slowly, imperceptibly, pulled Neblin’s feet back behind the shed. Inch by inch, not making a sound. The footsteps on the driveway continued, halting and agonized. I tucked Neblin’s knees up and quietly—oh so quietly—leaned them against the shed. A black shadow passed across the headlights, filling the fence, and the shed, and the yard behind me with the massive shape of the demon—a bulbous head and ten scythe-like claws, with his heavy coat and pants hanging loosely over his thin, inhuman limbs. I wondered if he’d even had a chance to change back to human form, or if he’d been forced to help Kay like this. He must be very close to death.
I took one delicate step forward, placing my foot carefully, and peeked around the edge of the shed. The demon struggled to stay on his feet, and staggered around the car, claws scrabbling across the paint as he leaned on the hood for support. He worked his way slowly to the passenger’s side, paused for a moment, nearly doubled over, and reached for the handle. As his hand left the car, he lost his balance and fell sideways into the snow, landing heavily. My breath caught in my throat, and my heart, already straining, sped up even further. Was this it? Was it dead? With a pathetic groan, the demon rose to its knees, clutched at its chest, and howled inhumanly. It was not dead yet, but it was very close, and it knew it.
The demon ripped off its heavy coat, and lunged forward, falling against the car. Its huge white claws seemed to glow, and it dug them into the metal, with terrifying strength, to lift itself back upright. A clawed hand reached for the door handle, then stopped in midair. It stared at the car, unmoving.
It had seen the empty seat. It knew its only hope was gone. The demon fell to its knees and cried—not a roar or a growl, but a keening, high-pitched cry.
It was the sound I would ever after associate with the word despair.
The demon’s cry turned to a shout—of rage or frustration, I couldn’t say—and it struggled back to its feet. I watched it take a step back up the driveway, then a step toward the street, too confused to choose, then collapse once again to its knees. It edged forward, using its claws to crawl, and finally fell flat to the ground. I felt like
I hung in that moment for hours, waiting for a twitch, or a lunge, or a shout—but nothing came. The entire world was frozen and motionless.
I waited another moment, long and desperate, before daring to take a step out. The demon was inert on the driveway, lifeless as the cement it was lying on. I crept out of my hiding place and inched forward, never taking my eyes off the body. Faint wisps of steam drifted up in the night air. I walked slowly toward it, squinting against the brilliant onslaught of the headlights, and stared at it.
The feeling was peculiar, like a visceral thrill building rapidly to transcendence—this was not just a body, it was my body, my own dead body, lying perfectly still. It was like a piece of art, something that I had done with my own hands. I was filled with a powerful sense of pride, and I understood why so many serial killers left their bodies to be discovered: when you created something so beautiful, you wanted everyone to see it.
It was finally dead.
But why wasn’t it falling apart, I wondered, as the spent organs had always done before? If the energy that kept it together was gone, why was it still . . . together?
A flash of light caught my eye, and my head jerked up. The light had come on in my front-room window. A second later, the curtains were pulled aside. It was my Mom—she must have heard the demon’s roar, and now she was looking for an explanation. I ducked down next to the car, out of the headlights, and just feet away from the dead demon. She stayed in the window a long time before moving away, and letting the curtain fall back into place. I waited for the light to go off, but it stayed lit. A moment later, the bathroom light came on, and I shook my head. She hadn’t seen anything.
The demon twitched.
Instantly my full attention snapped back to the fallen demon, so close I could practically touch it. Its head rolled to one side, and its left arm jerked wildly. I rose up from my crouch and stepped back. The demon flailed its arm again before planting it firmly on the ground and pushing up. It raised its shoulders, head still drooping, then kicked its leg shakily to the side. It wrestled with the leg a moment before giving up and reaching out with its other arm. It was crawling forward.
I looked up just in time to see another light go on—this time in my room. Mom had gone in to check on me, and now she knew I wasn’t there.
Do something! I shouted at myself. The demon pulled itself forward the full length of its spindly arm, then reached out with the other. Somehow it had managed to revive itself, just like it had when it killed Max’s dad. Only this time it didn’t have a fresh body lying a few feet away—the nearest source of organs was me, and apparently it didn’t know I was there. Instead it was crawling . . .
Toward my house.
Its claws dug into the asphalt just beyond the gutter, and it started to pull itself forward again. Its movements were slow, but deliberate and powerful. Every move it made seemed just a little stronger, just a little faster.
Another patch of light, and a burst of movement—my mom had opened the side door, and she stood in its light like a beacon, her heavy overcoat draped over her nightgown. Her feet were shoved into her high-top snow boots.
“John?” Her voice was clear and loud, and had the raw edge I’d learned to recognize as worry. She’d come out to look for me.
The demon stretched another arm forward, emitting an unearthly growl as it pulled itself closer to my house—faster now than before, and more eager. It was leaving black gobs of itself stuck to the asphalt, sizzling with unnatural heat as they decomposed in seconds. Mom must have heard it, for she turned to look at it. It was nearly halfway to her now.
“Get inside!” I shouted, and bolted toward her. The demon’s head jerked up, and it reached out wildly with its long arms as I went past. I ran to the side, giving it wide berth, but it heaved itself up to its feet and lunged for me. I stumbled to the side, and the demon fell, missing me by inches. It slammed back to the street, howling in pain.
“John, what’s going on?” my mom shouted, still staring in horror at the demon in the street. She couldn’t see it clearly from where she stood, but she saw enough to be terrified.
“Get inside!” I shouted again, dashing past her and pulling her into the doorway. My gloves left dark red stains on her coat.
“What is that?” she asked.
“It killed Neblin,” I said, yanking her back into the house. “Come on!”
The demon was back on track, crawling straight toward us with its brutal mouth of luminescent, needlelike fangs. Mom started to slam the door, but I grabbed it and forced it back open.
“What are you doing?”
“We have to let it in,” I said, trying to shove her back toward the mortuary. She wouldn’t budge. “We have to make it easy, or it might go next door.”
“We’re not letting it in here!” she shrieked. It had reached our sidewalk.
“It’s the only way,” I said, and shoved her back. She lost her grip on the door, and tumbled against the wall, staring at me with the same horror she had given the demon. It was the first time she’d taken her eyes off the demon, and her eyes moved across the blood that smeared my chest and arms. The monster inside of me reared up, remembering the knife in the kitchen, eager to dominate her again with fear, but I soothed it and unlocked the door to the mortuary. You’ll kill soon enough.
“Where are we going?” Mom asked.
“To the back room.”
“The embalming room?”
“I just hope it can find the way.” I pulled her with me into the mortuary lobby, flicking on the lights, and hurrying toward the back room. The door banged behind us, but we didn’t dare look. Mom screamed, and we ran for the back hall.
“Do you have the keys?” I asked, shoving Mom against the door. She fumbled in her coat pocket and pulled out a key ring. The demon bellowed from the lobby and I bellowed back, screaming out my tension in a primal roar. It staggered around the corner just as Mom opened the lock. It was practically dripping now as its body fell apart. We burst through the door into the room beyond. Mom ran to the back, fumbling again with her keys, but I turned on the lights and went straight to the side of the room. Coiled in a neat pile lay our only hope—the bladed trocar, perched like a snake head on the tip of its long vacuum hose. I flipped the switch to start it, and looked up at the ventilator fan slowly sputtering to life.
“Let’s hope the fan doesn’t give out on us,” I said, and threw myself against the wall, right next to the open door. Across the room Mom opened the lock and flung the outside door wide, looking back at me in abject terror.
“John, it’s here!”
The demon burst into the room, reaching out for her with claws like bright razors. I swung the humming trocar with all my might straight into the demon’s chest. It staggered back, eyes wider than I’d ever thought possible. I heard the wet slurp as something—its blood, maybe, or its whole heart—tore loose from its half-decayed body, and slid down the vacuum tube. The demon fell to its knees as more fluids and organs were sucked away, and I heard the familiar, sickening hiss of flesh degenerating into sludge. The vacuum tube curled and smoked with the heat. I backed away and watched as the demon’s body began to devour itself, drawing strength and vitality from every extremity to help regenerate the tissues it was losing. The demon seemed to decompose before my eyes, slow waves of disintegration traveling in from its fingers and toes, up its arms and legs, then creeping darkly across the torso.
I didn’t notice Mom come to my side, but through a haze I became aware of her clutching me tightly as we watched in horror. I didn’t hold her at all—I just stood and stared.
Soon the demon was barely there at all—a sagging chest and a gnarled head stared up at me from a man-shaped puddle of smoking tar. It gasped for air, though I couldn’t imagine its lungs were whole enough to draw breath. I slowly pulled off my ski mask and stepped forward, presenting a perfect view of my face. I expected it to thrash out, driven mad by rage and pain, and desperate to harvest my life to save itself. But instead, t
he demon calmed. It watched me approach, yellow eyes following me until I stood above it. I stared back.
The demon took a deep breath, its ragged lungs flapping with the exertion. “Tiger, tiger . . . ,” it said. Its voice was a raspy whisper. “Burning bright.” It coughed harshly, agony tearing out of every sound.
“I’m sorry,” I said. It was all I could think of to say.
It drew another ragged breath, choking on its own decaying matter.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” I said, almost pleading with it. “I didn’t want to hurt anybody.”
Its fangs hung limp in its mouth, like wilted grass. “Don’t . . . ,” it said, then stopped in fit of horrible coughing, and struggled to compose itself. “Don’t tell them.”
“Don’t tell who?” asked Mom.
The hideous face contorted a final time, in rage or exertion or fear, and that excruciating voice rasped out a final sentence: “Remember me when I am gone.”
I nodded. The demon looked up at the ceiling, closed its eyes, and caved in on itself, crumbling and dissolving, flowing away into a shapeless mound of sizzling black. The demon was dead.
Outside, snow began to fall.
19
I stared at the black mess on the floor, trying to understand everything that had happened. Just a minute ago, that sludge had been a demon—and just an hour before that it had been my neighbor, a kind old man who loved his wife, and gave me hot chocolate.
