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When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it terrified us.

Ofelia had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song. She also had no grasp of stranger danger.

She befriended everybody. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But, Mami, they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I showed him the dead goat and told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It had become an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena suggested.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean ‘he said’?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks to me at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished.

We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We drove across the island and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then a man two houses from us swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

When my daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

Life out here in Nebraska ain’t never been easy. My family’s worked this land for generations, and every year, it’s a gamble. You do everything right, plow the fields, plant the seeds, and pray to God you don’t lose it all to a storm or drought. But this year was the worst I’ve seen. No rain for months, the sun burning my crops to dust. I’ve got three kids to feed, and a wife who looks at me like I’m failing them.

I started praying more than usual, asking for a miracle. Begging, really. I ain’t one to go to church much, but when you’re desperate, you try anything.

One morning, I’m walking the fields like always, checking for any sign of life. The air was still, the sun barely up, when I noticed something strange. One of the stalks was bulging, like it was too full, but not with corn. I got closer and saw the husk wasn’t sealed right, like something was pushing through from the inside. I reached out, hesitating for a second before pulling it open.

And there it was—a human hand, pale and perfect, sticking out from the cob like it’d grown there. My heart jumped up into my throat. I stumbled back, eyes wide, the bile rising as I tried to make sense of it. The hand twitched slightly on the stalk.

I pulled more of the husk apart, my hands shaking, and what I saw almost sent me running for the hills. Fingers, arms, legs, even a foot, all tangled up in the stalks like some grotesque harvest. And it wasn’t just one plant—there were more. Dozens. They weren’t growing corn anymore. They were growing people. Or pieces of them, at least.

Some stalks had kidneys nestled in the leaves, others had hearts or lungs just hanging there, red and slick like fresh meat in a butcher shop.

I threw up right there in the dirt, bile burning my throat. This wasn’t natural. It wasn’t right. But then... I thought about my family, my bills piling up, the look in my kids’ eyes when they went to bed hungry. Maybe this was the answer to my prayers.

After a few days of staring at those body parts sprouting like crops, an idea crept into my mind. At first, I pushed the thought away, but it wouldn’t leave me. Desperation changes a man.

I made the call. They didn’t ask many questions. I made more money in one sale than in the past five years. People were desperate for organs, and no one cared where they came from.

The fields kept producing. And the buyers? Folks out there need transplants.

Before I knew it, I’d paid off the farm, the debts, everything. My kids had new clothes, and my wife was smiling again.

But every night, when I close my eyes, I see them—those pieces of people, growing. And I wonder if God really heard me or if I made a deal with someone else.

The night it happened, the crickets stopped all at once. That’s what woke me. Silence pressing in on the farmhouse, thick as humidity. It was too quiet, even for rural bumfuck Kentucky. I rolled out of bed and stepped onto the porch in my socks. Over the hayfield, a light hung low and wrong—no sound, no drift. Just a hard white oval, pulsing like it was breathing.

My wife, Marlene, came up behind me. “Bobby, you see that too?” she asked.

Before I could answer, something thudded inside the house. Not loud. Careful. Like a drawer being eased shut by someone who knew we were home.

I grabbed the lever action from the rack by the door. It felt heavier than usual. We moved down the hall, slow. The door to my newborn son Dylan's nursery was open a crack, light spilling out that wasn’t ours. The room stank, like burnt hair and copper.

I pushed it open.

They were short and bent, four of them, skin the color of wet clay. Big eyes, no whites. Their mouths moved like they were chewing something even when they weren’t. One stood on the crib rail, long fingers wrapped around my son’s ankle. He didn’t cry. He just stared at the ceiling, calm as could be.

Marlene whispered, “Oh God...”

“Get away from him!” I shouted, hating how small my voice sounded.

I brought the rifle up, but my hands shook. One bad angle and I’d put a round through my boy. The thing on the rail turned its head too far, like an owl. Its mouth stretched into something like a smile.

They hissed. One said something in a strange language. One word sounded almost like my name.

Marlene screamed and lunged. I followed. The rifle almost slipped from my hands, but I swung it up and brought the butt down hard on the one holding my son. The crack sounded like hitting a green log. It stumbled, still clutching the crib rail, so I hit it again. It was light. Too light. Its skin split where the stock connected, soft as rotten fruit, and something black leaked down the dresser and onto the floor.

Marlene tore another off the crib and broke a lampshade over its head. She didn’t even flinch.

They fought back, sharp and fast. One clawed my cheek. Another kicked Marlene in the ribs. Then, all at once, they scattered. The light vanished. The crickets came back.

We stood there breathing hard. "What the fuck were those things?” she exclaimed.

I didn't know how to answer her.

We locked the doors. We held our boy between us until dawn.

Weeks passed. The cuts healed. The fear didn’t.

Dylan grew fast. Too fast. He didn’t cry much. When he smiled, it was wide and wrong. Once, Marlene said she heard that alien language, coming from his room.

Last night, I caught his reflection in the nursery window while rocking him. His eyes were jet black, no whites at all.

Part 1

Part 2

Micaiah was out of the truck before Nathan had fully stopped.

The tires jumped the curb outside the apartment complex. Nathan killed the engine and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and rainwater. His boots hit each step hard enough to echo. Behind him, Nathan followed slower, heavier, still carrying the same silence from the truck.

Micaiah reached the third floor and turned the corner.

Mara stood outside Deena’s room.

She was barefoot. Her hair had come loose. One sleeve of her sweatshirt was wet near the wrist. At first Micaiah thought it was water.

Then he saw the blood.

“Mara.”

She looked at him and nearly collapsed.

He caught her before she hit the wall.

“I only stepped out for a minute,” she said.

Her voice came too fast.

“What happened?”

“I went downstairs for bandages. The first aid kit in the room was empty. She tore the old ones off. She was bleeding again, and I thought—” Mara pressed both hands against her mouth. “I thought she was sleeping. Told myself I’d be right back.”

Micaiah looked past her.

From inside came a sound.

A wet, strained choking sound.

Micaiah’s blood went cold.

He moved to the door and hit it with his fist.

“Deena!” he shouted.

The sound stopped.

For one second there was only silence.

Then something scraped against the floor.

Mara stood behind him, crying without sound.

Micaiah tried the handle. It didn’t move.

Deena had wedged it shut.

Probably barricaded with a chair.

He hit the door again.

“Dee. It’s Mickey. Open the door.”

Something thumped against the wall inside.

Then the choking started again.

Nathan hit the door with the butt of his shotgun.

The wood shook in the frame but held.

Micaiah stepped back, lifted his boot, and drove it into the space beside the lock.

The wood split.

Nathan hit it again with his shoulder. The chair on the other side scraped hard across the floor, then toppled. The door burst inward.

Micaiah went in first.

For half a second, he did not understand what he was seeing.

Deena hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted bedsheet.

Her toes scraped weakly against the floor.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She was still alive.

“Mara!” Micaiah shouted.

Mara screamed and ran past him.

The ceiling fan groaned under Deena’s weight. The sheet had cut deep into her neck. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were half open but unfocused.

Micaiah dropped his rifle and grabbed her legs, lifting her to take the weight off her throat.

“I’ve got her,” he said. “Untie it!”

Deena’s eyes rolled toward him.

“Mickey…”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Her swollen lips barely moved.

“It,” she croaked. “It has to be stopped.”

His arms burned from holding Deena up. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was on the bed, fingers slick with sweat and blood, trying to work the knot loose.

“It’s too tight,” she said.

“Knife,” Micaiah said. “Nathan, knife!”

No answer.

“Nate!”

Micaiah looked back.

Nathan stood just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

The same look from the bedroom. The one Micaiah had seen right before he raised the shotgun at the woman. The old Nathan bleeding through the new one like poison through a cracked cup.

“Nate,” Micaiah snapped. “For Godsake help me!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on Deena.

His lips moved.

“You saw the ultrasounds… There’s only one way to stop this.”

Micaiah felt the room drop out from under him.

He watched Nathan's right hand drift toward his shoulder. Toward the holster. Toward the pistol pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket.

Nathan drew halfway.

Micaiah let go of Deena with one hand and reached for his own pistol with his other.

Nathan looked at him then.

For one second, he was his brother again.

Tired. Broken. Certain he was doing the only thing left.

Deena’s eyes found Nathan.

“Nate,” she rasped.

Nathan’s hand tightened around the pistol.

Mara climbed down from the bed, shaking her head. “No. No, don’t you dare.”

Deena’s lips trembled. Blood ran from the sheet-burn around her throat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shoot me.”

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “Move out of the way.”

“Nate,” Micaiah said. “Please don’t make me choose between you and Deena.”

Nathan's hand kept moving, ignoring his brother’s plea.

Micaiah saw it happen in pieces. The way Nathan's fingers curled around the grip. The way his shoulder dipped slightly, muscle memory from a thousand draws in empty lots and shooting ranges. The way his eyes went had that resigned look. Like he had already done the math and decided the only answer left was one Micaiah would never accept.

Time didn't slow down.

That was a lie that movies told.

Time stayed exactly the same. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.

Micaiah's hand crossed his body, reaching for the pistol that sat low on his thigh, angled forward, exactly where he had trained it a thousand times.

Nathan's pistol cleared leather first.

Micaiah saw the muzzle rise.

Then his own hand caught up.

Micaiah didn’t aim.

There wasn’t time.

He fired from the hip.

The pistol bucked once in his hand, loud enough to split the room open. Nathan’s body jerked like he’d been yanked backward by a rope. The round hit him square in the chest, punching him off balance and slamming him into the doorframe.

Nathan's pistol fired.

The shot went wide. Past Micaiah's ear. Into the wall behind him. Plaster cracked. Something shattered in the living room.

For half a second, Nathan just stared at Micaiah, more shocked than hurt.

Then his knees gave out. His pistol clattered to the floor.

Micaiah caught Deena’s weight again before she dropped.

“Nate,” he whispered.

Nathan slid down the wall, one bloody hand pressed to his chest, eyes locked on his brother like he still couldn’t believe Micaiah had actually done it.

Micaiah stood frozen.

The pistol was still trained on his brother with one hand. The front sight trembled over Nathan's body.

"Mickey!" Mara screamed.

He didn't hear her.

Nathan was on his back. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Blood bubbled between his lips.

Micaiah came back into himself all at once.

Deena was still hanging.

Her legs kicked weakly against his arms. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was still on the bed, fighting the knot with shaking fingers.

For one second, Micaiah could not move.

Then Deena made a thin choking sound.

“Mara,” he said.

His voice sounded far away.

Mara looked at him, wild-eyed.

“Get Nathan’s knife.”

“What?”

“His knife,” Micaiah said. “On his belt. Get it now.”

Mara stared down at Nathan’s body like she had not understood he was real until that moment.

“Mara!”

She flinched, then scrambled off the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Nathan's body and rolled him toward her with both hands. Blood smeared across her palms. She sobbed once but kept searching.

“I can’t find it.”

“Left side,” Micaiah said. “Inside the jacket.”

Mara shoved her hand beneath Nathan’s body. Her fingers slipped against the wet fabric. She gagged, then forced herself to keep going.

Nathan’s lifeless eyes were wide open.

For one awful second, Mara looked at his face.

Then she found the knife.

“I have it.”

“Cut her down.”

Mara climbed back onto the bed. She opened the blade with both hands and sawed at the sheet above Deena’s neck.

The fabric stretched.

Then snapped.

Deena dropped.

Micaiah caught her badly. Her weight hit him in the chest and drove him to one knee. He lowered her to the floor as gently as he could.

“Deena,” he said. “Breathe. Come on. Breathe.”

Her throat worked.

Nothing happened.

Mara bent over her and tried to loosen what remained of the sheet. Micaiah pulled it away from the deep red line around Deena’s neck.

Deena sucked in one breath.

Then another.

Mara laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s breathing.”

Micaiah pressed his forehead to Deena’s.

“Thank You,” he whispered. “Thank You, Lord.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened. Her eyes found his.

For one second—one clean, impossible second—she was there. His sister. The girl who ‘borrowed’ his hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who learned to drive stick shift in a church parking lot because she refused to let their Jeep go to scrap because it was the only thing their deadbeat Wasian dad left them.

“Mickey?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I heard Mom,” she whispered. “When it was dark. I saw her…”

Micaiah could not breathe.

Deena’s hand closed weakly around his wrist.

“She said she was waiting for me in Heaven.”

Micaiah shook his head. Tears cut down his face.

“No,” he said. “Dee, you have to stay with me.”

Her fingers moved against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry. I tried to fight back.”

She was crying now. Tears cut pale tracks through the grime on her face.

“I know you did.”

He leaned closer. His forehead touched hers. Her breath smelled like rot and something else. Something sweet underneath. Like flowers left too long in water.

Then her eyes changed.

Her fingers found his wrist. Squeezed. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. Stronger than anything that thin had any right to produce.

Like a switch flipped behind her pupils. The warmth drained out of them. Her grip changed.

Her fingers curled into his skin like hooks. Her whole body went rigid against his chest. Her back arched.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then her head snapped forward.

Her face was inches from his. Her mouth opened. Her jaw unhinged like a python. The smell coming off her was no longer sweet. It was the smell of Gavrillo's bedroom. Ozone and burnt sugar and old blood.

When she spoke, the voice was not hers.

It was not one voice.

It was many.

And they were laughing.

“Ádis kaí Apóleia ouk empímplantai.” Death and Destruction are never satisfied.

Her belly moved.

Something inside her rolled against the skin, searching.

“Mara, run!” Micaiah screamed.

Mara stared at him, frozen.

“Run!”

Deena’s stomach split.

The sound was worse than the sight.

A hard tearing, like wet cloth pulled apart by hands.

Micaiah felt heat first. Then pressure. Then pain so complete it erased his existence.

Something ripped out of Deena and tore right through him.

Not past him.

Through him.

A limb. A horn. A hooked piece of living bone. He could not tell. It punched under his ribs and out his back, lifting him against Deena’s body like they had been nailed together.

Micaiah looked down.

His blood was on her.

Her blood was on him.

Between them, something pale and slick pushed free from her open belly. Too many eyes blinked in the mess. A small mouth opened and closed without sound. Tiny hands gripped the torn edges of Deena’s skin and pulled itself farther out.

Deena was still alive.

So was Micaiah.

For one second, they looked at each other.

Her eyes were hers again.

She was crying.

"I love you, big bro..." she mouthed.

Micaiah tried to answer.

Blood filled his throat.

His pistol slipped from his hand.

Mara crawled toward them anyway.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—”

Deena’s back arched so hard her spine cracked against the floor.

Two hard points pushed up beneath her shirt, stretching the fabric until it tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards as something black and wet forced its way out of her back.

Wings.

Bat-like. Veined. Too large for her body.

They unfolded with a sound like umbrellas opening inside raw meat.

Then the wings started flapping.

They beat against the walls, the bedframe, the ceiling, knocking pictures loose and splattering blood in wide, horrible arcs.

The force knocked Mara backward into the dresser. Wood cracked. Glass rained down from the mirror.

Deena’s arms tightened around Micaiah one last time.

Not the demon.

Her.

A hug.

A goodbye.

Micaiah’s body jerked against hers. Something inside him gave way. His legs stopped working. His vision narrowed to Deena’s face. Her eyes fixed on him with terror and love.

Micaiah and Deena were impaled and tangled together, brother and sister locked chest to chest in blood.

Mara screamed until her voice broke.

Then Mara saw Micaiah’s head lift.

Not by itself.

Something behind his jaw pulled it up. His mouth opened, loose and wrong, blood spilling over his teeth. His eyes were empty.

The abomination forced itself out through both of them, wearing their torn bodies like the remains of a birth sac. Micaiah’s dead face twitched into a smile that did not fit him.

Then it spoke mockingly in Micaiah’s voice.

“Igérthi.”

He has risen.

The thing laughed with his mouth as it climbed free.

The thing turned its head toward Mara.

And smiled.

Mara could not move.

Her back was against the broken dresser. Splinters pressed through the sweatshirt into her skin. Mirror glass covered her lap and hands. She could feel blood running down her neck from where one shard had cut her, but the pain was small and far away.

Mara sobbed.

The thing breathed.

Its chest opened and closed like an open wound. Wet skin stretched over bones that kept shifting under it. Wings dragged across the floor behind it, leaving red arcs in the carpet. Its head was too large for its body. Its mouth was too small until it opened.

Then it was all mouth.

Rows of tiny teeth.

A sound came out of it.

A baby’s cooing.

Mara’s bladder let go.

She barely noticed.

The thing stepped toward her, dragging Micaiah and Deena’ corpses with it for one horrible second before the limb pulled free.

The thing shook itself. Blood sprayed the wall, the bed, Mara’s face. Then it started crawling towards her.

Its wings folded tight against its back. Its little hands slapped wetly against the carpet. Its knees bent backward, then forward, then backward again as if it had not decided what shape it wanted to keep. Each movement made a clicking sound inside its body.

The thing saw her terror.

Its head tilted.

The laughter came again, soft and pleased.

Mara scrambled sideways.

Her palm landed on glass. It cut deep. She screamed and kept moving. The thing lunged.

She threw herself flat. It hit the dresser above her and punched through the wood with both hands. Drawers burst open. Clothes and splinters flew over her. The mirror frame collapsed and struck the thing across the back.

It did not care.

Mara crawled on her elbows.

Her hand slipped in Nathan’s blood.

His body lay near the doorway where he had fallen. One arm bent under him. His jacket was open. His face was turned toward the room, eyes half-lidded, mouth dark with blood.

His pistol was on the carpet beside the wall.

Mara saw it.

The thing screamed behind her with hunger.

She crawled faster.

Her knees slid in blood. Her fingers clawed at the carpet. The pistol was six feet away. Then four. Then two.

The thing landed on her back.

The weight drove the air out of her.

Its hands grabbed her shoulders. The fingers were small, almost like a child’s, but they went in deep. Nails punched through the sweatshirt and into meat.

Mara screamed into the carpet.

Its mouth pressed against the side of her head.

Hot breath filled her ear.

Then she reached the gun.

Her fingers hit the grip.

The thing bit off a chunk her ear.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes. She screamed and rolled hard onto her back, bringing the pistol up between them.

The thing sat on her chest.

Its face was inches from hers.

Up close, she saw all of it. The eyes were not eyes. They were holes with red light moving at the bottom. Its lips were thin and gray. Its gums were black. A string of tissue still hung from its bellybutton, trailing back toward Deena’s body.

It opened its mouth.

Mara shoved the pistol into it.

The thing froze.

For one second, everything stopped.

Mara’s hands shook so badly the barrel clicked against its teeth.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot blew the back of its head open.

Not cleanly.

The skull split like wet plaster. Black fluid and pale fragments hit the ceiling. One eye popped loose and slid down Mara’s cheek. The thing’s mouth clamped once around the barrel, hard enough to scrape metal. Then it went limp.

Its body collapsed onto her.

Mara fired again.

And again.

And again.

The last shot went through the thing’s face and into the floor beside her head.

Then the gun clicked empty.

Mara kept pulling the trigger anyway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She shoved the corpse off her chest with both hands. It rolled onto its side, leaking black blood and something thicker. Its wings trembled once. Its little fingers curled inward.

Then it was still.

Mara lay there gasping.

The room stank of blood, feces, urine.

She sat up slowly.

Somewhere in the apartment, a worship song began playing again from the broken speaker.

Tinny.

Distorted.

Almost unrecognizable.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free

My God, My Savior has rescued me

“Jesus help me,” she choked.

Part 1

Part 2

Micaiah was out of the truck before Nathan had fully stopped.

The tires jumped the curb outside the apartment complex. Nathan killed the engine and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and rainwater. His boots hit each step hard enough to echo. Behind him, Nathan followed slower, heavier, still carrying the same silence from the truck.

Micaiah reached the third floor and turned the corner.

Mara stood outside Deena’s room.

She was barefoot. Her hair had come loose. One sleeve of her sweatshirt was wet near the wrist. At first Micaiah thought it was water.

Then he saw the blood.

“Mara.”

She looked at him and nearly collapsed.

He caught her before she hit the wall.

“I only stepped out for a minute,” she said.

Her voice came too fast.

“What happened?”

“I went downstairs for bandages. The first aid kit in the room was empty. She tore the old ones off. She was bleeding again, and I thought—” Mara pressed both hands against her mouth. “I thought she was sleeping. Told myself I’d be right back.”

Micaiah looked past her.

From inside came a sound.

A wet, strained choking sound.

Micaiah’s blood went cold.

He moved to the door and hit it with his fist.

“Deena!” he shouted.

The sound stopped.

For one second there was only silence.

Then something scraped against the floor.

Mara stood behind him, crying without sound.

Micaiah tried the handle. It didn’t move.

Deena had wedged it shut.

Probably barricaded with a chair.

He hit the door again.

“Dee. It’s Mickey. Open the door.”

Something thumped against the wall inside.

Then the choking started again.

Nathan hit the door with the butt of his shotgun.

The wood shook in the frame but held.

Micaiah stepped back, lifted his boot, and drove it into the space beside the lock.

The wood split.

Nathan hit it again with his shoulder. The chair on the other side scraped hard across the floor, then toppled. The door burst inward.

Micaiah went in first.

For half a second, he did not understand what he was seeing.

Deena hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted bedsheet.

Her toes scraped weakly against the floor.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She was still alive.

“Mara!” Micaiah shouted.

Mara screamed and ran past him.

The ceiling fan groaned under Deena’s weight. The sheet had cut deep into her neck. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were half open but unfocused.

Micaiah dropped his rifle and grabbed her legs, lifting her to take the weight off her throat.

“I’ve got her,” he said. “Untie it!”

Deena’s eyes rolled toward him.

“Mickey…”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Her swollen lips barely moved.

“It,” she croaked. “It has to be stopped.”

His arms burned from holding Deena up. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was on the bed, fingers slick with sweat and blood, trying to work the knot loose.

“It’s too tight,” she said.

“Knife,” Micaiah said. “Nathan, knife!”

No answer.

“Nate!”

Micaiah looked back.

Nathan stood just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

The same look from the bedroom. The one Micaiah had seen right before he raised the shotgun at the woman. The old Nathan bleeding through the new one like poison through a cracked cup.

“Nate,” Micaiah snapped. “For Godsake help me!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on Deena.

His lips moved.

“You saw the ultrasounds… There’s only one way to stop this.”

Micaiah felt the room drop out from under him.

He watched Nathan's right hand drift toward his shoulder. Toward the holster. Toward the pistol pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket.

Nathan drew halfway.

Micaiah let go of Deena with one hand and reached for his own pistol with his other.

Nathan looked at him then.

For one second, he was his brother again.

Tired. Broken. Certain he was doing the only thing left.

Deena’s eyes found Nathan.

“Nate,” she rasped.

Nathan’s hand tightened around the pistol.

Mara climbed down from the bed, shaking her head. “No. No, don’t you dare.”

Deena’s lips trembled. Blood ran from the sheet-burn around her throat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shoot me.”

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “Move out of the way.”

“Nate,” Micaiah said. “Please don’t make me choose between you and Deena.”

Nathan's hand kept moving, ignoring his brother’s plea.

Micaiah saw it happen in pieces. The way Nathan's fingers curled around the grip. The way his shoulder dipped slightly, muscle memory from a thousand draws in empty lots and shooting ranges. The way his eyes went had that resigned look. Like he had already done the math and decided the only answer left was one Micaiah would never accept.

Time didn't slow down.

That was a lie that movies told.

Time stayed exactly the same. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.

Micaiah's hand crossed his body, reaching for the pistol that sat low on his thigh, angled forward, exactly where he had trained it a thousand times.

Nathan's pistol cleared leather first.

Micaiah saw the muzzle rise.

Then his own hand caught up.

Micaiah didn’t aim.

There wasn’t time.

He fired from the hip.

The pistol bucked once in his hand, loud enough to split the room open. Nathan’s body jerked like he’d been yanked backward by a rope. The round hit him square in the chest, punching him off balance and slamming him into the doorframe.

Nathan's pistol fired.

The shot went wide. Past Micaiah's ear. Into the wall behind him. Plaster cracked. Something shattered in the living room.

For half a second, Nathan just stared at Micaiah, more shocked than hurt.

Then his knees gave out. His pistol clattered to the floor.

Micaiah caught Deena’s weight again before she dropped.

“Nate,” he whispered.

Nathan slid down the wall, one bloody hand pressed to his chest, eyes locked on his brother like he still couldn’t believe Micaiah had actually done it.

Micaiah stood frozen.

The pistol was still trained on his brother with one hand. The front sight trembled over Nathan's body.

"Mickey!" Mara screamed.

He didn't hear her.

Nathan was on his back. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Blood bubbled between his lips.

Micaiah came back into himself all at once.

Deena was still hanging.

Her legs kicked weakly against his arms. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was still on the bed, fighting the knot with shaking fingers.

For one second, Micaiah could not move.

Then Deena made a thin choking sound.

“Mara,” he said.

His voice sounded far away.

Mara looked at him, wild-eyed.

“Get Nathan’s knife.”

“What?”

“His knife,” Micaiah said. “On his belt. Get it now.”

Mara stared down at Nathan’s body like she had not understood he was real until that moment.

“Mara!”

She flinched, then scrambled off the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Nathan's body and rolled him toward her with both hands. Blood smeared across her palms. She sobbed once but kept searching.

“I can’t find it.”

“Left side,” Micaiah said. “Inside the jacket.”

Mara shoved her hand beneath Nathan’s body. Her fingers slipped against the wet fabric. She gagged, then forced herself to keep going.

Nathan’s lifeless eyes were wide open.

For one awful second, Mara looked at his face.

Then she found the knife.

“I have it.”

“Cut her down.”

Mara climbed back onto the bed. She opened the blade with both hands and sawed at the sheet above Deena’s neck.

The fabric stretched.

Then snapped.

Deena dropped.

Micaiah caught her badly. Her weight hit him in the chest and drove him to one knee. He lowered her to the floor as gently as he could.

“Deena,” he said. “Breathe. Come on. Breathe.”

Her throat worked.

Nothing happened.

Mara bent over her and tried to loosen what remained of the sheet. Micaiah pulled it away from the deep red line around Deena’s neck.

Deena sucked in one breath.

Then another.

Mara laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s breathing.”

Micaiah pressed his forehead to Deena’s.

“Thank You,” he whispered. “Thank You, Lord.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened. Her eyes found his.

For one second—one clean, impossible second—she was there. His sister. The girl who ‘borrowed’ his hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who learned to drive stick shift in a church parking lot because she refused to let their Jeep go to scrap because it was the only thing their deadbeat Wasian dad left them.

“Mickey?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I heard Mom,” she whispered. “When it was dark. I saw her…”

Micaiah could not breathe.

Deena’s hand closed weakly around his wrist.

“She said she was waiting for me in Heaven.”

Micaiah shook his head. Tears cut down his face.

“No,” he said. “Dee, you have to stay with me.”

Her fingers moved against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry. I tried to fight back.”

She was crying now. Tears cut pale tracks through the grime on her face.

“I know you did.”

He leaned closer. His forehead touched hers. Her breath smelled like rot and something else. Something sweet underneath. Like flowers left too long in water.

Then her eyes changed.

Her fingers found his wrist. Squeezed. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. Stronger than anything that thin had any right to produce.

Like a switch flipped behind her pupils. The warmth drained out of them. Her grip changed.

Her fingers curled into his skin like hooks. Her whole body went rigid against his chest. Her back arched.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then her head snapped forward.

Her face was inches from his. Her mouth opened. Her jaw unhinged like a python. The smell coming off her was no longer sweet. It was the smell of Gavrillo's bedroom. Ozone and burnt sugar and old blood.

When she spoke, the voice was not hers.

It was not one voice.

It was many.

And they were laughing.

“Ádis kaí Apóleia ouk empímplantai.” Death and Destruction are never satisfied.

Her belly moved.

Something inside her rolled against the skin, searching.

“Mara, run!” Micaiah screamed.

Mara stared at him, frozen.

“Run!”

Deena’s stomach split.

The sound was worse than the sight.

A hard tearing, like wet cloth pulled apart by hands.

Micaiah felt heat first. Then pressure. Then pain so complete it erased his existence.

Something ripped out of Deena and tore right through him.

Not past him.

Through him.

A limb. A horn. A hooked piece of living bone. He could not tell. It punched under his ribs and out his back, lifting him against Deena’s body like they had been nailed together.

Micaiah looked down.

His blood was on her.

Her blood was on him.

Between them, something pale and slick pushed free from her open belly. Too many eyes blinked in the mess. A small mouth opened and closed without sound. Tiny hands gripped the torn edges of Deena’s skin and pulled itself farther out.

Deena was still alive.

So was Micaiah.

For one second, they looked at each other.

Her eyes were hers again.

She was crying.

"I love you, big bro..." she mouthed.

Micaiah tried to answer.

Blood filled his throat.

His pistol slipped from his hand.

Mara crawled toward them anyway.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—”

Deena’s back arched so hard her spine cracked against the floor.

Two hard points pushed up beneath her shirt, stretching the fabric until it tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards as something black and wet forced its way out of her back.

Wings.

Bat-like. Veined. Too large for her body.

They unfolded with a sound like umbrellas opening inside raw meat.

Then the wings started flapping.

They beat against the walls, the bedframe, the ceiling, knocking pictures loose and splattering blood in wide, horrible arcs.

The force knocked Mara backward into the dresser. Wood cracked. Glass rained down from the mirror.

Deena’s arms tightened around Micaiah one last time.

Not the demon.

Her.

A hug.

A goodbye.

Micaiah’s body jerked against hers. Something inside him gave way. His legs stopped working. His vision narrowed to Deena’s face. Her eyes fixed on him with terror and love.

Micaiah and Deena were impaled and tangled together, brother and sister locked chest to chest in blood.

Mara screamed until her voice broke.

Then Mara saw Micaiah’s head lift.

Not by itself.

Something behind his jaw pulled it up. His mouth opened, loose and wrong, blood spilling over his teeth. His eyes were empty.

The abomination forced itself out through both of them, wearing their torn bodies like the remains of a birth sac. Micaiah’s dead face twitched into a smile that did not fit him.

Then it spoke mockingly in Micaiah’s voice.

“Igérthi.”

He has risen.

The thing laughed with his mouth as it climbed free.

The thing turned its head toward Mara.

And smiled.

Mara could not move.

Her back was against the broken dresser. Splinters pressed through the sweatshirt into her skin. Mirror glass covered her lap and hands. She could feel blood running down her neck from where one shard had cut her, but the pain was small and far away.

Mara sobbed.

The thing breathed.

Its chest opened and closed like an open wound. Wet skin stretched over bones that kept shifting under it. Wings dragged across the floor behind it, leaving red arcs in the carpet. Its head was too large for its body. Its mouth was too small until it opened.

Then it was all mouth.

Rows of tiny teeth.

A sound came out of it.

A baby’s cooing.

Mara’s bladder let go.

She barely noticed.

The thing stepped toward her, dragging Micaiah and Deena’ corpses with it for one horrible second before the limb pulled free.

The thing shook itself. Blood sprayed the wall, the bed, Mara’s face. Then it started crawling towards her.

Its wings folded tight against its back. Its little hands slapped wetly against the carpet. Its knees bent backward, then forward, then backward again as if it had not decided what shape it wanted to keep. Each movement made a clicking sound inside its body.

The thing saw her terror.

Its head tilted.

The laughter came again, soft and pleased.

Mara scrambled sideways.

Her palm landed on glass. It cut deep. She screamed and kept moving. The thing lunged.

She threw herself flat. It hit the dresser above her and punched through the wood with both hands. Drawers burst open. Clothes and splinters flew over her. The mirror frame collapsed and struck the thing across the back.

It did not care.

Mara crawled on her elbows.

Her hand slipped in Nathan’s blood.

His body lay near the doorway where he had fallen. One arm bent under him. His jacket was open. His face was turned toward the room, eyes half-lidded, mouth dark with blood.

His pistol was on the carpet beside the wall.

Mara saw it.

The thing screamed behind her with hunger.

She crawled faster.

Her knees slid in blood. Her fingers clawed at the carpet. The pistol was six feet away. Then four. Then two.

The thing landed on her back.

The weight drove the air out of her.

Its hands grabbed her shoulders. The fingers were small, almost like a child’s, but they went in deep. Nails punched through the sweatshirt and into meat.

Mara screamed into the carpet.

Its mouth pressed against the side of her head.

Hot breath filled her ear.

Then she reached the gun.

Her fingers hit the grip.

The thing bit off a chunk her ear.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes. She screamed and rolled hard onto her back, bringing the pistol up between them.

The thing sat on her chest.

Its face was inches from hers.

Up close, she saw all of it. The eyes were not eyes. They were holes with red light moving at the bottom. Its lips were thin and gray. Its gums were black. A string of tissue still hung from its bellybutton, trailing back toward Deena’s body.

It opened its mouth.

Mara shoved the pistol into it.

The thing froze.

For one second, everything stopped.

Mara’s hands shook so badly the barrel clicked against its teeth.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot blew the back of its head open.

Not cleanly.

The skull split like wet plaster. Black fluid and pale fragments hit the ceiling. One eye popped loose and slid down Mara’s cheek. The thing’s mouth clamped once around the barrel, hard enough to scrape metal. Then it went limp.

Its body collapsed onto her.

Mara fired again.

And again.

And again.

The last shot went through the thing’s face and into the floor beside her head.

Then the gun clicked empty.

Mara kept pulling the trigger anyway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She shoved the corpse off her chest with both hands. It rolled onto its side, leaking black blood and something thicker. Its wings trembled once. Its little fingers curled inward.

Then it was still.

Mara lay there gasping.

The room stank of blood, feces, urine.

She sat up slowly.

Somewhere in the apartment, a worship song began playing again from the broken speaker.

Tinny.

Distorted.

Almost unrecognizable.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free

My God, My Savior has rescued me

“Jesus help me,” she choked.

Part 1

Part 2

Micaiah was out of the truck before Nathan had fully stopped.

The tires jumped the curb outside the apartment complex. Nathan killed the engine and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and rainwater. His boots hit each step hard enough to echo. Behind him, Nathan followed slower, heavier, still carrying the same silence from the truck.

Micaiah reached the third floor and turned the corner.

Mara stood outside Deena’s room.

She was barefoot. Her hair had come loose. One sleeve of her sweatshirt was wet near the wrist. At first Micaiah thought it was water.

Then he saw the blood.

“Mara.”

She looked at him and nearly collapsed.

He caught her before she hit the wall.

“I only stepped out for a minute,” she said.

Her voice came too fast.

“What happened?”

“I went downstairs for bandages. The first aid kit in the room was empty. She tore the old ones off. She was bleeding again, and I thought—” Mara pressed both hands against her mouth. “I thought she was sleeping. Told myself I’d be right back.”

Micaiah looked past her.

From inside came a sound.

A wet, strained choking sound.

Micaiah’s blood went cold.

He moved to the door and hit it with his fist.

“Deena!” he shouted.

The sound stopped.

For one second there was only silence.

Then something scraped against the floor.

Mara stood behind him, crying without sound.

Micaiah tried the handle. It didn’t move.

Deena had wedged it shut.

Probably barricaded with a chair.

He hit the door again.

“Dee. It’s Mickey. Open the door.”

Something thumped against the wall inside.

Then the choking started again.

Nathan hit the door with the butt of his shotgun.

The wood shook in the frame but held.

Micaiah stepped back, lifted his boot, and drove it into the space beside the lock.

The wood split.

Nathan hit it again with his shoulder. The chair on the other side scraped hard across the floor, then toppled. The door burst inward.

Micaiah went in first.

For half a second, he did not understand what he was seeing.

Deena hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted bedsheet.

Her toes scraped weakly against the floor.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She was still alive.

“Mara!” Micaiah shouted.

Mara screamed and ran past him.

The ceiling fan groaned under Deena’s weight. The sheet had cut deep into her neck. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were half open but unfocused.

Micaiah dropped his rifle and grabbed her legs, lifting her to take the weight off her throat.

“I’ve got her,” he said. “Untie it!”

Deena’s eyes rolled toward him.

“Mickey…”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Her swollen lips barely moved.

“It,” she croaked. “It has to be stopped.”

His arms burned from holding Deena up. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was on the bed, fingers slick with sweat and blood, trying to work the knot loose.

“It’s too tight,” she said.

“Knife,” Micaiah said. “Nathan, knife!”

No answer.

“Nate!”

Micaiah looked back.

Nathan stood just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

The same look from the bedroom. The one Micaiah had seen right before he raised the shotgun at the woman. The old Nathan bleeding through the new one like poison through a cracked cup.

“Nate,” Micaiah snapped. “For Godsake help me!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on Deena.

His lips moved.

“You saw the ultrasounds… There’s only one way to stop this.”

Micaiah felt the room drop out from under him.

He watched Nathan's right hand drift toward his shoulder. Toward the holster. Toward the pistol pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket.

Nathan drew halfway.

Micaiah let go of Deena with one hand and reached for his own pistol with his other.

Nathan looked at him then.

For one second, he was his brother again.

Tired. Broken. Certain he was doing the only thing left.

Deena’s eyes found Nathan.

“Nate,” she rasped.

Nathan’s hand tightened around the pistol.

Mara climbed down from the bed, shaking her head. “No. No, don’t you dare.”

Deena’s lips trembled. Blood ran from the sheet-burn around her throat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shoot me.”

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “Move out of the way.”

“Nate,” Micaiah said. “Please don’t make me choose between you and Deena.”

Nathan's hand kept moving, ignoring his brother’s plea.

Micaiah saw it happen in pieces. The way Nathan's fingers curled around the grip. The way his shoulder dipped slightly, muscle memory from a thousand draws in empty lots and shooting ranges. The way his eyes went had that resigned look. Like he had already done the math and decided the only answer left was one Micaiah would never accept.

Time didn't slow down.

That was a lie that movies told.

Time stayed exactly the same. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.

Micaiah's hand crossed his body, reaching for the pistol that sat low on his thigh, angled forward, exactly where he had trained it a thousand times.

Nathan's pistol cleared leather first.

Micaiah saw the muzzle rise.

Then his own hand caught up.

Micaiah didn’t aim.

There wasn’t time.

He fired from the hip.

The pistol bucked once in his hand, loud enough to split the room open. Nathan’s body jerked like he’d been yanked backward by a rope. The round hit him square in the chest, punching him off balance and slamming him into the doorframe.

Nathan's pistol fired.

The shot went wide. Past Micaiah's ear. Into the wall behind him. Plaster cracked. Something shattered in the living room.

For half a second, Nathan just stared at Micaiah, more shocked than hurt.

Then his knees gave out. His pistol clattered to the floor.

Micaiah caught Deena’s weight again before she dropped.

“Nate,” he whispered.

Nathan slid down the wall, one bloody hand pressed to his chest, eyes locked on his brother like he still couldn’t believe Micaiah had actually done it.

Micaiah stood frozen.

The pistol was still trained on his brother with one hand. The front sight trembled over Nathan's body.

"Mickey!" Mara screamed.

He didn't hear her.

Nathan was on his back. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Blood bubbled between his lips.

Micaiah came back into himself all at once.

Deena was still hanging.

Her legs kicked weakly against his arms. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was still on the bed, fighting the knot with shaking fingers.

For one second, Micaiah could not move.

Then Deena made a thin choking sound.

“Mara,” he said.

His voice sounded far away.

Mara looked at him, wild-eyed.

“Get Nathan’s knife.”

“What?”

“His knife,” Micaiah said. “On his belt. Get it now.”

Mara stared down at Nathan’s body like she had not understood he was real until that moment.

“Mara!”

She flinched, then scrambled off the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Nathan's body and rolled him toward her with both hands. Blood smeared across her palms. She sobbed once but kept searching.

“I can’t find it.”

“Left side,” Micaiah said. “Inside the jacket.”

Mara shoved her hand beneath Nathan’s body. Her fingers slipped against the wet fabric. She gagged, then forced herself to keep going.

Nathan’s lifeless eyes were wide open.

For one awful second, Mara looked at his face.

Then she found the knife.

“I have it.”

“Cut her down.”

Mara climbed back onto the bed. She opened the blade with both hands and sawed at the sheet above Deena’s neck.

The fabric stretched.

Then snapped.

Deena dropped.

Micaiah caught her badly. Her weight hit him in the chest and drove him to one knee. He lowered her to the floor as gently as he could.

“Deena,” he said. “Breathe. Come on. Breathe.”

Her throat worked.

Nothing happened.

Mara bent over her and tried to loosen what remained of the sheet. Micaiah pulled it away from the deep red line around Deena’s neck.

Deena sucked in one breath.

Then another.

Mara laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s breathing.”

Micaiah pressed his forehead to Deena’s.

“Thank You,” he whispered. “Thank You, Lord.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened. Her eyes found his.

For one second—one clean, impossible second—she was there. His sister. The girl who ‘borrowed’ his hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who learned to drive stick shift in a church parking lot because she refused to let their Jeep go to scrap because it was the only thing their deadbeat Wasian dad left them.

“Mickey?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I heard Mom,” she whispered. “When it was dark. I saw her…”

Micaiah could not breathe.

Deena’s hand closed weakly around his wrist.

“She said she was waiting for me in Heaven.”

Micaiah shook his head. Tears cut down his face.

“No,” he said. “Dee, you have to stay with me.”

Her fingers moved against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry. I tried to fight back.”

She was crying now. Tears cut pale tracks through the grime on her face.

“I know you did.”

He leaned closer. His forehead touched hers. Her breath smelled like rot and something else. Something sweet underneath. Like flowers left too long in water.

Then her eyes changed.

Her fingers found his wrist. Squeezed. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. Stronger than anything that thin had any right to produce.

Like a switch flipped behind her pupils. The warmth drained out of them. Her grip changed.

Her fingers curled into his skin like hooks. Her whole body went rigid against his chest. Her back arched.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then her head snapped forward.

Her face was inches from his. Her mouth opened. Her jaw unhinged like a python. The smell coming off her was no longer sweet. It was the smell of Gavrillo's bedroom. Ozone and burnt sugar and old blood.

When she spoke, the voice was not hers.

It was not one voice.

It was many.

And they were laughing.

“Ádis kaí Apóleia ouk empímplantai.” Death and Destruction are never satisfied.

Her belly moved.

Something inside her rolled against the skin, searching.

“Mara, run!” Micaiah screamed.

Mara stared at him, frozen.

“Run!”

Deena’s stomach split.

The sound was worse than the sight.

A hard tearing, like wet cloth pulled apart by hands.

Micaiah felt heat first. Then pressure. Then pain so complete it erased his existence.

Something ripped out of Deena and tore right through him.

Not past him.

Through him.

A limb. A horn. A hooked piece of living bone. He could not tell. It punched under his ribs and out his back, lifting him against Deena’s body like they had been nailed together.

Micaiah looked down.

His blood was on her.

Her blood was on him.

Between them, something pale and slick pushed free from her open belly. Too many eyes blinked in the mess. A small mouth opened and closed without sound. Tiny hands gripped the torn edges of Deena’s skin and pulled itself farther out.

Deena was still alive.

So was Micaiah.

For one second, they looked at each other.

Her eyes were hers again.

She was crying.

"I love you, big bro..." she mouthed.

Micaiah tried to answer.

Blood filled his throat.

His pistol slipped from his hand.

Mara crawled toward them anyway.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—”

Deena’s back arched so hard her spine cracked against the floor.

Two hard points pushed up beneath her shirt, stretching the fabric until it tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards as something black and wet forced its way out of her back.

Wings.

Bat-like. Veined. Too large for her body.

They unfolded with a sound like umbrellas opening inside raw meat.

Then the wings started flapping.

They beat against the walls, the bedframe, the ceiling, knocking pictures loose and splattering blood in wide, horrible arcs.

The force knocked Mara backward into the dresser. Wood cracked. Glass rained down from the mirror.

Deena’s arms tightened around Micaiah one last time.

Not the demon.

Her.

A hug.

A goodbye.

Micaiah’s body jerked against hers. Something inside him gave way. His legs stopped working. His vision narrowed to Deena’s face. Her eyes fixed on him with terror and love.

Micaiah and Deena were impaled and tangled together, brother and sister locked chest to chest in blood.

Mara screamed until her voice broke.

Then Mara saw Micaiah’s head lift.

Not by itself.

Something behind his jaw pulled it up. His mouth opened, loose and wrong, blood spilling over his teeth. His eyes were empty.

The abomination forced itself out through both of them, wearing their torn bodies like the remains of a birth sac. Micaiah’s dead face twitched into a smile that did not fit him.

Then it spoke mockingly in Micaiah’s voice.

“Igérthi.”

He has risen.

The thing laughed with his mouth as it climbed free.

The thing turned its head toward Mara.

And smiled.

Mara could not move.

Her back was against the broken dresser. Splinters pressed through the sweatshirt into her skin. Mirror glass covered her lap and hands. She could feel blood running down her neck from where one shard had cut her, but the pain was small and far away.

Mara sobbed.

The thing breathed.

Its chest opened and closed like an open wound. Wet skin stretched over bones that kept shifting under it. Wings dragged across the floor behind it, leaving red arcs in the carpet. Its head was too large for its body. Its mouth was too small until it opened.

Then it was all mouth.

Rows of tiny teeth.

A sound came out of it.

A baby’s cooing.

Mara’s bladder let go.

She barely noticed.

The thing stepped toward her, dragging Micaiah and Deena’ corpses with it for one horrible second before the limb pulled free.

The thing shook itself. Blood sprayed the wall, the bed, Mara’s face. Then it started crawling towards her.

Its wings folded tight against its back. Its little hands slapped wetly against the carpet. Its knees bent backward, then forward, then backward again as if it had not decided what shape it wanted to keep. Each movement made a clicking sound inside its body.

The thing saw her terror.

Its head tilted.

The laughter came again, soft and pleased.

Mara scrambled sideways.

Her palm landed on glass. It cut deep. She screamed and kept moving. The thing lunged.

She threw herself flat. It hit the dresser above her and punched through the wood with both hands. Drawers burst open. Clothes and splinters flew over her. The mirror frame collapsed and struck the thing across the back.

It did not care.

Mara crawled on her elbows.

Her hand slipped in Nathan’s blood.

His body lay near the doorway where he had fallen. One arm bent under him. His jacket was open. His face was turned toward the room, eyes half-lidded, mouth dark with blood.

His pistol was on the carpet beside the wall.

Mara saw it.

The thing screamed behind her with hunger.

She crawled faster.

Her knees slid in blood. Her fingers clawed at the carpet. The pistol was six feet away. Then four. Then two.

The thing landed on her back.

The weight drove the air out of her.

Its hands grabbed her shoulders. The fingers were small, almost like a child’s, but they went in deep. Nails punched through the sweatshirt and into meat.

Mara screamed into the carpet.

Its mouth pressed against the side of her head.

Hot breath filled her ear.

Then she reached the gun.

Her fingers hit the grip.

The thing bit off a chunk her ear.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes. She screamed and rolled hard onto her back, bringing the pistol up between them.

The thing sat on her chest.

Its face was inches from hers.

Up close, she saw all of it. The eyes were not eyes. They were holes with red light moving at the bottom. Its lips were thin and gray. Its gums were black. A string of tissue still hung from its bellybutton, trailing back toward Deena’s body.

It opened its mouth.

Mara shoved the pistol into it.

The thing froze.

For one second, everything stopped.

Mara’s hands shook so badly the barrel clicked against its teeth.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot blew the back of its head open.

Not cleanly.

The skull split like wet plaster. Black fluid and pale fragments hit the ceiling. One eye popped loose and slid down Mara’s cheek. The thing’s mouth clamped once around the barrel, hard enough to scrape metal. Then it went limp.

Its body collapsed onto her.

Mara fired again.

And again.

And again.

The last shot went through the thing’s face and into the floor beside her head.

Then the gun clicked empty.

Mara kept pulling the trigger anyway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She shoved the corpse off her chest with both hands. It rolled onto its side, leaking black blood and something thicker. Its wings trembled once. Its little fingers curled inward.

Then it was still.

Mara lay there gasping.

The room stank of blood, feces, urine.

She sat up slowly.

Somewhere in the apartment, a worship song began playing again from the broken speaker.

Tinny.

Distorted.

Almost unrecognizable.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free

My God, My Savior has rescued me

“Jesus help me,” she choked.

Part 1

Part 2

Micaiah was out of the truck before Nathan had fully stopped.

The tires jumped the curb outside the apartment complex. Nathan killed the engine and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and rainwater. His boots hit each step hard enough to echo. Behind him, Nathan followed slower, heavier, still carrying the same silence from the truck.

Micaiah reached the third floor and turned the corner.

Mara stood outside Deena’s room.

She was barefoot. Her hair had come loose. One sleeve of her sweatshirt was wet near the wrist. At first Micaiah thought it was water.

Then he saw the blood.

“Mara.”

She looked at him and nearly collapsed.

He caught her before she hit the wall.

“I only stepped out for a minute,” she said.

Her voice came too fast.

“What happened?”

“I went downstairs for bandages. The first aid kit in the room was empty. She tore the old ones off. She was bleeding again, and I thought—” Mara pressed both hands against her mouth. “I thought she was sleeping. Told myself I’d be right back.”

Micaiah looked past her.

From inside came a sound.

A wet, strained choking sound.

Micaiah’s blood went cold.

He moved to the door and hit it with his fist.

“Deena!” he shouted.

The sound stopped.

For one second there was only silence.

Then something scraped against the floor.

Mara stood behind him, crying without sound.

Micaiah tried the handle. It didn’t move.

Deena had wedged it shut.

Probably barricaded with a chair.

He hit the door again.

“Dee. It’s Mickey. Open the door.”

Something thumped against the wall inside.

Then the choking started again.

Nathan hit the door with the butt of his shotgun.

The wood shook in the frame but held.

Micaiah stepped back, lifted his boot, and drove it into the space beside the lock.

The wood split.

Nathan hit it again with his shoulder. The chair on the other side scraped hard across the floor, then toppled. The door burst inward.

Micaiah went in first.

For half a second, he did not understand what he was seeing.

Deena hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted bedsheet.

Her toes scraped weakly against the floor.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She was still alive.

“Mara!” Micaiah shouted.

Mara screamed and ran past him.

The ceiling fan groaned under Deena’s weight. The sheet had cut deep into her neck. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were half open but unfocused.

Micaiah dropped his rifle and grabbed her legs, lifting her to take the weight off her throat.

“I’ve got her,” he said. “Untie it!”

Deena’s eyes rolled toward him.

“Mickey…”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Her swollen lips barely moved.

“It,” she croaked. “It has to be stopped.”

His arms burned from holding Deena up. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was on the bed, fingers slick with sweat and blood, trying to work the knot loose.

“It’s too tight,” she said.

“Knife,” Micaiah said. “Nathan, knife!”

No answer.

“Nate!”

Micaiah looked back.

Nathan stood just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

The same look from the bedroom. The one Micaiah had seen right before he raised the shotgun at the woman. The old Nathan bleeding through the new one like poison through a cracked cup.

“Nate,” Micaiah snapped. “For Godsake help me!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on Deena.

His lips moved.

“You saw the ultrasounds… There’s only one way to stop this.”

Micaiah felt the room drop out from under him.

He watched Nathan's right hand drift toward his shoulder. Toward the holster. Toward the pistol pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket.

Nathan drew halfway.

Micaiah let go of Deena with one hand and reached for his own pistol with his other.

Nathan looked at him then.

For one second, he was his brother again.

Tired. Broken. Certain he was doing the only thing left.

Deena’s eyes found Nathan.

“Nate,” she rasped.

Nathan’s hand tightened around the pistol.

Mara climbed down from the bed, shaking her head. “No. No, don’t you dare.”

Deena’s lips trembled. Blood ran from the sheet-burn around her throat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shoot me.”

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “Move out of the way.”

“Nate,” Micaiah said. “Please don’t make me choose between you and Deena.”

Nathan's hand kept moving, ignoring his brother’s plea.

Micaiah saw it happen in pieces. The way Nathan's fingers curled around the grip. The way his shoulder dipped slightly, muscle memory from a thousand draws in empty lots and shooting ranges. The way his eyes went had that resigned look. Like he had already done the math and decided the only answer left was one Micaiah would never accept.

Time didn't slow down.

That was a lie that movies told.

Time stayed exactly the same. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.

Micaiah's hand crossed his body, reaching for the pistol that sat low on his thigh, angled forward, exactly where he had trained it a thousand times.

Nathan's pistol cleared leather first.

Micaiah saw the muzzle rise.

Then his own hand caught up.

Micaiah didn’t aim.

There wasn’t time.

He fired from the hip.

The pistol bucked once in his hand, loud enough to split the room open. Nathan’s body jerked like he’d been yanked backward by a rope. The round hit him square in the chest, punching him off balance and slamming him into the doorframe.

Nathan's pistol fired.

The shot went wide. Past Micaiah's ear. Into the wall behind him. Plaster cracked. Something shattered in the living room.

For half a second, Nathan just stared at Micaiah, more shocked than hurt.

Then his knees gave out. His pistol clattered to the floor.

Micaiah caught Deena’s weight again before she dropped.

“Nate,” he whispered.

Nathan slid down the wall, one bloody hand pressed to his chest, eyes locked on his brother like he still couldn’t believe Micaiah had actually done it.

Micaiah stood frozen.

The pistol was still trained on his brother with one hand. The front sight trembled over Nathan's body.

"Mickey!" Mara screamed.

He didn't hear her.

Nathan was on his back. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Blood bubbled between his lips.

Micaiah came back into himself all at once.

Deena was still hanging.

Her legs kicked weakly against his arms. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was still on the bed, fighting the knot with shaking fingers.

For one second, Micaiah could not move.

Then Deena made a thin choking sound.

“Mara,” he said.

His voice sounded far away.

Mara looked at him, wild-eyed.

“Get Nathan’s knife.”

“What?”

“His knife,” Micaiah said. “On his belt. Get it now.”

Mara stared down at Nathan’s body like she had not understood he was real until that moment.

“Mara!”

She flinched, then scrambled off the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Nathan's body and rolled him toward her with both hands. Blood smeared across her palms. She sobbed once but kept searching.

“I can’t find it.”

“Left side,” Micaiah said. “Inside the jacket.”

Mara shoved her hand beneath Nathan’s body. Her fingers slipped against the wet fabric. She gagged, then forced herself to keep going.

Nathan’s lifeless eyes were wide open.

For one awful second, Mara looked at his face.

Then she found the knife.

“I have it.”

“Cut her down.”

Mara climbed back onto the bed. She opened the blade with both hands and sawed at the sheet above Deena’s neck.

The fabric stretched.

Then snapped.

Deena dropped.

Micaiah caught her badly. Her weight hit him in the chest and drove him to one knee. He lowered her to the floor as gently as he could.

“Deena,” he said. “Breathe. Come on. Breathe.”

Her throat worked.

Nothing happened.

Mara bent over her and tried to loosen what remained of the sheet. Micaiah pulled it away from the deep red line around Deena’s neck.

Deena sucked in one breath.

Then another.

Mara laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s breathing.”

Micaiah pressed his forehead to Deena’s.

“Thank You,” he whispered. “Thank You, Lord.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened. Her eyes found his.

For one second—one clean, impossible second—she was there. His sister. The girl who ‘borrowed’ his hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who learned to drive stick shift in a church parking lot because she refused to let their Jeep go to scrap because it was the only thing their deadbeat Wasian dad left them.

“Mickey?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I heard Mom,” she whispered. “When it was dark. I saw her…”

Micaiah could not breathe.

Deena’s hand closed weakly around his wrist.

“She said she was waiting for me in Heaven.”

Micaiah shook his head. Tears cut down his face.

“No,” he said. “Dee, you have to stay with me.”

Her fingers moved against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry. I tried to fight back.”

She was crying now. Tears cut pale tracks through the grime on her face.

“I know you did.”

He leaned closer. His forehead touched hers. Her breath smelled like rot and something else. Something sweet underneath. Like flowers left too long in water.

Then her eyes changed.

Her fingers found his wrist. Squeezed. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. Stronger than anything that thin had any right to produce.

Like a switch flipped behind her pupils. The warmth drained out of them. Her grip changed.

Her fingers curled into his skin like hooks. Her whole body went rigid against his chest. Her back arched.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then her head snapped forward.

Her face was inches from his. Her mouth opened. Her jaw unhinged like a python. The smell coming off her was no longer sweet. It was the smell of Gavrillo's bedroom. Ozone and burnt sugar and old blood.

When she spoke, the voice was not hers.

It was not one voice.

It was many.

And they were laughing.

“Ádis kaí Apóleia ouk empímplantai.” Death and Destruction are never satisfied.

Her belly moved.

Something inside her rolled against the skin, searching.

“Mara, run!” Micaiah screamed.

Mara stared at him, frozen.

“Run!”

Deena’s stomach split.

The sound was worse than the sight.

A hard tearing, like wet cloth pulled apart by hands.

Micaiah felt heat first. Then pressure. Then pain so complete it erased his existence.

Something ripped out of Deena and tore right through him.

Not past him.

Through him.

A limb. A horn. A hooked piece of living bone. He could not tell. It punched under his ribs and out his back, lifting him against Deena’s body like they had been nailed together.

Micaiah looked down.

His blood was on her.

Her blood was on him.

Between them, something pale and slick pushed free from her open belly. Too many eyes blinked in the mess. A small mouth opened and closed without sound. Tiny hands gripped the torn edges of Deena’s skin and pulled itself farther out.

Deena was still alive.

So was Micaiah.

For one second, they looked at each other.

Her eyes were hers again.

She was crying.

"I love you, big bro..." she mouthed.

Micaiah tried to answer.

Blood filled his throat.

His pistol slipped from his hand.

Mara crawled toward them anyway.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—”

Deena’s back arched so hard her spine cracked against the floor.

Two hard points pushed up beneath her shirt, stretching the fabric until it tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards as something black and wet forced its way out of her back.

Wings.

Bat-like. Veined. Too large for her body.

They unfolded with a sound like umbrellas opening inside raw meat.

Then the wings started flapping.

They beat against the walls, the bedframe, the ceiling, knocking pictures loose and splattering blood in wide, horrible arcs.

The force knocked Mara backward into the dresser. Wood cracked. Glass rained down from the mirror.

Deena’s arms tightened around Micaiah one last time.

Not the demon.

Her.

A hug.

A goodbye.

Micaiah’s body jerked against hers. Something inside him gave way. His legs stopped working. His vision narrowed to Deena’s face. Her eyes fixed on him with terror and love.

Micaiah and Deena were impaled and tangled together, brother and sister locked chest to chest in blood.

Mara screamed until her voice broke.

Then Mara saw Micaiah’s head lift.

Not by itself.

Something behind his jaw pulled it up. His mouth opened, loose and wrong, blood spilling over his teeth. His eyes were empty.

The abomination forced itself out through both of them, wearing their torn bodies like the remains of a birth sac. Micaiah’s dead face twitched into a smile that did not fit him.

Then it spoke mockingly in Micaiah’s voice.

“Igérthi.”

He has risen.

The thing laughed with his mouth as it climbed free.

The thing turned its head toward Mara.

And smiled.

Mara could not move.

Her back was against the broken dresser. Splinters pressed through the sweatshirt into her skin. Mirror glass covered her lap and hands. She could feel blood running down her neck from where one shard had cut her, but the pain was small and far away.

Mara sobbed.

The thing breathed.

Its chest opened and closed like an open wound. Wet skin stretched over bones that kept shifting under it. Wings dragged across the floor behind it, leaving red arcs in the carpet. Its head was too large for its body. Its mouth was too small until it opened.

Then it was all mouth.

Rows of tiny teeth.

A sound came out of it.

A baby’s cooing.

Mara’s bladder let go.

She barely noticed.

The thing stepped toward her, dragging Micaiah and Deena’ corpses with it for one horrible second before the limb pulled free.

The thing shook itself. Blood sprayed the wall, the bed, Mara’s face. Then it started crawling towards her.

Its wings folded tight against its back. Its little hands slapped wetly against the carpet. Its knees bent backward, then forward, then backward again as if it had not decided what shape it wanted to keep. Each movement made a clicking sound inside its body.

The thing saw her terror.

Its head tilted.

The laughter came again, soft and pleased.

Mara scrambled sideways.

Her palm landed on glass. It cut deep. She screamed and kept moving. The thing lunged.

She threw herself flat. It hit the dresser above her and punched through the wood with both hands. Drawers burst open. Clothes and splinters flew over her. The mirror frame collapsed and struck the thing across the back.

It did not care.

Mara crawled on her elbows.

Her hand slipped in Nathan’s blood.

His body lay near the doorway where he had fallen. One arm bent under him. His jacket was open. His face was turned toward the room, eyes half-lidded, mouth dark with blood.

His pistol was on the carpet beside the wall.

Mara saw it.

The thing screamed behind her with hunger.

She crawled faster.

Her knees slid in blood. Her fingers clawed at the carpet. The pistol was six feet away. Then four. Then two.

The thing landed on her back.

The weight drove the air out of her.

Its hands grabbed her shoulders. The fingers were small, almost like a child’s, but they went in deep. Nails punched through the sweatshirt and into meat.

Mara screamed into the carpet.

Its mouth pressed against the side of her head.

Hot breath filled her ear.

Then she reached the gun.

Her fingers hit the grip.

The thing bit off a chunk her ear.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes. She screamed and rolled hard onto her back, bringing the pistol up between them.

The thing sat on her chest.

Its face was inches from hers.

Up close, she saw all of it. The eyes were not eyes. They were holes with red light moving at the bottom. Its lips were thin and gray. Its gums were black. A string of tissue still hung from its bellybutton, trailing back toward Deena’s body.

It opened its mouth.

Mara shoved the pistol into it.

The thing froze.

For one second, everything stopped.

Mara’s hands shook so badly the barrel clicked against its teeth.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot blew the back of its head open.

Not cleanly.

The skull split like wet plaster. Black fluid and pale fragments hit the ceiling. One eye popped loose and slid down Mara’s cheek. The thing’s mouth clamped once around the barrel, hard enough to scrape metal. Then it went limp.

Its body collapsed onto her.

Mara fired again.

And again.

And again.

The last shot went through the thing’s face and into the floor beside her head.

Then the gun clicked empty.

Mara kept pulling the trigger anyway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She shoved the corpse off her chest with both hands. It rolled onto its side, leaking black blood and something thicker. Its wings trembled once. Its little fingers curled inward.

Then it was still.

Mara lay there gasping.

The room stank of blood, feces, urine.

She sat up slowly.

Somewhere in the apartment, a worship song began playing again from the broken speaker.

Tinny.

Distorted.

Almost unrecognizable.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free

My God, My Savior has rescued me

“Jesus help me,” she choked.

Part 1

Part 2

Micaiah was out of the truck before Nathan had fully stopped.

The tires jumped the curb outside the apartment complex. Nathan killed the engine and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and rainwater. His boots hit each step hard enough to echo. Behind him, Nathan followed slower, heavier, still carrying the same silence from the truck.

Micaiah reached the third floor and turned the corner.

Mara stood outside Deena’s room.

She was barefoot. Her hair had come loose. One sleeve of her sweatshirt was wet near the wrist. At first Micaiah thought it was water.

Then he saw the blood.

“Mara.”

She looked at him and nearly collapsed.

He caught her before she hit the wall.

“I only stepped out for a minute,” she said.

Her voice came too fast.

“What happened?”

“I went downstairs for bandages. The first aid kit in the room was empty. She tore the old ones off. She was bleeding again, and I thought—” Mara pressed both hands against her mouth. “I thought she was sleeping. Told myself I’d be right back.”

Micaiah looked past her.

From inside came a sound.

A wet, strained choking sound.

Micaiah’s blood went cold.

He moved to the door and hit it with his fist.

“Deena!” he shouted.

The sound stopped.

For one second there was only silence.

Then something scraped against the floor.

Mara stood behind him, crying without sound.

Micaiah tried the handle. It didn’t move.

Deena had wedged it shut.

Probably barricaded with a chair.

He hit the door again.

“Dee. It’s Mickey. Open the door.”

Something thumped against the wall inside.

Then the choking started again.

Nathan hit the door with the butt of his shotgun.

The wood shook in the frame but held.

Micaiah stepped back, lifted his boot, and drove it into the space beside the lock.

The wood split.

Nathan hit it again with his shoulder. The chair on the other side scraped hard across the floor, then toppled. The door burst inward.

Micaiah went in first.

For half a second, he did not understand what he was seeing.

Deena hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted bedsheet.

Her toes scraped weakly against the floor.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She was still alive.

“Mara!” Micaiah shouted.

Mara screamed and ran past him.

The ceiling fan groaned under Deena’s weight. The sheet had cut deep into her neck. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were half open but unfocused.

Micaiah dropped his rifle and grabbed her legs, lifting her to take the weight off her throat.

“I’ve got her,” he said. “Untie it!”

Deena’s eyes rolled toward him.

“Mickey…”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Her swollen lips barely moved.

“It,” she croaked. “It has to be stopped.”

His arms burned from holding Deena up. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was on the bed, fingers slick with sweat and blood, trying to work the knot loose.

“It’s too tight,” she said.

“Knife,” Micaiah said. “Nathan, knife!”

No answer.

“Nate!”

Micaiah looked back.

Nathan stood just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

The same look from the bedroom. The one Micaiah had seen right before he raised the shotgun at the woman. The old Nathan bleeding through the new one like poison through a cracked cup.

“Nate,” Micaiah snapped. “For Godsake help me!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on Deena.

His lips moved.

“You saw the ultrasounds… There’s only one way to stop this.”

Micaiah felt the room drop out from under him.

He watched Nathan's right hand drift toward his shoulder. Toward the holster. Toward the pistol pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket.

Nathan drew halfway.

Micaiah let go of Deena with one hand and reached for his own pistol with his other.

Nathan looked at him then.

For one second, he was his brother again.

Tired. Broken. Certain he was doing the only thing left.

Deena’s eyes found Nathan.

“Nate,” she rasped.

Nathan’s hand tightened around the pistol.

Mara climbed down from the bed, shaking her head. “No. No, don’t you dare.”

Deena’s lips trembled. Blood ran from the sheet-burn around her throat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shoot me.”

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “Move out of the way.”

“Nate,” Micaiah said. “Please don’t make me choose between you and Deena.”

Nathan's hand kept moving, ignoring his brother’s plea.

Micaiah saw it happen in pieces. The way Nathan's fingers curled around the grip. The way his shoulder dipped slightly, muscle memory from a thousand draws in empty lots and shooting ranges. The way his eyes went had that resigned look. Like he had already done the math and decided the only answer left was one Micaiah would never accept.

Time didn't slow down.

That was a lie that movies told.

Time stayed exactly the same. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.

Micaiah's hand crossed his body, reaching for the pistol that sat low on his thigh, angled forward, exactly where he had trained it a thousand times.

Nathan's pistol cleared leather first.

Micaiah saw the muzzle rise.

Then his own hand caught up.

Micaiah didn’t aim.

There wasn’t time.

He fired from the hip.

The pistol bucked once in his hand, loud enough to split the room open. Nathan’s body jerked like he’d been yanked backward by a rope. The round hit him square in the chest, punching him off balance and slamming him into the doorframe.

Nathan's pistol fired.

The shot went wide. Past Micaiah's ear. Into the wall behind him. Plaster cracked. Something shattered in the living room.

For half a second, Nathan just stared at Micaiah, more shocked than hurt.

Then his knees gave out. His pistol clattered to the floor.

Micaiah caught Deena’s weight again before she dropped.

“Nate,” he whispered.

Nathan slid down the wall, one bloody hand pressed to his chest, eyes locked on his brother like he still couldn’t believe Micaiah had actually done it.

Micaiah stood frozen.

The pistol was still trained on his brother with one hand. The front sight trembled over Nathan's body.

"Mickey!" Mara screamed.

He didn't hear her.

Nathan was on his back. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Blood bubbled between his lips.

Micaiah came back into himself all at once.

Deena was still hanging.

Her legs kicked weakly against his arms. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was still on the bed, fighting the knot with shaking fingers.

For one second, Micaiah could not move.

Then Deena made a thin choking sound.

“Mara,” he said.

His voice sounded far away.

Mara looked at him, wild-eyed.

“Get Nathan’s knife.”

“What?”

“His knife,” Micaiah said. “On his belt. Get it now.”

Mara stared down at Nathan’s body like she had not understood he was real until that moment.

“Mara!”

She flinched, then scrambled off the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Nathan's body and rolled him toward her with both hands. Blood smeared across her palms. She sobbed once but kept searching.

“I can’t find it.”

“Left side,” Micaiah said. “Inside the jacket.”

Mara shoved her hand beneath Nathan’s body. Her fingers slipped against the wet fabric. She gagged, then forced herself to keep going.

Nathan’s lifeless eyes were wide open.

For one awful second, Mara looked at his face.

Then she found the knife.

“I have it.”

“Cut her down.”

Mara climbed back onto the bed. She opened the blade with both hands and sawed at the sheet above Deena’s neck.

The fabric stretched.

Then snapped.

Deena dropped.

Micaiah caught her badly. Her weight hit him in the chest and drove him to one knee. He lowered her to the floor as gently as he could.

“Deena,” he said. “Breathe. Come on. Breathe.”

Her throat worked.

Nothing happened.

Mara bent over her and tried to loosen what remained of the sheet. Micaiah pulled it away from the deep red line around Deena’s neck.

Deena sucked in one breath.

Then another.

Mara laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s breathing.”

Micaiah pressed his forehead to Deena’s.

“Thank You,” he whispered. “Thank You, Lord.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened. Her eyes found his.

For one second—one clean, impossible second—she was there. His sister. The girl who ‘borrowed’ his hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who learned to drive stick shift in a church parking lot because she refused to let their Jeep go to scrap because it was the only thing their deadbeat Wasian dad left them.

“Mickey?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I heard Mom,” she whispered. “When it was dark. I saw her…”

Micaiah could not breathe.

Deena’s hand closed weakly around his wrist.

“She said she was waiting for me in Heaven.”

Micaiah shook his head. Tears cut down his face.

“No,” he said. “Dee, you have to stay with me.”

Her fingers moved against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry. I tried to fight back.”

She was crying now. Tears cut pale tracks through the grime on her face.

“I know you did.”

He leaned closer. His forehead touched hers. Her breath smelled like rot and something else. Something sweet underneath. Like flowers left too long in water.

Then her eyes changed.

Her fingers found his wrist. Squeezed. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. Stronger than anything that thin had any right to produce.

Like a switch flipped behind her pupils. The warmth drained out of them. Her grip changed.

Her fingers curled into his skin like hooks. Her whole body went rigid against his chest. Her back arched.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then her head snapped forward.

Her face was inches from his. Her mouth opened. Her jaw unhinged like a python. The smell coming off her was no longer sweet. It was the smell of Gavrillo's bedroom. Ozone and burnt sugar and old blood.

When she spoke, the voice was not hers.

It was not one voice.

It was many.

And they were laughing.

“Ádis kaí Apóleia ouk empímplantai.” Death and Destruction are never satisfied.

Her belly moved.

Something inside her rolled against the skin, searching.

“Mara, run!” Micaiah screamed.

Mara stared at him, frozen.

“Run!”

Deena’s stomach split.

The sound was worse than the sight.

A hard tearing, like wet cloth pulled apart by hands.

Micaiah felt heat first. Then pressure. Then pain so complete it erased his existence.

Something ripped out of Deena and tore right through him.

Not past him.

Through him.

A limb. A horn. A hooked piece of living bone. He could not tell. It punched under his ribs and out his back, lifting him against Deena’s body like they had been nailed together.

Micaiah looked down.

His blood was on her.

Her blood was on him.

Between them, something pale and slick pushed free from her open belly. Too many eyes blinked in the mess. A small mouth opened and closed without sound. Tiny hands gripped the torn edges of Deena’s skin and pulled itself farther out.

Deena was still alive.

So was Micaiah.

For one second, they looked at each other.

Her eyes were hers again.

She was crying.

"I love you, big bro..." she mouthed.

Micaiah tried to answer.

Blood filled his throat.

His pistol slipped from his hand.

Mara crawled toward them anyway.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—”

Deena’s back arched so hard her spine cracked against the floor.

Two hard points pushed up beneath her shirt, stretching the fabric until it tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards as something black and wet forced its way out of her back.

Wings.

Bat-like. Veined. Too large for her body.

They unfolded with a sound like umbrellas opening inside raw meat.

Then the wings started flapping.

They beat against the walls, the bedframe, the ceiling, knocking pictures loose and splattering blood in wide, horrible arcs.

The force knocked Mara backward into the dresser. Wood cracked. Glass rained down from the mirror.

Deena’s arms tightened around Micaiah one last time.

Not the demon.

Her.

A hug.

A goodbye.

Micaiah’s body jerked against hers. Something inside him gave way. His legs stopped working. His vision narrowed to Deena’s face. Her eyes fixed on him with terror and love.

Micaiah and Deena were impaled and tangled together, brother and sister locked chest to chest in blood.

Mara screamed until her voice broke.

Then Mara saw Micaiah’s head lift.

Not by itself.

Something behind his jaw pulled it up. His mouth opened, loose and wrong, blood spilling over his teeth. His eyes were empty.

The abomination forced itself out through both of them, wearing their torn bodies like the remains of a birth sac. Micaiah’s dead face twitched into a smile that did not fit him.

Then it spoke mockingly in Micaiah’s voice.

“Igérthi.”

He has risen.

The thing laughed with his mouth as it climbed free.

The thing turned its head toward Mara.

And smiled.

Mara could not move.

Her back was against the broken dresser. Splinters pressed through the sweatshirt into her skin. Mirror glass covered her lap and hands. She could feel blood running down her neck from where one shard had cut her, but the pain was small and far away.

Mara sobbed.

The thing breathed.

Its chest opened and closed like an open wound. Wet skin stretched over bones that kept shifting under it. Wings dragged across the floor behind it, leaving red arcs in the carpet. Its head was too large for its body. Its mouth was too small until it opened.

Then it was all mouth.

Rows of tiny teeth.

A sound came out of it.

A baby’s cooing.

Mara’s bladder let go.

She barely noticed.

The thing stepped toward her, dragging Micaiah and Deena’ corpses with it for one horrible second before the limb pulled free.

The thing shook itself. Blood sprayed the wall, the bed, Mara’s face. Then it started crawling towards her.

Its wings folded tight against its back. Its little hands slapped wetly against the carpet. Its knees bent backward, then forward, then backward again as if it had not decided what shape it wanted to keep. Each movement made a clicking sound inside its body.

The thing saw her terror.

Its head tilted.

The laughter came again, soft and pleased.

Mara scrambled sideways.

Her palm landed on glass. It cut deep. She screamed and kept moving. The thing lunged.

She threw herself flat. It hit the dresser above her and punched through the wood with both hands. Drawers burst open. Clothes and splinters flew over her. The mirror frame collapsed and struck the thing across the back.

It did not care.

Mara crawled on her elbows.

Her hand slipped in Nathan’s blood.

His body lay near the doorway where he had fallen. One arm bent under him. His jacket was open. His face was turned toward the room, eyes half-lidded, mouth dark with blood.

His pistol was on the carpet beside the wall.

Mara saw it.

The thing screamed behind her with hunger.

She crawled faster.

Her knees slid in blood. Her fingers clawed at the carpet. The pistol was six feet away. Then four. Then two.

The thing landed on her back.

The weight drove the air out of her.

Its hands grabbed her shoulders. The fingers were small, almost like a child’s, but they went in deep. Nails punched through the sweatshirt and into meat.

Mara screamed into the carpet.

Its mouth pressed against the side of her head.

Hot breath filled her ear.

Then she reached the gun.

Her fingers hit the grip.

The thing bit off a chunk her ear.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes. She screamed and rolled hard onto her back, bringing the pistol up between them.

The thing sat on her chest.

Its face was inches from hers.

Up close, she saw all of it. The eyes were not eyes. They were holes with red light moving at the bottom. Its lips were thin and gray. Its gums were black. A string of tissue still hung from its bellybutton, trailing back toward Deena’s body.

It opened its mouth.

Mara shoved the pistol into it.

The thing froze.

For one second, everything stopped.

Mara’s hands shook so badly the barrel clicked against its teeth.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot blew the back of its head open.

Not cleanly.

The skull split like wet plaster. Black fluid and pale fragments hit the ceiling. One eye popped loose and slid down Mara’s cheek. The thing’s mouth clamped once around the barrel, hard enough to scrape metal. Then it went limp.

Its body collapsed onto her.

Mara fired again.

And again.

And again.

The last shot went through the thing’s face and into the floor beside her head.

Then the gun clicked empty.

Mara kept pulling the trigger anyway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She shoved the corpse off her chest with both hands. It rolled onto its side, leaking black blood and something thicker. Its wings trembled once. Its little fingers curled inward.

Then it was still.

Mara lay there gasping.

The room stank of blood, feces, urine.

She sat up slowly.

Somewhere in the apartment, a worship song began playing again from the broken speaker.

Tinny.

Distorted.

Almost unrecognizable.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free

My God, My Savior has rescued me

“Jesus help me,” she choked.

Part 1

Part 2

Micaiah was out of the truck before Nathan had fully stopped.

The tires jumped the curb outside the apartment complex. Nathan killed the engine and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and rainwater. His boots hit each step hard enough to echo. Behind him, Nathan followed slower, heavier, still carrying the same silence from the truck.

Micaiah reached the third floor and turned the corner.

Mara stood outside Deena’s room.

She was barefoot. Her hair had come loose. One sleeve of her sweatshirt was wet near the wrist. At first Micaiah thought it was water.

Then he saw the blood.

“Mara.”

She looked at him and nearly collapsed.

He caught her before she hit the wall.

“I only stepped out for a minute,” she said.

Her voice came too fast.

“What happened?”

“I went downstairs for bandages. The first aid kit in the room was empty. She tore the old ones off. She was bleeding again, and I thought—” Mara pressed both hands against her mouth. “I thought she was sleeping. Told myself I’d be right back.”

Micaiah looked past her.

From inside came a sound.

A wet, strained choking sound.

Micaiah’s blood went cold.

He moved to the door and hit it with his fist.

“Deena!” he shouted.

The sound stopped.

For one second there was only silence.

Then something scraped against the floor.

Mara stood behind him, crying without sound.

Micaiah tried the handle. It didn’t move.

Deena had wedged it shut.

Probably barricaded with a chair.

He hit the door again.

“Dee. It’s Mickey. Open the door.”

Something thumped against the wall inside.

Then the choking started again.

Nathan hit the door with the butt of his shotgun.

The wood shook in the frame but held.

Micaiah stepped back, lifted his boot, and drove it into the space beside the lock.

The wood split.

Nathan hit it again with his shoulder. The chair on the other side scraped hard across the floor, then toppled. The door burst inward.

Micaiah went in first.

For half a second, he did not understand what he was seeing.

Deena hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted bedsheet.

Her toes scraped weakly against the floor.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She was still alive.

“Mara!” Micaiah shouted.

Mara screamed and ran past him.

The ceiling fan groaned under Deena’s weight. The sheet had cut deep into her neck. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were half open but unfocused.

Micaiah dropped his rifle and grabbed her legs, lifting her to take the weight off her throat.

“I’ve got her,” he said. “Untie it!”

Deena’s eyes rolled toward him.

“Mickey…”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Her swollen lips barely moved.

“It,” she croaked. “It has to be stopped.”

His arms burned from holding Deena up. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was on the bed, fingers slick with sweat and blood, trying to work the knot loose.

“It’s too tight,” she said.

“Knife,” Micaiah said. “Nathan, knife!”

No answer.

“Nate!”

Micaiah looked back.

Nathan stood just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

The same look from the bedroom. The one Micaiah had seen right before he raised the shotgun at the woman. The old Nathan bleeding through the new one like poison through a cracked cup.

“Nate,” Micaiah snapped. “For Godsake help me!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on Deena.

His lips moved.

“You saw the ultrasounds… There’s only one way to stop this.”

Micaiah felt the room drop out from under him.

He watched Nathan's right hand drift toward his shoulder. Toward the holster. Toward the pistol pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket.

Nathan drew halfway.

Micaiah let go of Deena with one hand and reached for his own pistol with his other.

Nathan looked at him then.

For one second, he was his brother again.

Tired. Broken. Certain he was doing the only thing left.

Deena’s eyes found Nathan.

“Nate,” she rasped.

Nathan’s hand tightened around the pistol.

Mara climbed down from the bed, shaking her head. “No. No, don’t you dare.”

Deena’s lips trembled. Blood ran from the sheet-burn around her throat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shoot me.”

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “Move out of the way.”

“Nate,” Micaiah said. “Please don’t make me choose between you and Deena.”

Nathan's hand kept moving, ignoring his brother’s plea.

Micaiah saw it happen in pieces. The way Nathan's fingers curled around the grip. The way his shoulder dipped slightly, muscle memory from a thousand draws in empty lots and shooting ranges. The way his eyes went had that resigned look. Like he had already done the math and decided the only answer left was one Micaiah would never accept.

Time didn't slow down.

That was a lie that movies told.

Time stayed exactly the same. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.

Micaiah's hand crossed his body, reaching for the pistol that sat low on his thigh, angled forward, exactly where he had trained it a thousand times.

Nathan's pistol cleared leather first.

Micaiah saw the muzzle rise.

Then his own hand caught up.

Micaiah didn’t aim.

There wasn’t time.

He fired from the hip.

The pistol bucked once in his hand, loud enough to split the room open. Nathan’s body jerked like he’d been yanked backward by a rope. The round hit him square in the chest, punching him off balance and slamming him into the doorframe.

Nathan's pistol fired.

The shot went wide. Past Micaiah's ear. Into the wall behind him. Plaster cracked. Something shattered in the living room.

For half a second, Nathan just stared at Micaiah, more shocked than hurt.

Then his knees gave out. His pistol clattered to the floor.

Micaiah caught Deena’s weight again before she dropped.

“Nate,” he whispered.

Nathan slid down the wall, one bloody hand pressed to his chest, eyes locked on his brother like he still couldn’t believe Micaiah had actually done it.

Micaiah stood frozen.

The pistol was still trained on his brother with one hand. The front sight trembled over Nathan's body.

"Mickey!" Mara screamed.

He didn't hear her.

Nathan was on his back. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Blood bubbled between his lips.

Micaiah came back into himself all at once.

Deena was still hanging.

Her legs kicked weakly against his arms. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was still on the bed, fighting the knot with shaking fingers.

For one second, Micaiah could not move.

Then Deena made a thin choking sound.

“Mara,” he said.

His voice sounded far away.

Mara looked at him, wild-eyed.

“Get Nathan’s knife.”

“What?”

“His knife,” Micaiah said. “On his belt. Get it now.”

Mara stared down at Nathan’s body like she had not understood he was real until that moment.

“Mara!”

She flinched, then scrambled off the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Nathan's body and rolled him toward her with both hands. Blood smeared across her palms. She sobbed once but kept searching.

“I can’t find it.”

“Left side,” Micaiah said. “Inside the jacket.”

Mara shoved her hand beneath Nathan’s body. Her fingers slipped against the wet fabric. She gagged, then forced herself to keep going.

Nathan’s lifeless eyes were wide open.

For one awful second, Mara looked at his face.

Then she found the knife.

“I have it.”

“Cut her down.”

Mara climbed back onto the bed. She opened the blade with both hands and sawed at the sheet above Deena’s neck.

The fabric stretched.

Then snapped.

Deena dropped.

Micaiah caught her badly. Her weight hit him in the chest and drove him to one knee. He lowered her to the floor as gently as he could.

“Deena,” he said. “Breathe. Come on. Breathe.”

Her throat worked.

Nothing happened.

Mara bent over her and tried to loosen what remained of the sheet. Micaiah pulled it away from the deep red line around Deena’s neck.

Deena sucked in one breath.

Then another.

Mara laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s breathing.”

Micaiah pressed his forehead to Deena’s.

“Thank You,” he whispered. “Thank You, Lord.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened. Her eyes found his.

For one second—one clean, impossible second—she was there. His sister. The girl who ‘borrowed’ his hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who learned to drive stick shift in a church parking lot because she refused to let their Jeep go to scrap because it was the only thing their deadbeat Wasian dad left them.

“Mickey?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I heard Mom,” she whispered. “When it was dark. I saw her…”

Micaiah could not breathe.

Deena’s hand closed weakly around his wrist.

“She said she was waiting for me in Heaven.”

Micaiah shook his head. Tears cut down his face.

“No,” he said. “Dee, you have to stay with me.”

Her fingers moved against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry. I tried to fight back.”

She was crying now. Tears cut pale tracks through the grime on her face.

“I know you did.”

He leaned closer. His forehead touched hers. Her breath smelled like rot and something else. Something sweet underneath. Like flowers left too long in water.

Then her eyes changed.

Her fingers found his wrist. Squeezed. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. Stronger than anything that thin had any right to produce.

Like a switch flipped behind her pupils. The warmth drained out of them. Her grip changed.

Her fingers curled into his skin like hooks. Her whole body went rigid against his chest. Her back arched.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then her head snapped forward.

Her face was inches from his. Her mouth opened. Her jaw unhinged like a python. The smell coming off her was no longer sweet. It was the smell of Gavrillo's bedroom. Ozone and burnt sugar and old blood.

When she spoke, the voice was not hers.

It was not one voice.

It was many.

And they were laughing.

“Ádis kaí Apóleia ouk empímplantai.” Death and Destruction are never satisfied.

Her belly moved.

Something inside her rolled against the skin, searching.

“Mara, run!” Micaiah screamed.

Mara stared at him, frozen.

“Run!”

Deena’s stomach split.

The sound was worse than the sight.

A hard tearing, like wet cloth pulled apart by hands.

Micaiah felt heat first. Then pressure. Then pain so complete it erased his existence.

Something ripped out of Deena and tore right through him.

Not past him.

Through him.

A limb. A horn. A hooked piece of living bone. He could not tell. It punched under his ribs and out his back, lifting him against Deena’s body like they had been nailed together.

Micaiah looked down.

His blood was on her.

Her blood was on him.

Between them, something pale and slick pushed free from her open belly. Too many eyes blinked in the mess. A small mouth opened and closed without sound. Tiny hands gripped the torn edges of Deena’s skin and pulled itself farther out.

Deena was still alive.

So was Micaiah.

For one second, they looked at each other.

Her eyes were hers again.

She was crying.

"I love you, big bro..." she mouthed.

Micaiah tried to answer.

Blood filled his throat.

His pistol slipped from his hand.

Mara crawled toward them anyway.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—”

Deena’s back arched so hard her spine cracked against the floor.

Two hard points pushed up beneath her shirt, stretching the fabric until it tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards as something black and wet forced its way out of her back.

Wings.

Bat-like. Veined. Too large for her body.

They unfolded with a sound like umbrellas opening inside raw meat.

Then the wings started flapping.

They beat against the walls, the bedframe, the ceiling, knocking pictures loose and splattering blood in wide, horrible arcs.

The force knocked Mara backward into the dresser. Wood cracked. Glass rained down from the mirror.

Deena’s arms tightened around Micaiah one last time.

Not the demon.

Her.

A hug.

A goodbye.

Micaiah’s body jerked against hers. Something inside him gave way. His legs stopped working. His vision narrowed to Deena’s face. Her eyes fixed on him with terror and love.

Micaiah and Deena were impaled and tangled together, brother and sister locked chest to chest in blood.

Mara screamed until her voice broke.

Then Mara saw Micaiah’s head lift.

Not by itself.

Something behind his jaw pulled it up. His mouth opened, loose and wrong, blood spilling over his teeth. His eyes were empty.

The abomination forced itself out through both of them, wearing their torn bodies like the remains of a birth sac. Micaiah’s dead face twitched into a smile that did not fit him.

Then it spoke mockingly in Micaiah’s voice.

“Igérthi.”

He has risen.

The thing laughed with his mouth as it climbed free.

The thing turned its head toward Mara.

And smiled.

Mara could not move.

Her back was against the broken dresser. Splinters pressed through the sweatshirt into her skin. Mirror glass covered her lap and hands. She could feel blood running down her neck from where one shard had cut her, but the pain was small and far away.

Mara sobbed.

The thing breathed.

Its chest opened and closed like an open wound. Wet skin stretched over bones that kept shifting under it. Wings dragged across the floor behind it, leaving red arcs in the carpet. Its head was too large for its body. Its mouth was too small until it opened.

Then it was all mouth.

Rows of tiny teeth.

A sound came out of it.

A baby’s cooing.

Mara’s bladder let go.

She barely noticed.

The thing stepped toward her, dragging Micaiah and Deena’ corpses with it for one horrible second before the limb pulled free.

The thing shook itself. Blood sprayed the wall, the bed, Mara’s face. Then it started crawling towards her.

Its wings folded tight against its back. Its little hands slapped wetly against the carpet. Its knees bent backward, then forward, then backward again as if it had not decided what shape it wanted to keep. Each movement made a clicking sound inside its body.

The thing saw her terror.

Its head tilted.

The laughter came again, soft and pleased.

Mara scrambled sideways.

Her palm landed on glass. It cut deep. She screamed and kept moving. The thing lunged.

She threw herself flat. It hit the dresser above her and punched through the wood with both hands. Drawers burst open. Clothes and splinters flew over her. The mirror frame collapsed and struck the thing across the back.

It did not care.

Mara crawled on her elbows.

Her hand slipped in Nathan’s blood.

His body lay near the doorway where he had fallen. One arm bent under him. His jacket was open. His face was turned toward the room, eyes half-lidded, mouth dark with blood.

His pistol was on the carpet beside the wall.

Mara saw it.

The thing screamed behind her with hunger.

She crawled faster.

Her knees slid in blood. Her fingers clawed at the carpet. The pistol was six feet away. Then four. Then two.

The thing landed on her back.

The weight drove the air out of her.

Its hands grabbed her shoulders. The fingers were small, almost like a child’s, but they went in deep. Nails punched through the sweatshirt and into meat.

Mara screamed into the carpet.

Its mouth pressed against the side of her head.

Hot breath filled her ear.

Then she reached the gun.

Her fingers hit the grip.

The thing bit off a chunk her ear.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes. She screamed and rolled hard onto her back, bringing the pistol up between them.

The thing sat on her chest.

Its face was inches from hers.

Up close, she saw all of it. The eyes were not eyes. They were holes with red light moving at the bottom. Its lips were thin and gray. Its gums were black. A string of tissue still hung from its bellybutton, trailing back toward Deena’s body.

It opened its mouth.

Mara shoved the pistol into it.

The thing froze.

For one second, everything stopped.

Mara’s hands shook so badly the barrel clicked against its teeth.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot blew the back of its head open.

Not cleanly.

The skull split like wet plaster. Black fluid and pale fragments hit the ceiling. One eye popped loose and slid down Mara’s cheek. The thing’s mouth clamped once around the barrel, hard enough to scrape metal. Then it went limp.

Its body collapsed onto her.

Mara fired again.

And again.

And again.

The last shot went through the thing’s face and into the floor beside her head.

Then the gun clicked empty.

Mara kept pulling the trigger anyway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She shoved the corpse off her chest with both hands. It rolled onto its side, leaking black blood and something thicker. Its wings trembled once. Its little fingers curled inward.

Then it was still.

Mara lay there gasping.

The room stank of blood, feces, urine.

She sat up slowly.

Somewhere in the apartment, a worship song began playing again from the broken speaker.

Tinny.

Distorted.

Almost unrecognizable.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free

My God, My Savior has rescued me

“Jesus help me,” she choked.

Part 1

Part 2

Micaiah was out of the truck before Nathan had fully stopped.

The tires jumped the curb outside the apartment complex. Nathan killed the engine and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and rainwater. His boots hit each step hard enough to echo. Behind him, Nathan followed slower, heavier, still carrying the same silence from the truck.

Micaiah reached the third floor and turned the corner.

Mara stood outside Deena’s room.

She was barefoot. Her hair had come loose. One sleeve of her sweatshirt was wet near the wrist. At first Micaiah thought it was water.

Then he saw the blood.

“Mara.”

She looked at him and nearly collapsed.

He caught her before she hit the wall.

“I only stepped out for a minute,” she said.

Her voice came too fast.

“What happened?”

“I went downstairs for bandages. The first aid kit in the room was empty. She tore the old ones off. She was bleeding again, and I thought—” Mara pressed both hands against her mouth. “I thought she was sleeping. Told myself I’d be right back.”

Micaiah looked past her.

From inside came a sound.

A wet, strained choking sound.

Micaiah’s blood went cold.

He moved to the door and hit it with his fist.

“Deena!” he shouted.

The sound stopped.

For one second there was only silence.

Then something scraped against the floor.

Mara stood behind him, crying without sound.

Micaiah tried the handle. It didn’t move.

Deena had wedged it shut.

Probably barricaded with a chair.

He hit the door again.

“Dee. It’s Mickey. Open the door.”

Something thumped against the wall inside.

Then the choking started again.

Nathan hit the door with the butt of his shotgun.

The wood shook in the frame but held.

Micaiah stepped back, lifted his boot, and drove it into the space beside the lock.

The wood split.

Nathan hit it again with his shoulder. The chair on the other side scraped hard across the floor, then toppled. The door burst inward.

Micaiah went in first.

For half a second, he did not understand what he was seeing.

Deena hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted bedsheet.

Her toes scraped weakly against the floor.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She was still alive.

“Mara!” Micaiah shouted.

Mara screamed and ran past him.

The ceiling fan groaned under Deena’s weight. The sheet had cut deep into her neck. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were half open but unfocused.

Micaiah dropped his rifle and grabbed her legs, lifting her to take the weight off her throat.

“I’ve got her,” he said. “Untie it!”

Deena’s eyes rolled toward him.

“Mickey…”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Her swollen lips barely moved.

“It,” she croaked. “It has to be stopped.”

His arms burned from holding Deena up. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was on the bed, fingers slick with sweat and blood, trying to work the knot loose.

“It’s too tight,” she said.

“Knife,” Micaiah said. “Nathan, knife!”

No answer.

“Nate!”

Micaiah looked back.

Nathan stood just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

The same look from the bedroom. The one Micaiah had seen right before he raised the shotgun at the woman. The old Nathan bleeding through the new one like poison through a cracked cup.

“Nate,” Micaiah snapped. “For Godsake help me!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on Deena.

His lips moved.

“You saw the ultrasounds… There’s only one way to stop this.”

Micaiah felt the room drop out from under him.

He watched Nathan's right hand drift toward his shoulder. Toward the holster. Toward the pistol pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket.

Nathan drew halfway.

Micaiah let go of Deena with one hand and reached for his own pistol with his other.

Nathan looked at him then.

For one second, he was his brother again.

Tired. Broken. Certain he was doing the only thing left.

Deena’s eyes found Nathan.

“Nate,” she rasped.

Nathan’s hand tightened around the pistol.

Mara climbed down from the bed, shaking her head. “No. No, don’t you dare.”

Deena’s lips trembled. Blood ran from the sheet-burn around her throat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shoot me.”

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “Move out of the way.”

“Nate,” Micaiah said. “Please don’t make me choose between you and Deena.”

Nathan's hand kept moving, ignoring his brother’s plea.

Micaiah saw it happen in pieces. The way Nathan's fingers curled around the grip. The way his shoulder dipped slightly, muscle memory from a thousand draws in empty lots and shooting ranges. The way his eyes went had that resigned look. Like he had already done the math and decided the only answer left was one Micaiah would never accept.

Time didn't slow down.

That was a lie that movies told.

Time stayed exactly the same. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.

Micaiah's hand crossed his body, reaching for the pistol that sat low on his thigh, angled forward, exactly where he had trained it a thousand times.

Nathan's pistol cleared leather first.

Micaiah saw the muzzle rise.

Then his own hand caught up.

Micaiah didn’t aim.

There wasn’t time.

He fired from the hip.

The pistol bucked once in his hand, loud enough to split the room open. Nathan’s body jerked like he’d been yanked backward by a rope. The round hit him square in the chest, punching him off balance and slamming him into the doorframe.

Nathan's pistol fired.

The shot went wide. Past Micaiah's ear. Into the wall behind him. Plaster cracked. Something shattered in the living room.

For half a second, Nathan just stared at Micaiah, more shocked than hurt.

Then his knees gave out. His pistol clattered to the floor.

Micaiah caught Deena’s weight again before she dropped.

“Nate,” he whispered.

Nathan slid down the wall, one bloody hand pressed to his chest, eyes locked on his brother like he still couldn’t believe Micaiah had actually done it.

Micaiah stood frozen.

The pistol was still trained on his brother with one hand. The front sight trembled over Nathan's body.

"Mickey!" Mara screamed.

He didn't hear her.

Nathan was on his back. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Blood bubbled between his lips.

Micaiah came back into himself all at once.

Deena was still hanging.

Her legs kicked weakly against his arms. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was still on the bed, fighting the knot with shaking fingers.

For one second, Micaiah could not move.

Then Deena made a thin choking sound.

“Mara,” he said.

His voice sounded far away.

Mara looked at him, wild-eyed.

“Get Nathan’s knife.”

“What?”

“His knife,” Micaiah said. “On his belt. Get it now.”

Mara stared down at Nathan’s body like she had not understood he was real until that moment.

“Mara!”

She flinched, then scrambled off the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Nathan's body and rolled him toward her with both hands. Blood smeared across her palms. She sobbed once but kept searching.

“I can’t find it.”

“Left side,” Micaiah said. “Inside the jacket.”

Mara shoved her hand beneath Nathan’s body. Her fingers slipped against the wet fabric. She gagged, then forced herself to keep going.

Nathan’s lifeless eyes were wide open.

For one awful second, Mara looked at his face.

Then she found the knife.

“I have it.”

“Cut her down.”

Mara climbed back onto the bed. She opened the blade with both hands and sawed at the sheet above Deena’s neck.

The fabric stretched.

Then snapped.

Deena dropped.

Micaiah caught her badly. Her weight hit him in the chest and drove him to one knee. He lowered her to the floor as gently as he could.

“Deena,” he said. “Breathe. Come on. Breathe.”

Her throat worked.

Nothing happened.

Mara bent over her and tried to loosen what remained of the sheet. Micaiah pulled it away from the deep red line around Deena’s neck.

Deena sucked in one breath.

Then another.

Mara laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s breathing.”

Micaiah pressed his forehead to Deena’s.

“Thank You,” he whispered. “Thank You, Lord.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened. Her eyes found his.

For one second—one clean, impossible second—she was there. His sister. The girl who ‘borrowed’ his hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who learned to drive stick shift in a church parking lot because she refused to let their Jeep go to scrap because it was the only thing their deadbeat Wasian dad left them.

“Mickey?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I heard Mom,” she whispered. “When it was dark. I saw her…”

Micaiah could not breathe.

Deena’s hand closed weakly around his wrist.

“She said she was waiting for me in Heaven.”

Micaiah shook his head. Tears cut down his face.

“No,” he said. “Dee, you have to stay with me.”

Her fingers moved against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry. I tried to fight back.”

She was crying now. Tears cut pale tracks through the grime on her face.

“I know you did.”

He leaned closer. His forehead touched hers. Her breath smelled like rot and something else. Something sweet underneath. Like flowers left too long in water.

Then her eyes changed.

Her fingers found his wrist. Squeezed. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. Stronger than anything that thin had any right to produce.

Like a switch flipped behind her pupils. The warmth drained out of them. Her grip changed.

Her fingers curled into his skin like hooks. Her whole body went rigid against his chest. Her back arched.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then her head snapped forward.

Her face was inches from his. Her mouth opened. Her jaw unhinged like a python. The smell coming off her was no longer sweet. It was the smell of Gavrillo's bedroom. Ozone and burnt sugar and old blood.

When she spoke, the voice was not hers.

It was not one voice.

It was many.

And they were laughing.

“Ádis kaí Apóleia ouk empímplantai.” Death and Destruction are never satisfied.

Her belly moved.

Something inside her rolled against the skin, searching.

“Mara, run!” Micaiah screamed.

Mara stared at him, frozen.

“Run!”

Deena’s stomach split.

The sound was worse than the sight.

A hard tearing, like wet cloth pulled apart by hands.

Micaiah felt heat first. Then pressure. Then pain so complete it erased his existence.

Something ripped out of Deena and tore right through him.

Not past him.

Through him.

A limb. A horn. A hooked piece of living bone. He could not tell. It punched under his ribs and out his back, lifting him against Deena’s body like they had been nailed together.

Micaiah looked down.

His blood was on her.

Her blood was on him.

Between them, something pale and slick pushed free from her open belly. Too many eyes blinked in the mess. A small mouth opened and closed without sound. Tiny hands gripped the torn edges of Deena’s skin and pulled itself farther out.

Deena was still alive.

So was Micaiah.

For one second, they looked at each other.

Her eyes were hers again.

She was crying.

"I love you, big bro..." she mouthed.

Micaiah tried to answer.

Blood filled his throat.

His pistol slipped from his hand.

Mara crawled toward them anyway.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—”

Deena’s back arched so hard her spine cracked against the floor.

Two hard points pushed up beneath her shirt, stretching the fabric until it tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards as something black and wet forced its way out of her back.

Wings.

Bat-like. Veined. Too large for her body.

They unfolded with a sound like umbrellas opening inside raw meat.

Then the wings started flapping.

They beat against the walls, the bedframe, the ceiling, knocking pictures loose and splattering blood in wide, horrible arcs.

The force knocked Mara backward into the dresser. Wood cracked. Glass rained down from the mirror.

Deena’s arms tightened around Micaiah one last time.

Not the demon.

Her.

A hug.

A goodbye.

Micaiah’s body jerked against hers. Something inside him gave way. His legs stopped working. His vision narrowed to Deena’s face. Her eyes fixed on him with terror and love.

Micaiah and Deena were impaled and tangled together, brother and sister locked chest to chest in blood.

Mara screamed until her voice broke.

Then Mara saw Micaiah’s head lift.

Not by itself.

Something behind his jaw pulled it up. His mouth opened, loose and wrong, blood spilling over his teeth. His eyes were empty.

The abomination forced itself out through both of them, wearing their torn bodies like the remains of a birth sac. Micaiah’s dead face twitched into a smile that did not fit him.

Then it spoke mockingly in Micaiah’s voice.

“Igérthi.”

He has risen.

The thing laughed with his mouth as it climbed free.

The thing turned its head toward Mara.

And smiled.

Mara could not move.

Her back was against the broken dresser. Splinters pressed through the sweatshirt into her skin. Mirror glass covered her lap and hands. She could feel blood running down her neck from where one shard had cut her, but the pain was small and far away.

Mara sobbed.

The thing breathed.

Its chest opened and closed like an open wound. Wet skin stretched over bones that kept shifting under it. Wings dragged across the floor behind it, leaving red arcs in the carpet. Its head was too large for its body. Its mouth was too small until it opened.

Then it was all mouth.

Rows of tiny teeth.

A sound came out of it.

A baby’s cooing.

Mara’s bladder let go.

She barely noticed.

The thing stepped toward her, dragging Micaiah and Deena’ corpses with it for one horrible second before the limb pulled free.

The thing shook itself. Blood sprayed the wall, the bed, Mara’s face. Then it started crawling towards her.

Its wings folded tight against its back. Its little hands slapped wetly against the carpet. Its knees bent backward, then forward, then backward again as if it had not decided what shape it wanted to keep. Each movement made a clicking sound inside its body.

The thing saw her terror.

Its head tilted.

The laughter came again, soft and pleased.

Mara scrambled sideways.

Her palm landed on glass. It cut deep. She screamed and kept moving. The thing lunged.

She threw herself flat. It hit the dresser above her and punched through the wood with both hands. Drawers burst open. Clothes and splinters flew over her. The mirror frame collapsed and struck the thing across the back.

It did not care.

Mara crawled on her elbows.

Her hand slipped in Nathan’s blood.

His body lay near the doorway where he had fallen. One arm bent under him. His jacket was open. His face was turned toward the room, eyes half-lidded, mouth dark with blood.

His pistol was on the carpet beside the wall.

Mara saw it.

The thing screamed behind her with hunger.

She crawled faster.

Her knees slid in blood. Her fingers clawed at the carpet. The pistol was six feet away. Then four. Then two.

The thing landed on her back.

The weight drove the air out of her.

Its hands grabbed her shoulders. The fingers were small, almost like a child’s, but they went in deep. Nails punched through the sweatshirt and into meat.

Mara screamed into the carpet.

Its mouth pressed against the side of her head.

Hot breath filled her ear.

Then she reached the gun.

Her fingers hit the grip.

The thing bit off a chunk her ear.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes. She screamed and rolled hard onto her back, bringing the pistol up between them.

The thing sat on her chest.

Its face was inches from hers.

Up close, she saw all of it. The eyes were not eyes. They were holes with red light moving at the bottom. Its lips were thin and gray. Its gums were black. A string of tissue still hung from its bellybutton, trailing back toward Deena’s body.

It opened its mouth.

Mara shoved the pistol into it.

The thing froze.

For one second, everything stopped.

Mara’s hands shook so badly the barrel clicked against its teeth.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot blew the back of its head open.

Not cleanly.

The skull split like wet plaster. Black fluid and pale fragments hit the ceiling. One eye popped loose and slid down Mara’s cheek. The thing’s mouth clamped once around the barrel, hard enough to scrape metal. Then it went limp.

Its body collapsed onto her.

Mara fired again.

And again.

And again.

The last shot went through the thing’s face and into the floor beside her head.

Then the gun clicked empty.

Mara kept pulling the trigger anyway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She shoved the corpse off her chest with both hands. It rolled onto its side, leaking black blood and something thicker. Its wings trembled once. Its little fingers curled inward.

Then it was still.

Mara lay there gasping.

The room stank of blood, feces, urine.

She sat up slowly.

Somewhere in the apartment, a worship song began playing again from the broken speaker.

Tinny.

Distorted.

Almost unrecognizable.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free

My God, My Savior has rescued me

“Jesus help me,” she choked.

Part 1

Part 2

Micaiah was out of the truck before Nathan had fully stopped.

The tires jumped the curb outside the apartment complex. Nathan killed the engine and grabbed the shotgun from the back seat.

The stairwell smelled like old paint and rainwater. His boots hit each step hard enough to echo. Behind him, Nathan followed slower, heavier, still carrying the same silence from the truck.

Micaiah reached the third floor and turned the corner.

Mara stood outside Deena’s room.

She was barefoot. Her hair had come loose. One sleeve of her sweatshirt was wet near the wrist. At first Micaiah thought it was water.

Then he saw the blood.

“Mara.”

She looked at him and nearly collapsed.

He caught her before she hit the wall.

“I only stepped out for a minute,” she said.

Her voice came too fast.

“What happened?”

“I went downstairs for bandages. The first aid kit in the room was empty. She tore the old ones off. She was bleeding again, and I thought—” Mara pressed both hands against her mouth. “I thought she was sleeping. Told myself I’d be right back.”

Micaiah looked past her.

From inside came a sound.

A wet, strained choking sound.

Micaiah’s blood went cold.

He moved to the door and hit it with his fist.

“Deena!” he shouted.

The sound stopped.

For one second there was only silence.

Then something scraped against the floor.

Mara stood behind him, crying without sound.

Micaiah tried the handle. It didn’t move.

Deena had wedged it shut.

Probably barricaded with a chair.

He hit the door again.

“Dee. It’s Mickey. Open the door.”

Something thumped against the wall inside.

Then the choking started again.

Nathan hit the door with the butt of his shotgun.

The wood shook in the frame but held.

Micaiah stepped back, lifted his boot, and drove it into the space beside the lock.

The wood split.

Nathan hit it again with his shoulder. The chair on the other side scraped hard across the floor, then toppled. The door burst inward.

Micaiah went in first.

For half a second, he did not understand what he was seeing.

Deena hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted bedsheet.

Her toes scraped weakly against the floor.

Her hands twitched at her sides.

She was still alive.

The ceiling fan groaned under Deena’s weight. The sheet had cut deep into her neck. Her face was swollen. Her eyes were half open but unfocused.

Micaiah dropped his rifle and grabbed her legs, lifting her to take the weight off her throat.

“I’ve got her,” he said. “Untie it!”

Deena’s eyes rolled toward him.

“Mickey…”

“I’ve got you,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Her swollen lips barely moved.

Micaiah felt it before he understood the words.

The thing inside Deena pushed back against his hands. A hard, living pressure under the skin, forcing outward through her stomach and ribs. Her mouth opened wide, and for one terrible second Micaiah saw something black moving behind her tongue.

“Don’t let it out!” She croaked.

His arms burned from holding Deena up. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was on the bed, fingers slick with sweat and blood, trying to work the knot loose.

“It’s too tight,” she said.

“Knife,” Micaiah said. “Nathan, knife!”

No answer.

“Nate!”

Micaiah looked back.

Nathan stood just inside the doorway.

He hadn’t moved.

The same look from the bedroom. The one Micaiah had seen right before he raised the shotgun at the woman. The old Nathan bleeding through the new one like poison through a cracked cup.

“Nate,” Micaiah snapped. “For God's sake help me!”

Nathan’s eyes stayed on Deena.

His lips moved.

“There’s only one way to stop this...”

Micaiah felt the room drop out from under him.

He watched Nathan's right hand drift toward his shoulder. Toward the holster. Toward the pistol pressed against his ribs beneath the jacket.

Nathan drew halfway.

Micaiah let go of Deena with one hand and reached for his own pistol with his other.

Nathan looked at him then.

For one second, he was his brother again.

Tired. Broken. Certain he was doing the only thing left.

Deena’s eyes found Nathan.

“Nate,” she rasped.

Nathan’s hand tightened around the pistol.

Mara climbed down from the bed, shaking her head. “No. No, don’t you dare.”

Deena’s lips trembled. Blood ran from the sheet-burn around her throat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Shoot me.”

“Mickey,” Nathan said. “Move out of the way.”

“Nate,” Micaiah said. “Please don’t make me choose between you and Deena.”

Nathan's hand kept moving, ignoring his brother’s plea.

Micaiah saw it happen in pieces. The way Nathan's fingers curled around the grip. The way his shoulder dipped slightly, muscle memory from a thousand draws in empty lots and shooting ranges. The way his eyes went had that resigned look. Like he had already done the math and decided the only answer left was one Micaiah would never accept.

Time didn't slow down.

That was a lie that movies told.

Time stayed exactly the same. Fast. Brutal. Merciless.

Micaiah's hand crossed his body, reaching for the pistol that sat low on his thigh, angled forward, exactly where he had trained it a thousand times.

Nathan's pistol cleared leather first.

Micaiah saw the muzzle rise.

Then his own hand caught up.

Micaiah didn’t aim.

There wasn’t time.

He fired from the hip.

The pistol bucked once in his hand, loud enough to split the room open. Nathan’s body jerked like he’d been yanked backward by a rope. The round hit him square in the chest, punching him off balance and slamming him into the doorframe.

Nathan's pistol fired.

The shot went wide. Past Micaiah's ear. Into the wall behind him. Plaster cracked. Something shattered in the living room.

For half a second, Nathan just stared at Micaiah, more shocked than hurt.

Then his knees gave out. His pistol clattered to the floor.

Micaiah caught Deena’s weight again before she dropped.

“Nate,” he whispered.

Nathan slid down the wall, one bloody hand pressed to his chest, eyes locked on his brother like he still couldn’t believe Micaiah had actually done it.

Micaiah stood frozen.

The pistol was still trained on his brother with one hand. The front sight trembled over Nathan's body.

"Mickey!" Mara screamed.

He didn't hear her.

Nathan was on his back. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Blood bubbled between his lips.

Micaiah came back into himself all at once.

Deena was still hanging.

Her legs kicked weakly against his arms. The sheet was still tight around her throat. Mara was still on the bed, fighting the knot with shaking fingers.

For one second, Micaiah could not move.

Then Deena made a thin choking sound.

“Mara,” he said.

His voice sounded far away.

Mara looked at him, wild-eyed.

“Get Nathan’s knife.”

“What?”

“His knife,” Micaiah said. “On his belt. Get it now.”

Mara stared down at Nathan’s body like she had not understood he was real until that moment.

“Mara!”

She flinched, then scrambled off the bed. She dropped to her knees beside Nathan's body and rolled him toward her with both hands. Blood smeared across her palms. She sobbed once but kept searching.

“I can’t find it.”

“Left side,” Micaiah said. “Inside the jacket.”

Mara shoved her hand beneath Nathan’s body. Her fingers slipped against the wet fabric. She gagged, then forced herself to keep going.

Nathan’s lifeless eyes were wide open.

For one awful second, Mara looked at his face.

Then she found the knife.

“I have it.”

“Cut her down.”

Mara climbed back onto the bed. She opened the blade with both hands and sawed at the sheet above Deena’s neck.

The fabric stretched.

Then snapped.

Deena dropped.

Micaiah caught her badly. Her weight hit him in the chest and drove him to one knee. He lowered her to the floor as gently as he could.

“Deena,” he said. “Breathe. Come on. Breathe.”

Her throat worked.

Nothing happened.

Mara bent over her and tried to loosen what remained of the sheet. Micaiah pulled it away from the deep red line around Deena’s neck.

Deena sucked in one breath.

Then another.

Mara laughed and cried at the same time.

“She’s breathing.”

Micaiah pressed his forehead to Deena’s.

“Thank You,” he whispered. “Thank You, Lord.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

Then opened. Her eyes found his.

For one second—one clean, impossible second—she was there. His sister. The girl who ‘borrowed’ his hoodies and never gave them back. The girl who learned to drive stick shift in a church parking lot because she refused to let their Jeep go to scrap because it was the only thing their deadbeat Wasian dad left them.

“Mickey?” she whispered.

“I’m here.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“I heard Mom,” she whispered. “When it was dark. I saw her…”

Micaiah could not breathe.

Deena’s hand closed weakly around his wrist.

“She said she was waiting for me in Heaven.”

Micaiah shook his head. Tears cut down his face.

“No,” he said. “Dee, you have to stay with me.”

Her fingers moved against his sleeve.

“I’m sorry. I tried to fight back.”

She was crying now. Tears cut pale tracks through the grime on her face.

“I know you did.”

He leaned closer. His forehead touched hers. Her breath smelled like rot and something else. Something sweet underneath. Like flowers left too long in water.

Then her eyes changed.

Her fingers found his wrist. Squeezed. Her grip was stronger than it should have been. Stronger than anything that thin had any right to produce.

Like a switch flipped behind her pupils. The warmth drained out of them. Her grip changed.

Her fingers curled into his skin like hooks. Her whole body went rigid against his chest. Her back arched.

Her eyes rolled back.

Then her head snapped forward.

Her face was inches from his. Her mouth opened. Her jaw unhinged like a python. The smell coming off her was no longer sweet. It was the smell of Gavrillo's bedroom. Ozone and burnt sugar and old blood.

When she spoke, the voice was not hers.

It was not one voice.

It was many.

And they were laughing.

“Ádis kaí Apóleia ouk empímplantai.” Death and Destruction are never satisfied.

Her belly moved.

Something inside her rolled against the skin, searching.

“Mara, run!” Micaiah screamed.

Mara stared at him, frozen.

“Run!”

Deena’s stomach split.

The sound was worse than the sight.

A hard tearing, like wet cloth pulled apart by hands.

Micaiah felt heat first. Then pressure. Then pain so complete it erased his existence.

Something ripped out of Deena and tore right through him.

Not past him.

Through him.

A limb. A horn. A hooked piece of living bone. He could not tell. It punched under his ribs and out his back, lifting him against Deena’s body like they had been nailed together.

Micaiah looked down.

His blood was on her.

Her blood was on him.

Between them, something pale and slick pushed free from her open belly. Too many eyes blinked in the mess. A small mouth opened and closed without sound. Tiny hands gripped the torn edges of Deena’s skin and pulled itself farther out.

Deena was still alive.

So was Micaiah.

For one second, they looked at each other.

Her eyes were hers again.

She was crying.

"I love you, big bro..." she mouthed.

Micaiah tried to answer.

Blood filled his throat.

His pistol slipped from his hand.

Mara crawled toward them anyway.

“No,” she sobbed. “No, no, no—”

Deena’s back arched so hard her spine cracked against the floor.

Two hard points pushed up beneath her shirt, stretching the fabric until it tore. Blood sprayed across the floorboards as something black and wet forced its way out of her back.

Wings.

Bat-like. Veined. Too large for her body.

They unfolded with a sound like umbrellas opening inside raw meat.

Then the wings started flapping.

They beat against the walls, the bedframe, the ceiling, knocking pictures loose and splattering blood in wide, horrible arcs.

The force knocked Mara backward into the dresser. Wood cracked. Glass rained down from the mirror.

Deena’s arms tightened around Micaiah one last time.

Not the demon.

Her.

A hug.

A goodbye.

Micaiah’s body jerked against hers. Something inside him gave way. His legs stopped working. His vision narrowed to Deena’s face. Her eyes fixed on him with terror and love.

Micaiah and Deena were impaled and tangled together, brother and sister locked chest to chest in blood.

Mara screamed until her voice broke.

Then Mara saw Micaiah’s head lift.

Not by itself.

Something behind his jaw pulled it up. His mouth opened, loose and wrong, blood spilling over his teeth. His eyes were empty.

The abomination forced itself out through both of them, wearing their torn bodies like the remains of a birth sac. Micaiah’s dead face twitched into a smile that did not fit him.

Then it spoke mockingly in Micaiah’s voice.

“Igérthi.”

He has risen.

The thing laughed with his mouth as it climbed free.

The thing turned its head toward Mara.

And smiled.

Mara could not move.

Her back was against the broken dresser. Splinters pressed through the sweatshirt into her skin. Mirror glass covered her lap and hands. She could feel blood running down her neck from where one shard had cut her, but the pain was small and far away.

Mara sobbed.

The thing breathed.

Its chest opened and closed like an open wound. Wet skin stretched over bones that kept shifting under it. Wings dragged across the floor behind it, leaving red arcs in the carpet. Its head was too large for its body. Its mouth was too small until it opened.

Then it was all mouth.

Rows of tiny teeth.

A sound came out of it.

A baby’s cooing.

Mara’s bladder let go.

She barely noticed.

The thing stepped toward her, dragging Micaiah and Deena’s corpses with it for one horrible second before the limb pulled free.

The thing shook itself. Blood sprayed the wall, the bed, Mara’s face. Then it started crawling towards her.

Its wings folded tight against its back. Its little hands slapped wetly against the carpet. Its knees bent backward, then forward, then backward again as if it had not decided what shape it wanted to keep. Each movement made a clicking sound inside its body.

The thing saw her terror.

Its head tilted.

The laughter came again, soft and pleased.

Mara scrambled sideways.

Her palm landed on glass. It cut deep. She screamed and kept moving. The thing lunged.

She threw herself flat. It hit the dresser above her and punched through the wood with both hands. Drawers burst open. Clothes and splinters flew over her. The mirror frame collapsed and struck the thing across the back.

It did not care.

Mara crawled on her elbows.

Her hand slipped in Nathan’s blood.

His body lay near the doorway where he had fallen. One arm bent under him. His jacket was open. His face was turned toward the room, eyes half-lidded, mouth dark with blood.

His pistol was on the carpet beside the wall.

Mara saw it.

The thing screamed behind her with hunger.

She crawled faster.

Her knees slid in blood. Her fingers clawed at the carpet. The pistol was six feet away. Then four. Then two.

The thing landed on her back.

The weight drove the air out of her.

Its hands grabbed her shoulders. The fingers were small, almost like a child’s, but they went in deep. Nails punched through the sweatshirt and into meat.

Mara screamed into the carpet.

Its mouth pressed against the side of her head.

Hot breath filled her ear.

Then she reached the gun.

Her fingers hit the grip.

The thing bit off a chunk of her ear.

Not all of it.

Enough.

Pain flashed white behind her eyes. She screamed and rolled hard onto her back, bringing the pistol up between them.

The thing sat on her chest.

Its face was inches from hers.

Up close, she saw all of it. The eyes were not eyes. They were holes with red light moving at the bottom. Its lips were thin and gray. Its gums were black. A string of tissue still hung from its bellybutton, trailing back toward Deena’s body.

It opened its mouth.

Mara shoved the pistol into it.

The thing froze.

For one second, everything stopped.

Mara’s hands shook so badly the barrel clicked against its teeth.

She pulled the trigger.

The shot blew the back of its head open.

Not cleanly.

The skull split like wet plaster. Black fluid and pale fragments hit the ceiling. One eye popped loose and slid down Mara’s cheek. The thing’s mouth clamped once around the barrel, hard enough to scrape metal. Then it went limp.

Its body collapsed onto her.

Mara fired again.

And again.

And again.

The last shot went through the thing’s face and into the floor beside her head.

Then the gun clicked empty.

Mara kept pulling the trigger anyway.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She shoved the corpse off her chest with both hands. It rolled onto its side, leaking black blood and something thicker. Its wings trembled once. Its little fingers curled inward.

Then it was still.

Mara lie there gasping.

The room stank of blood, feces, urine.

Mara pushed herself upright with shaking arms.

All around her, she was surrounded by the mutilated corpses of everyone she loved.

Somewhere in the apartment, a worship song began playing again from the broken speaker.

Tinny.

Distorted.

Almost unrecognizable.

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free

My God, My Savior has rescued me

“Jesus help me,” Mara choked.