The Horrible Thing That Slipped Through My Window One Night
It was almost a half hour after he'd heard the strange corpse that had visited his window exit the house before he decided to get back on his feet. His heart was still pounding furiously and his guts were still squirming like greasy snakes, but he found that his legs were solid enough to support all two-hundred pounds of him. He picked up the hockey stick and held it; he still didn't feel safe. It seemed to Tom as though he had just survived some terrible hurricane by waiting it out in the only safe-room, and he knew that in a way, he had. He slowly made his way back up the stairs.
Standing in the kitchen, with his flashlight in one hand and the stick in the other, Tom could see the disgusting story of the thing's slow search. By the dim light, he could see black footprints, most of them accompanied by small hunks of rotten flesh, passing through the kitchen in a straight line. He didn't want to follow them (almost every fiber of his being resented the very idea), but he had to. He had to make sure the thing was really gone.
He made his way into the far hall, and then past the family room, always moving his eyes first to the filthy outlines of feet (which he was trying to avoid stepping on), and then quickly back up. The smell of shit, piss, and death all hung suspended in the air, like invisible brown, yellow, and black banners, respectively. He moved past the staircase, and into the entrance room.
When he shined the flashlight at the door, he felt his breath catch in his throat. He understood two things immediately. The first was that the thing was a lot more clever, a lot more sneaky, than he had suspected. The second was that the thing was also still in the house.
Below the doorknob leading outside, which was corroded with white shreds of skin, were more slimy footprints. One line of them led to it, and one line led away, into the -
Standing in the kitchen, with his flashlight in one hand and the stick in the other, Tom could see the disgusting story of the thing's slow search. By the dim light, he could see black footprints, most of them accompanied by small hunks of rotten flesh, passing through the kitchen in a straight line. He didn't want to follow them (almost every fiber of his being resented the very idea), but he had to. He had to make sure the thing was really gone.
He made his way into the far hall, and then past the family room, always moving his eyes first to the filthy outlines of feet (which he was trying to avoid stepping on), and then quickly back up. The smell of shit, piss, and death all hung suspended in the air, like invisible brown, yellow, and black banners, respectively. He moved past the staircase, and into the entrance room.
When he shined the flashlight at the door, he felt his breath catch in his throat. He understood two things immediately. The first was that the thing was a lot more clever, a lot more sneaky, than he had suspected. The second was that the thing was also still in the house.
Below the doorknob leading outside, which was corroded with white shreds of skin, were more slimy footprints. One line of them led to it, and one line led away, into the -