The Horrible Thing That Slipped Through My Window One Night
Tom saw the handle of the laundry room door twist and swing open in one quick, liquid movement. Before he could even register what was happening, two plump, watery hands reached out and clamped down on the area between his neck and shoulders. The muscles in those hands were weak, ruined things, but the bony fingers dug wildly into his trapezius all the same, squeezing it at the pressure points.
Tom dropped the flashlight and absently saw the bulb fade black as it smacked on the ground with an odd finality. He might have dropped the hockey stick too - certainly he made no conscious decision to hold onto it - but one end of it was shoved tight against the right angle created by the wall and the floor as he backed away, screaming, and trying to shake the spidery hands from his neck and shoulders.
In the darkness, he saw the grinning face of the corpse appear; it was as stony as ever, but now the black eyes, which should've been rotted away but weren't, were widened with excitement more furious than that which he had observed at the upstairs window. And now he could see its tongue. It was long and it was the same orange-white color of its gums. It thrashed madly out of the thing's frozen grin, trying to lick Tom's face.
It was the thought of that vile tongue actually touching him, the thought of that dry, sticky tongue actually reaching out and swiping his face, that brought Tom back to his senses. The hands were closing in on his neck, trying to cut off his oxygen, but he still held the hockey stick. He was too close to risk taking a swing.
Without really thinking about it, only wanting desperately to keep the tongue away, he slid his right hand halfway down the stick's shaft and then jabbed the rounded tip into the creature's ribs, using all the strength he had. He heard bones crack as part of the navy blue pole pushed through the weak diaphragm and into what might have once been small intestines. Tom's hand followed it.
The creature continued to grapple with him, as if nothing had happened; its slender fingers now tightly closed around his neck, and its tongue still getting closer. He could no longer breath, but in his disgust, he hardly noticed. The inside of the corpse was like the inside of a pumpkin; A pumpkin that has begun to rot before it is tossed into an icy, autumn rain. The organs were not hot and pulsing, as Tom had suspected they might be; they were as still and lifeless as old fruit, which was much worse.
Tom dropped the flashlight and absently saw the bulb fade black as it smacked on the ground with an odd finality. He might have dropped the hockey stick too - certainly he made no conscious decision to hold onto it - but one end of it was shoved tight against the right angle created by the wall and the floor as he backed away, screaming, and trying to shake the spidery hands from his neck and shoulders.
In the darkness, he saw the grinning face of the corpse appear; it was as stony as ever, but now the black eyes, which should've been rotted away but weren't, were widened with excitement more furious than that which he had observed at the upstairs window. And now he could see its tongue. It was long and it was the same orange-white color of its gums. It thrashed madly out of the thing's frozen grin, trying to lick Tom's face.
It was the thought of that vile tongue actually touching him, the thought of that dry, sticky tongue actually reaching out and swiping his face, that brought Tom back to his senses. The hands were closing in on his neck, trying to cut off his oxygen, but he still held the hockey stick. He was too close to risk taking a swing.
Without really thinking about it, only wanting desperately to keep the tongue away, he slid his right hand halfway down the stick's shaft and then jabbed the rounded tip into the creature's ribs, using all the strength he had. He heard bones crack as part of the navy blue pole pushed through the weak diaphragm and into what might have once been small intestines. Tom's hand followed it.
The creature continued to grapple with him, as if nothing had happened; its slender fingers now tightly closed around his neck, and its tongue still getting closer. He could no longer breath, but in his disgust, he hardly noticed. The inside of the corpse was like the inside of a pumpkin; A pumpkin that has begun to rot before it is tossed into an icy, autumn rain. The organs were not hot and pulsing, as Tom had suspected they might be; they were as still and lifeless as old fruit, which was much worse.