Shaun freezes. His fingers clamp around mine, hard. His eyes snap to the hallway—doors, doors, doors?—
Thump.
Closer.
We can’t go back the way we came. Not without stepping into the kitchen. Not with that sound between us and the back door.
The floorboards under my feet creak, traitorous.
Shaun doesn’t hesitate.
He yanks me toward the nearest door.
We tumble into a coat closet off the hallway and he pulls it shut just as the kitchen lets out a long, wooden groan.
Dust scratches my throat. Old coats brush my cheeks and reek of mothballs and neglect. Thin slivers of light slice through the wicker slats.
I freeze.
My heart pounds so hard it feels visible.
Shaun presses in behind me. His breath warms my hair. His arms lock around me, tight and protective, like he can cage the whole world if he just holds on hard enough. For one stupid second, I believe him.
His mouth brushes my ear. “Stay still. No sound.”
His hand slides up my arm, pinning me gently but firmly in place.
I lean forward just enough to look through the slats.
Something moves in the kitchen doorway.
The light hits its surface and my stomach flips inside out. My brain automatically switching to my safe place. The facts.
Orange.
Glossy.
Shining.
Pumpkin flesh.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Not a scream. Not air.
Shaun’s heart hammers against my spine.
It lumbers into the hall. Each step jerks like it’s being yanked by strings pulled by someone who never learned coordination. Vines twitch where arms should be, slick and pulsing, dark with blood. They slap the floor and leave streaks behind. The axe in its grip slides across the floor.
Shhk. Shhk.
A tiny gasp escapes me.
Shaun’s hand clamps over my mouth, firm but careful, fingers trembling against my lips.
The thing turns its head.
Relaxed.
Deliberate.
