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Mrs. Egin cackles while Logan stares at me dumbly. I glance around. Everyone’s looking at me oddly. They can’t see the lights. There’s nothing any of them can do to stop this from happening.
I focus on Mrs. Egin. A bulging, pulsing bubble of light has formed behind and above her, patches melting together, colors mixing, flowing into her. Her eyes are bowls of light. I can’t see her lips — multicolored froth hides them. Her skin appears to be rippling.
“Mrs. Egin,” Logan tries again, facing her. “You have to —”
The witch shrieks triumphantly. A piercing note of wickedness and victory. I cover my ears with my hands. Logan covers his too. My eyes scrunch shut, but I quickly force them open a crack. I see Mrs. Egin stagger backwards. She goes stiff, arms wide at her sides, head cocked to the left. A gentle, tender smile crosses her lips.
Then the lights explode through her. And she explodes. Scraps fly everywhere — flesh, bone, guts, blood. Logan and the kids at the front are splattered by the spray. They squeal with disgust and terror. A chunk of bone hits Logan hard in the face and he drops, grunting with pain.
I cover my eyes with my left arm, and drag Art in close with my right, turning him away from the carnage. I’m screaming. Everybody is. But I can still hear Mrs. Egin’s scream over the sound of all the others, even though she can’t be making any noise now.
For an uncountable number of seconds the witch’s scream holds, mingling with ours. Then it stops. All the screaming stops, in the space of a second or two. Eerie, unnatural silence.
I don’t want to take my arm away, but I must. I have to look. Others are peeping too, although most are still covering their eyes or looking away from where the witch was standing.
Mrs. Egin is gone. Nothing of her remains, except a circle of blood and grisly carnage covering the grass, Logan and many of the children. And at the center of the circle — a panel of greyness.
The large grey patch of light hangs motionless a foot or two above the ground. It’s three or four feet wide, maybe six or seven high. Jagged around the edges.
I’m not the only one who can see this light. Others are pointing at it, gasping, murmuring, “What the hell is that?” This is a different type of light from the ones I usually see.
Logan rises, rubbing his head. Stares in disbelief at the gory mess, then at the grey wall of light. He’s an educated, experienced man. But he’s seen nothing like this before.
“She exploded!” a boy yells, excited. “Did you see her? It was amazing!”
“Is she dead?” a girl asks, voice trembling.
“What’s that light?”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Yeah.”
Logan walks around the panel of light. I can only see his feet when he’s behind it. Then he comes back into view. He’s more bewildered than afraid, like most of the kids around me. The light has made more of an impression than Mrs. Egin exploding. Perhaps they’re in shock, not ready to deal with the explosion — and her death — yet.
“We have to get away from here.”
I hadn’t meant to speak, but now that the words have popped out, I know I’m right. Everybody gapes at me. “This is bad,” I shout. “That light’s dangerous. We have to run.”
“It’s OK, Kernel,” Logan says. “This is mind-blowing, but we’re in the midst of something wondrous. I’m not sure what’s going on, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to experience the miraculous. Mrs. Egin . . . this light . . . it’s incredible!” He beams with delight.
Some kids get to their feet and drift towards Loga
n and the panel of grey light. They’re not afraid now that Logan isn’t. They trust him. They think he knows best.
“This is wrong!” I yell. “It’s evil! Can’t you feel it?”
“You shouldn’t be so suspicious, Kernel.” Logan laughs uneasily.
“You’re covered in blood!” I roar angrily, unable to believe that someone so smart can be this stupid. “Mrs. Egin’s dead! You’re walking through her guts!”
Logan blinks. Looks down at his blood-soaked shirt and trousers. His red hands. The mess around him. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh my —”
Something bursts out of the grey light. It has two long legs, a stumpy, leathery body, four arms which end in thick, hairy fingers. A dark green head, a cross between a human’s and a dog’s. No mouth. Long, draping ears. Wide, white, evil eyes.
The thing grabs Logan. It somehow makes a hissing, whistling noise. Logan stares at it in shock. Two of its hands lock on his head. The others clasp his shoulders. The hairs on its fingers extend, growing at an unnatural speed, digging into the flesh of Logan’s face. One hair darts into his right eye, puncturing it. Logan shrieks with pain.
Then the thing’s upper arms jerk apart quickly — ripping Logan’s head off his neck! The monster tosses it to the ground. Stamps down hard with its right foot. And Logan’s severed head pops like a melon dropped from a great height.
