as though he were drunk. The smell of offal hit Jonathon.
"And it was true, that I was a cuckold, and I knew where it come from. I heard."
He got to his feet and began moving toward Jonathon, who backed off, the lantern swinging, rocking his shadow.
"What’s happened?" he said.
"And he begged and wept and swore it weren’t him, but that didn’t stop me. And I killed him, choked him until he turned black, black as the curse that stole our lives."
He came further, blocking the way down the stairs. His uncle’s voice was strained, as though he spoke through a throat full of rocks.
"Buried him out in the woods, just as I buried any hope I’d still had. They were both sick then, dying. But your mother came to me, boy – came to me and treated me right, treated me right half a dozen times, right in the mill, even with her sores weeping, and her fever burning her up inside and out, burning her between her legs…"
He staggered, hitting the wall like he was blind. A sound like a terrible rush of wind rose from the first floor. Jonathon stepped back, sliding along the wall. He dropped the lantern. Something moved on the stairs. A shadow came out of the darkness from below, a bruise in the darkness filling in the hallway behind his uncle. Whatever bravery he'd felt earlier disappeared in a cold wash of terror. He sprinted down to the end of the hallway and turned into the open door on the right, sliding to a stop inside.
Half a dozen pairs of silver eyes broke the shadows. The air was cold and reeked of foul earth. They fell on him.
Hands grabbed him, impossibly strong, pulling him down. He couldn’t swing himself free. His head was smashed down hard against the floorboards and then he was flipped over onto his back. All around him, glimmering eyes moved in and cold flesh pressed against his own, on his hands, on his neck. The eyes suddenly turned from him. Jonathon looked up. The shape of his uncle stood in the doorway, eyes burning cold like distant stars. Jonathon thrashed his arms and legs, to break free. His uncle moved closer, and the shadow he'd seen on the stairs filled in the doorway behind him. Within the shadows was a lanky figure, skin tight over a skull, terrible eyes, black hair in a ghastly fall. The temperature plummeted and the other dead moved away from the door. The figure of his uncle was suddenly hurled past him, thudding into the wall with a grunt. A gravelly whisper came from the doorway. Rough hands wrenched Jonathan’s head upwards, towards the lowering eyes of this new figure. The odor was putrid, overpowering. The more Jonathon struggled, the harder the hands gripped him. The other eyes floating above. Panic took him and he started to scream.
"Help – help! No, no, no..."
After a second, his scream was cut short. The figure in the darkness was on top of him, icy lips clamping over his own. The touch of them was repulsive beyond measure. Jonathon couldn’t get them off. His last breath was of the coldest air he’d ever felt. There was a gagging noise and then a thick liquid filled his mouth. As it began to work its way inside of him, Jonathon could only stare into the eyes, drowning.
And A Bloody Plan
Pomeroy stood on the bank of the brook looking up at the cabin. The horses were gone, the cabin dark. After running and hiding for most of the afternoon, and then stumbling through the darkened woods into the evening in a ridiculous search for the cabin and his horse, he was in no mood for this. He should have tied the boy up, or locked him in. First the child had neglected to mention that armed rebellion had finally begun, then he’d set a bunch of militia on him – and now this.
He kicked the ground in anger and swore.
The door to the cabin was open, a black rectangle. He stepped up onto the porch and paused. In the fireplace inside, the last hints of a fire glowed among ash. He put a hand against the doorframe and looked around. A figure was sitting up on the cot against the
"And it was true, that I was a cuckold, and I knew where it come from. I heard."
He got to his feet and began moving toward Jonathon, who backed off, the lantern swinging, rocking his shadow.
"What’s happened?" he said.
"And he begged and wept and swore it weren’t him, but that didn’t stop me. And I killed him, choked him until he turned black, black as the curse that stole our lives."
He came further, blocking the way down the stairs. His uncle’s voice was strained, as though he spoke through a throat full of rocks.
"Buried him out in the woods, just as I buried any hope I’d still had. They were both sick then, dying. But your mother came to me, boy – came to me and treated me right, treated me right half a dozen times, right in the mill, even with her sores weeping, and her fever burning her up inside and out, burning her between her legs…"
He staggered, hitting the wall like he was blind. A sound like a terrible rush of wind rose from the first floor. Jonathon stepped back, sliding along the wall. He dropped the lantern. Something moved on the stairs. A shadow came out of the darkness from below, a bruise in the darkness filling in the hallway behind his uncle. Whatever bravery he'd felt earlier disappeared in a cold wash of terror. He sprinted down to the end of the hallway and turned into the open door on the right, sliding to a stop inside.
Half a dozen pairs of silver eyes broke the shadows. The air was cold and reeked of foul earth. They fell on him.
Hands grabbed him, impossibly strong, pulling him down. He couldn’t swing himself free. His head was smashed down hard against the floorboards and then he was flipped over onto his back. All around him, glimmering eyes moved in and cold flesh pressed against his own, on his hands, on his neck. The eyes suddenly turned from him. Jonathon looked up. The shape of his uncle stood in the doorway, eyes burning cold like distant stars. Jonathon thrashed his arms and legs, to break free. His uncle moved closer, and the shadow he'd seen on the stairs filled in the doorway behind him. Within the shadows was a lanky figure, skin tight over a skull, terrible eyes, black hair in a ghastly fall. The temperature plummeted and the other dead moved away from the door. The figure of his uncle was suddenly hurled past him, thudding into the wall with a grunt. A gravelly whisper came from the doorway. Rough hands wrenched Jonathan’s head upwards, towards the lowering eyes of this new figure. The odor was putrid, overpowering. The more Jonathon struggled, the harder the hands gripped him. The other eyes floating above. Panic took him and he started to scream.
"Help – help! No, no, no..."
After a second, his scream was cut short. The figure in the darkness was on top of him, icy lips clamping over his own. The touch of them was repulsive beyond measure. Jonathon couldn’t get them off. His last breath was of the coldest air he’d ever felt. There was a gagging noise and then a thick liquid filled his mouth. As it began to work its way inside of him, Jonathon could only stare into the eyes, drowning.
And A Bloody Plan
Pomeroy stood on the bank of the brook looking up at the cabin. The horses were gone, the cabin dark. After running and hiding for most of the afternoon, and then stumbling through the darkened woods into the evening in a ridiculous search for the cabin and his horse, he was in no mood for this. He should have tied the boy up, or locked him in. First the child had neglected to mention that armed rebellion had finally begun, then he’d set a bunch of militia on him – and now this.
He kicked the ground in anger and swore.
The door to the cabin was open, a black rectangle. He stepped up onto the porch and paused. In the fireplace inside, the last hints of a fire glowed among ash. He put a hand against the doorframe and looked around. A figure was sitting up on the cot against the
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