Matt Hults - Husk

“Sure,” BJ replied. “He was big. Real big. Bigger than you, Dad. And he was dressed like a voodoo doll on Scooby Doo.”

“Oh, boy,” Mallory muttered. “Here we go.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” his dad said.

“Well, he didn’t have a whole face, just eyes and a mouth. No nose.”

“You mean he was wearing a mask?”

BJ thought. “Yeah, I guess it could’ve been a mask.”

Beside them, Mallory made a shivery sound and rubbed her arms. “Okay, I’m officially freaked out. Maybe he’s not goofing around this time, Dad? Maybe you should call the cops?”

Their father scanned the yard once more. “I think—”

But before he could finish, the kitchen smoke alarm went off and everyone jumped.

“Oh, damn. The soup.”

“You used Mallory words,” BJ said.

His dad ushered them both back inside, closed the door—and locked it, BJ noticed—then hurried to the kitchen. Black smoke billowed upward from where the tomato soup had boiled over the pot’s edge and cascaded down the side, onto the burner.

“I’ll get the soup, you get the door,” his dad told Mallory.

With both ears plugged, she scooted past the dining room table and unlocked the sliding glass door that opened onto the back deck and pool area. Fresh air flowed through the lower level of the house, and the detector fell silent.

His dad set the pot and its smoldering contents in the sink and turned on the hood fan above the range. “I guess we’ll have to settle for just sandwiches,” he said.

Mallory rounded the table and started for the hallway. “Well, if all the excitement is over, I’m going back to my original plan of taking a shower. Is that okay?”

“No problem,” his dad said.

“But what about the Voodooman?” BJ asked.

His dad set BJ’s plate on the table. “Let’s talk about him.”

The Killer ducked into Mallory’s bedroom with the sound of her footsteps coming off the stairs at the far end of the hall.

For a moment the Killer halted just past the doorway, glancing around, disillusioned by the unembellished normalcy of the room. Any chamber associated with a being of Mallory’s strength should’ve been a shrine to her power, a temple of fear and pain, a palace of death. But nothing adorned this ordinary bedroom save for the common pieces of furniture used by any average person around the world. The Killer saw no altars or peseshkafs. No sacrificial slabs or offerings of worship. Not even a pleasuring fork.

The Killer broke from those thoughts and dodged into Mallory’s closet. She entered the room and crossed the space the Killer had occupied a split-second ago, not showing any signs that she suspected a hidden danger.

And she headed straight for the Killer’s hiding spot.

The Killer’s fingers curled into claws, ready to rip into her flesh, but she stopped just short of the cracked door. At her dresser, she selected several articles of clothing from the drawers.

The Killer’s hands remained rigid, unable to relax.

Her tender flesh lay almost within arm’s reach.

Since awakening from the coma, old instincts had returned, along with the inability to refuse them. Emotions struck like thunderbolts and actions followed with equal speed. But action now could mean disaster, and the Killer wouldn’t allow it.

Mallory paused, staring at something on the dresser drawer she’d opened. She wiped a hand across its surface and her fingertips came away smeared with blood.

Kern’s blood.

The Killer looked at the hand which had held the priest’s heart then back to Mallory. Her face crinkled into a look of disgust.

The Killer leaned closer. There was no choice now. Despite the risks, she would have to be taken before she realized the danger. The Killer stripped off the scarecrow mask and twisted it into a garrote.

“BJ!” Mallory shouted.

The Killer halted.

She snatched up a bath towel from a hamper beside the closet and wiped the front of the dresser clean. “I told you to stay out of my room! That means no food, drinks, or little twerps!”

She gave the dresser one last glance, then wadded the towel into a ball and threw it back into the hamper. Picking up her fresh clothes she stormed out of the room and closed the door behind her.

The Killer remained in the closet a moment longer, savoring the inert caress of the darkness. It helped calm the animalistic compulsions and made thinking easier.

From downstairs, the muffled sound of BJ’s voice flirted with the Killer’s ear while he spoke with his father, retelling his tale.

The boy needed to be dealt with.

Still fighting the craving to feed, the Killer slipped from the closet like a rat abandoning the protective cover of a rotten log. Not daring to come any closer to Mallory, the Killer exited out the second floor window, onto the roof. Over its peak, the Killer had an unobstructed view of the fenced-in backyard and pool area.

The Killer stepped to the edge and jumped to the ground, stamping deep depressions into the grass upon landing. Several feet away, on the deck at the back of the house, the sliding glass door to the kitchen stood open.

The Killer spotted BJ sitting at the table.

Back turned to the yard.

A foot from the opening.

BJ sat at the table and ate his sandwich while his Dad cleaned out the pot of burnt soup at the sink. “I can’t believe I actually burned soup, ” his dad laughed. “Your Mom always said I was no good in the kitchen, but this is ridiculous.”

BJ didn’t laugh. “Dad, I wasn’t playing around like Mallory said I was. I really did see someone.”

His father nodded, then turned off the water and dried his hands. He came around the counter and knelt down beside BJ’s chair, adding a dessert cookie to his plate. “You know, sometimes you seem a lot older than your age, kiddo. It means you’re smart.”

“Do you still believe me, then?”

He nodded. “You said this man came out of the Andersons’ house, right?”

“Yup.”

“I’ll go over there and talk to him a little later, once Mallory’s out of the shower. I have to mow the lawn, anyway. Once I’m done with all that, maybe you and me could do something together. What do you say?”

“Could you teach me more swimming?”

“I sure can. But you have to wait a while after eating. If you don’t, you could get cramps, remember? You can play in here while I do the yard work. After that, I’ll go talk to Mister Anderson. We’ll get this whole mess sorted out, and then we can go swimming, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Do you think you’ll jump off the diving board?”

“No way. Not yet.”

His father patted him on the head and stood up. He closed and locked the sliding glass door Mallory had opened earlier, then collected his shoes from a floor mat and slipped them on.

“Tell Mallory there’s a sandwich for her in the refrigerator if she wants it. And no going near the pool without me, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

“Good, boy.”

His dad exited through the garage, closing the door behind him. Not two seconds after it clicked shut, BJ heard the smooth sound of the sliding glass door opening from behind him.

Hot air from outside collided with the air-conditioned coolness of the house, fluttering the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

BJ whipped around.

He expected to turn and find Voodooman’s gloved hands descending toward his neck, but nothing loomed in the doorway or waited on the deck outside. The shrubs bordering the deck’s railing blocked his view of anything beyond, and he had to stand on his chair to see over their tops. Even from this new perspective, he didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary in the yard.