by John Grover
***
“Dad!” Sharon called, rising from her chair, screaming was joined by thuds.
“Dad!” Mat’s wife barreled upstairs, her feet stomping on the every stair. Her Father’s bedroom door swug open and Mat already inside.
“I’m sorry,” Mat said as his hands felt the man’s cold flesh, his fingers gently checking for a pulse. “We’re too late. He’s gone, honey.”
“No! No! No!” she screeched, throwing herself to the floor and her father’s side. “Dad, no, dad please...not now.” Tears already soaked her cheeks. “We’ve got to call an ambulance. It might not be too late.”
“No, we can’t,” Mat said watching the stunned expression wash over his wife’s face. We’ve got to do something first.”
She watched him rush out of the room, disbelief coming over her as she took her father’s hand into her own.
Mat stormed past his son and daughter, who held each other at the bottom of the stairs. They had never heard their parents in such a frenzy and it frightened them.
In his basement office, Mat searched about the cabinets and lockers he stored there and found the long needle and thread he needed. Taking a deep breath he headed back for the bedroom. He stopped momentarily by the kitchen windows and peaked through the shades.
Two of the things drew up the cement patio as the third seemed to descend from somewhere above, approaching the window Mat stared out of. He choked back a gasp and shut the shade. He made sure the kitchen door was locked before running back upstairs.
“We’ve got to sew the mouth up,” he said, diving down on the body and unraveling his thread.
“What the hell are you doing,” Sharon screeched, her grief spilling into rage. “You’re not touching him. We need to call for help.”
“It’s too late for that. You don’t understand. We need to sew the mouth up!”
“You son of a bitch, you stay away from him. You never gave a damn about him!” she grabbed the needle and thread from his hands and ran into the hall. Mat followed after her, catching her at the top of the stairs.
In the bedroom the inevitable commenced. Through a chink in the windowsill the non-corporeal mist slithered into the room and found the vacant body.
“Let go of me, bastard!” Sharon struggled with Mat until the wailing moan caused them to freeze.
“My God, we’re too late,” Mat murmured.
It floated out of the bedroom, hovering in the hall. It glared at them with deep sunk eyes. Its head was bald, its skin sheer yet still garbed in the old man’s pajamas.
“Daddy...” Sharon whimpered, revulsion and dread were evident on her face as she watched the thing that was once her father move towards her, its gaunt arms outstretched.
“C’mon,” Mat called. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here.” He grabbed hold of her, dragging her down the stairs. The kids screamed just as Mat and Sharon reached the living room.
“Kids!” Mat cried. “Where are you? Come to us, now.”
“At the door!” they cried. “Monsters at the door!”
Mat and Sharon rushed into the kitchen, the kids huddled under the table crying. One of the creatures floated in front of the door, scratching at the glass then hitting the door with rage. The wooden frame started to weaken and buckle.
“Collin, Carrie!” Sharon called, putting out her arms until the kids ran into them. “What are they?” she asked, her face red and soaked, her body trembling. “What in the hell is happening?”
A ghastly howl from the living room killed Mat’s reply. The corpse of Sharon’s father glided through the living room, reaching the kitchen threshold.
There seemed to be no escape, they could not leave the house and the father closed in on them...frantically Mat searched for a solution, he glared at his cowering family, and suddenly his head cleared. Springing into action, Mat yanked the kitchen drawers out of the counters until he found the largest butcher knife he could.
The corpse floated into the kitchen; the children’s hysterical wails deafening now. Mat leapt into the air, throwing his entire body onto the thing.
The two crashed to the floor, the creature slashed with treacherous nails but Mat fought brave and true, forcing the thing down on the floor and pressing the blade to its throat.
With all of his might he pushed, and the head popped off like a cork, rolling across the floor, yellow fluid seeping out. Mat watched the mist rise out of the hole in the neck and dissipate.
The kitchen door flew off its hinges and thudded to the floor, screams echoed, moaning howls called and Mat turned to see them--
It was then that the headlights blared into the yard, bathing the things in bright white. Gerald, the townsmen at his side, charged the things with sharpened axes and scythes, overwhelming them and claiming their heads.
Mat crawled over to his family, their tears matched only by his own as the four embraced, in the middle of the floor. Gerald stepped into the house, holding a yellow-slopped axe in his hand. “You all ok in here?”
“Yes,” Mat managed to answer. “I think so.”
The rest of his family said nothing.
***
Like the bodies that the mist required, Mat’s house stood vacant, the morning rain soaking the for sale sign in the front yard.
On another side of town, another home went on with its business as usual. “There Mister Chambers,” Gerald said as he cut the thread with his scissors. “Nice and tight. All set for a proper burial.” He admired his own handy work, examining the sewn mouth of the recently deceased Nathan Chambers.
Shuffling away from the table, he reached low into a small cabinet on the floor. “Gotta put that goddamn ad back in the paper today.” Searching about he for a moment he finally pulled the bottle of whiskey into the open. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you all morning.”
He popped open the bottle and planted himself into a chair. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” He took a hefty gulp and closed his eyes. Swallowing, he lowered the bottle gently. His eyes did not reopen. The bottle slipped from his hand and his heart...stopped.
In the Murk the mist radiated and stirred, a stream shot away from the rest and vanished over the horizon.
***
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Grover is a dark fiction author residing in Massachusetts. John grew up watching creature double feature with his brother on Saturday afternoons. This fueled his love of monsters, ghosts and the supernatural. He never missed an episode. In his spare time he loves to cook, garden, go to the theater to watch horror movies with his friends, read, talk about food, bake amazing desserts, play with his dog Buffy (yes named after the character in the TV show) and draw-badly.
Some of his favorite TV shows and influences are The Twilight Zone, Tales from the Darkside, Space 1999, Battlestar Galactica, X-Files, Night Gallery, Monsters, Star Trek, and much more.
He completed a creative writing course at Boston’s Fisher College and is a member of the New England Horror Writers, a chapter of the Horror Writers Association.
Some of his more recent credits include Best New Zombie Tales Vol 1 by Books of the Dead Press, The Book of Cannibals by Living Dead Press, The Vermin Anthology, The Northern Haunts Anthology by Shroud Publishing, The Zombology Series by Library of the Living Dead Press, Morpheus Tales, Wrong World, The Willows, Alien Skin Magazine, Aurora Wolf and more.
He is the author of several collections, including the recently released Feminine Wiles, sixteen tales of wicked women as well as various chapbooks, anthologies, and more. Please visit his website www.shadowtales.com for more information.
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