“Jeepers creepers, where’d ya get those peepers…”
The creature dropped from the steeple, landing without a sound. It tilted its head, mimicking a curious bird. Then it spoke, not in a whisper, but in the dead mailman’s voice. Jeepers Creepers
Riley kicked, clawed, bit. Nothing. Its grip was iron. She felt her vision narrowing to a tunnel. In that fading light, she saw the creature’s back—the patches on its wings. One was a piece of a high school letterman jacket. Another was a scrap of a police uniform. The third was a square of orange cloth. Prison issue. Riley kicked, clawed, bit
“Nowhere, apparently.” Riley grabbed her phone. No signal. The map on her lap showed a dashed line—an old county road decommissioned in the 1980s. “We walk. There was a church back about a mile.” She felt her vision narrowing to a tunnel
The cellar was a crawl space, barely four feet high. They pressed themselves against the dirt wall, holding their breath. The floorboards above groaned. The creature was inside the church. It wasn’t walking. It was… sniffing. A wet, rhythmic snuffling, like a dog tracking a scent.
Jamie fumbled, pulled his camping lighter from his pocket. Riley threw the bottle into the fuel tank’s open valve. Jamie flicked the lighter. The flame caught the trail of black ichor—which burned like gasoline.
“Almost there,” Riley lied, squinting at the crumbling road sign: Next Gas 47 Miles.