Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,62

that featured books and trinkets: a marble piece decorated with dyed feathers, a folio volume open to an antique world map, a textile square dominated by scarlet and cobalt.

The stink grew stronger as I moved into the kitchen.

“What is that?” Elien asked.

When I checked the trash, I pointed to a foam tray, the kind that was used to package chicken at the supermarket.

“God, it’s awful,” Elien said.

“Guess she hasn’t been home for a few days.”

I checked the refrigerator, in case she was keeping some sort of monster equivalent of a snack: preserved intestines or severed limbs, or maybe something really horrific like gluten-free bread. I just found eggs and a block of Muenster that was getting a little hairy, milk that had gone over, a few apples at the back of the crisper that were still firm.

“Do you need a snack?” Elien asked.

“Maybe after.”

We worked our way through the downstairs and, aside from more reminders that Zahra made a lot of money, we didn’t find anything.

“No paintings,” I said.

“She’s Muslim,” Elien said. “I don’t know how devout, but she is.”

“So?”

“So no images. At least, no images of people.”

“Huh.”

“See? Sometimes I know things.”

“I think you’re very smart.”

“You think I’m a brat.”

“You can be a brat and be smart,” I said. “And don’t try to pick a fight.”

Elien laughed as he followed me upstairs.

The search upstairs didn’t reveal anything either: the bedroom, the master bath, the guest room, the office. Elien spent a while going through Zahra’s papers; when I’d finished with the other rooms, I came back, and he said, “Nothing.”

“Ok,” I said.

“No, it’s not ok. This is bullshit. We know she’s behind this. We know she’s feeding on people who are patients at DuPage Behavioral. We know she created her own . . . her own fucking herd to feed on. So where’s the proof?”

“Well, what kind of proof would she leave behind?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if she’s really our monster, let’s say. We know she’s got at least this other shape, that big, pale, long-faced thing that attacked us in the woods. And we know she can turn into that will o’ the wisp thing. She gets inside people’s heads. She can even . . . possess them, I guess, for lack of a better word. She feeds on them, but she feeds on suffering. So what’s she going to leave behind as evidence?”

Elien shrugged. “There’s got to be something.”

“Well, we didn’t find it.”

“There’s something. There’s got to be something.”

“Ok.”

“I know there’s something.”

“Ok. But where is it?”

Before Elien could answer, a thump came from downstairs.

“What was—” Elien began.

I hushed him.

A moment later, something scuffed on the stairs.

Grabbing Elien by the arm, I shoved him toward the door. He didn’t protest; his face was pale, and in the instant before I flipped off the lights, I saw his eyes wide with fear. I kept shoving, forcing him toward the bedroom, where Zahra had left the windows open. From the office to the bedroom was probably fifteen feet, but we had to go past the stairs. The muscles in Elien’s arm were like steel cables; his breathing was shallow and fast.

We had crossed five feet of the landing when a long, pale face showed itself on the stairs.

With a shout, I shoved Elien ahead of me. The hashok surged up the steps. If the gunshot wounds Elien had inflicted on it last time had done any lasting damage, it wasn’t obvious—the monster moved so quickly that it was hard to get more than an impression of it. That impression was the same one that I had gotten in the dark woods: the elongated frame, unwholesomely white flesh, the head and face that were stretched until the features weren’t human. Claws slashed through the darkness, tugging on my jeans. Then, stumbling, I shot through the bedroom doorway, and Elien slammed the door shut.

It rattled in its frame as the hashok collided with it. The jamb splintered.

“I can’t hold it,” Elien shouted

The hashok smashed into the door again, and this time, it popped loose. Elien skidded a few inches before he managed to slam the door shut.

I cast about for something and settled on the chest of drawers. Setting my shoulder against it, I threw my weight into the side. The damn thing was solid wood.

“Move,” I shouted.

Elien stumbled back.

I threw myself into the chest of drawers again, and this time, it toppled onto its side with a crash. Drawers slid open; t-shirts and socks spilled out onto the floor. When the