Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,80

of whistling, and his eyes were half open. I whispered his name. “I need you with me, please. That thing is going to come back, and it’s going to try to get us again.”

He moaned. He was bleeding in a dozen places, and when I rolled him over, I had to steady myself with one hand on the wall: part of the window frame had splintered and gone straight into his back. His lung, part of my brain informed me. That’s the whistling. He’s got a punctured lung.

When he coughed, bloody froth spouted from his mouth.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Oh my God.”

For a moment, I slipped back into memory: the weight of my hookup pinning me to the mattress, the smell of fried catfish, the taste of grass, the helplessness as he thrust into me, my brain playing out the horrible things happening just outside my door.

Then, shuddering, I grabbed Dag under the arms and dragged him away from the windows. He screamed. I didn’t know if this was doing more damage, but I knew if I left him by the windows, the hashok would get him. We’d barely made it to the edge of the kitchen when my prediction came true: the hashok smashed through the glass where Dag had been lying. It let out a yowl of disappointment; it had obviously expected us to still be there, with me tending to Dag’s injuries. I released Dag, held up the knife, and flipped the bird.

The hashok rocked side to side, its liquid black eyes watching.

“Fuck off,” I said to it. “I know how to get rid of you. This is your one warning: fuck off right now, and never come back, and I won’t hunt you down and burn you to ash.”

The hashok yowled again. For a moment, I thought it was going to charge. Then a soft sound behind me drew my attention, and I shot a glance over my shoulder. There was nothing. When I looked back, the hashok was gone, and splinters of glass trembled in the frame where it had run out of the house again.

Playing with us, I thought. It’s playing with us the way a cat plays with a mouse.

Seizing Dag under the arms, I dragged him back a few more feet. There wasn’t anywhere safe in the house, but if I could get into the pantry, at least I’d only have to defend one door, and maybe we could wait it out until help arrived. Unless the hashok just smashed through the wall or the door. Unless it decided it didn’t need the element of surprise anymore. I dragged Dag a few more feet, and he screamed again.

I had to stop for a break. I had zero upper-body strength, and Dag was all fucking muscle, which was nice for sex and nice for having a tough boyfriend, but it was a real bitch right now. My back and arms ached. Sweat stung my eyes. Another sound, maybe nothing, made me check over my shoulder, but I still didn’t see anything. My brain was having a hard time making sense of everything. Part of me recognized this place: the same furniture, the same paintings, even the same bottle of wine, complete with corkscrew, that I had gotten out before I left. This had been my home for over a year. But part of me felt like I was in a funhouse, all the angles crooked, all the hallways mazes, all the glass a mirror.

Grabbing Dag again, I shuffled back toward the pantry. It had been a few minutes now. Where was the hashok? Where was Richard? Was he bleeding out upstairs? Was he already dead? Had the hashok gutted him the way it had killed Zahra and David? Or had it toyed with him, torturing him, Muriel finally exacting payback for all the petty grievances of working under Richard?

If he was alive, I thought, I had to help him. Maybe I could get Dag safely into the pantry, barricade the door somehow, and search upstairs. If there was even a chance, I owed Richard that much.

Shards of glass chimed as a rush of air swept through the house. I guessed that it was from the hashok, but I couldn’t see it. Maybe it was sprinting past the house. Maybe it was looking for the best way to approach. The door to the pantry was less than five feet away. Slipping my arms under Dag’s, I groaned and hauled him for another yard.