Darcy Coates

“It’s…” the word fine died before even reaching Jen’s tongue. She stared through the kitchen window at the grassy stretch running down the side of their house, her heart leaping unpleasantly.

Something long and lanky moved there, its body undulating as it walked past their home.

No…

Something wasn’t right.

The deer paused, as though it could feel her staring. Its head turned toward the window. Jen’s blood ran ice cold.

Tumorous growths sprouted across the deer’s body and face. There were at least sixty of them, growing in bunches, some as large as a tennis ball

“Who was that in there with you?” her mother asked.

Riya, who was pulling her seatbelt down toward the buckle, went still. “What?”

“There was someone behind you.” Her mother turned toward her, and her pupils seemed tiny in her wide eyes. “It’s why I put my lights on. Because someone was behind you, and they were walking closer, and I couldn’t see who it was.”

They both stared into Bobby’s Pizzeria.

The dining room was empty.

The bed was empty. One pillow lay askew on the floor.

The window—the window that Hope liked to keep an inch ajar, to feel the night breeze—had been wrenched wide open. The screen was torn into shreds.

Hope was gone.

Alma, slowly pacing away, continued to murmur to herself. “So sad. He takes so many. And only one of them ever came back.”

Abby froze at the door. Slowly, she turned toward Alma, who stood at the window and stared out into the morning light.

“Did you say…” Her voice caught. Every hair rose as gooseflesh covered her. “Someone came back?”

A man, in their house’s backyard, watching Hope as she danced.

Abby’s blood turned to ice as she paused the video and enlarged it, zooming in as far as possible, until the pixels formed distinct edges and the shape was as large as she could make it.

Then she sat back, her mouth dry and her eyes burning. There was no mistaking what she was looking at.

The quietly smirking face of Charles Vickers.

And then, she took out her thread and started stitching.

Florence Wright brought in extra income for the family as a seamstress. Even though she was in her seventies at the time, her fingers were still dexterous. She took her decades of practice and love and poured them into her son as she rebuilt him, a scrap at a time.

And then, she took out her thread and started stitching.

Florence Wright brought in extra income for the family as a seamstress. Even though she was in her seventies at the time, her fingers were still dexterous. She took her decades of practice and love and poured them into her son as she rebuilt him, a scrap at a time.

And then, she took out her thread and started stitching.

Florence Wright brought in extra income for the family as a seamstress. Even though she was in her seventies at the time, her fingers were still dexterous. She took her decades of practice and love and poured them into her son as she rebuilt him, a scrap at a time.

And then, she took out her thread and started stitching.

Florence Wright brought in extra income for the family as a seamstress. Even though she was in her seventies at the time, her fingers were still dexterous. She took her decades of practice and love and poured them into her son as she rebuilt him, a scrap at a time.