Chapter 8 · Edith's Mistake

"Don't move."

The voice comes from behind me, low and tight, and I don't recognize it until I hear the cock of a rifle.

Martin.

I freeze. Not because he told me to. Because ten feet ahead, swaying in the brush, is something that used to be a man.

White shirt. Suspenders hanging. One boot gone. Face slack, jaw unhinged, eyes that don't blink.

"What is that?" I whisper.

"Quiet."

The thing jerks forward. Not a step. A lurch. Like someone's pulling it on strings.

I take a step back.

It matches me.

"I said don't—"

Another step. It's faster this time. Learning.

The smell hits me then. Not blood. Blood gone wrong. Meat in the sun. Sweet rot underneath, the kind that makes your throat want to close even when you're already dead.

My nails are out. I didn't think about it. They just came.

"Martin," I say, "what did Edith do?"

He doesn't answer. The rifle's still pointed at my back.

The thing makes a sound. Wet. Hungry. Not a growl, not a scream—something worse. Something that doesn't have a name because nothing living should make it.

It lunges.

I move without thinking.