(A story in honor of Halloween. As the days of October shorten, a young man descends with the sunset shadows down seven cellar stairs. If you're just joining us, you can go back to Part 1.)
Oh Mrs. Brennan you don't mind if I don't call you by your first name do you mis-sus mis-sus Brennan so many things they tell you that I ignored too so don't feel bad I don't blame you but it really makes things easy with stuff like not fixing the burned bulb in the lamppost and bushes too close to the door and the windows and getting lazy with lots of things like letting the dog out messing with your IPod while doggy picks at a dead cardinal and you looked pretty surprised to see me you really played that up nice and made me believe enough to want to stop but let's not get mad now because I brought the duct tape and you really can't kick on the back seat floor with the blanket over you but you can I guess a little if you want but you stop except when it gets nasty bumpy and I should slow down on the ruts and rocks but I have to get behind the old cottage quick and slam the door rough wrestling you over my shoulder kicking kicking and swaaaying but don't worry I got it and DAMN
Paulie looked down at the brown drips on the fifth stair where his nose bled.
The bruise from the knee hit was gone, but the lingering ache pissed him off.
The air was changing at the top of the stairs. Pressure surged and churned violent. Entire regions of weather shifted from the north, and it felt like the ground wanted to trade places with the sky.
Shadow branches from the hickory tree groped for Paulie's neck. The scissor patterns piled and scattered, piled and scattered with the surging wind.
It made him think of his heart pounding.
It made him think of bones tangled in mass graves.
And the hickory fingers pumped like arteries blown bare.
On to Part 6.
Back to Part 4.