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JASON WOKE IN THE MIDDLE of the night to see a shadow looming over him. The shadow brought cold, and it brought a darkness like forever. Before he could react, it was on him, covering his mouth and nose, pressing itself tight over his face. He thrashed, but the thing was stronger, and his struggles proved futile. Terror brought him awake. He kicked and punched, but he found nothing to connect with, the thing being made of shadow. The pressure on his face increased and what air he'd drawn was gone. He felt his eyes water and the veins in his neck throbbed. The life slipped from him. The darkness growing within overshadowed the darkness around him as blood pounded in his head, threatening to boil up through his skin. His chest burned like coals and his throat yearned to scream. As he gave in to the ease of defeat, his arm flailed. He knocked something by his bed. It fell and shattered on the floor. The noise provided the key, as the force on Jason's face vanished, followed in seconds by the light and his father asking, "What's wrong?"
Jason lay on his side, clutching himself and crying. His father came over, put a hand on his son's shoulder, and asked again, "What's wrong?"
Jason could only cry, breathe and be glad he was alive, while Allen looked around the room and found nothing wrong, other than the broken lamp.
"Did you cut yourself?" he asked, taking Jason's hands and looking them over.
Jason took his hands away and put them around his father. He hugged him tight and let loose a new wave of crying.
When Jason calmed Allen asked for the third time, "What's wrong?"
Jason stopped crying, took a deep breath, swallowed—his throat burned—and said, "There was something in here."
"What do you mean? Like an animal?"
"No," Jason said. Now that he could breathe again and his crying had stopped, he found himself shaking, from nerves, fear, he didn't know. Maybe it was the sweat that covered him going cold, but he couldn't stop it. "There was someone in here. Something. It covered my face, and I couldn't breathe and I," here he broke out in a fresh round of tears, "was gonna die 'cause it tried to kill me and I couldn't breathe, and I couldn't yell for you . . ." He trailed off, leaving Allen staring and showing his helplessness on his face. How could he come back from that? It's an old scenario; the child crying about "something", and the parent knowing it's not real, but knowing there's no honest way to convince them. He hadn't known what to say when Jason was five and he didn't know what to say now at twelve.
"What’s this?"
He leaned over and picked up Jason's pillow from the floor. The center was pressed in, and the fabric wet. "Is this what was on you?" he asked.
Jason looked up, his eyes a question. When he saw the pillow, his face changed.
It couldn't have been this, could it? No, there'd been something on his face, something that pressed down, something that wanted to kill him.
"No," Jason said. "It couldn't have been this. I saw it."
"What did it look like?"
Jason moved his lips, but nothing came out. He tried to say, "A shadow," but with the overhead light on and the pillow in his hands now, was that what it looked like?
"I don't know," he said. "I woke up and it was there. It was pushing something over my face. I couldn't breathe."
"Maybe you dreamed that?" Allen asked. "And when you woke up you had your face buried in the pillow? Or maybe you'd dreamed it because your face was in the pillow? You need to be careful when you sleep," Allen said. "But I think that's more likely what it was, and you'll be okay now. Why don't you leave the pillow on the floor, and go back to sleep?"
He hugged his son and kissed his head. "You okay now? Hmm?"
Jason sat with his legs drawn up, staring at the wet, crumpled pillow. He was trying to make sense of it in his head. He'd been so sure it was something in his room, not a dream. He'd been awake, he knew it, but what his dad said made sense.
"Why don't you get a drink, then go back to bed. You'll be okay now. There's nothing in here." He picked up the pieces of the broken lamp, then dumped them in Jason's trash can. "Good night," he said as he left the room, turning off the light.
Jason sat in the dark with the pillow and the shadows, wondering how he would get back to sleep now. His father's logic aside, the fear still lingered and no matter what had really happened, fear is an eye-opener.
He lay down, pulled the cover up to his shoulder and turned on his side.
His eyes were open, but he saw nothing. He listened for a footstep or the creak of bones in motion. There was breath in his lungs and blood in his head, but nothing moved outside himself. Without seeing them, he watched shadows across the wall, highlighted and made translucent by the occasional headlight.
What had he been dreaming before he woke up? Had it been smothering, or was there another dream, about school or softball, something real? He couldn't remember. He glanced toward the floor and saw his pillow laying there, a dull patch of white in the dark. Was that the monster? If he could remember, he could sleep. Maybe, unless he remembered a dream about something safe and convinced himself the monster had been real. Was it easier to say he'd dreamed it just so he could rest easy and go to sleep? He knew in the light of morning this would all seem ridiculous, something he would never tell his friends about, but how did he convince himself it was ridiculous now?
He sat up, put his back against the headboard and looked around his room.
Not much to see in the dark. His father had left the door open, but the hall was dark, too. Light from outside shone only against one wall. Looking at it the room held nothing evil, nothing that might threaten him. He saw his room, and nothing more.
He'd dreamed it, he decided. Of course it seemed real enough, most dreams did. That's what made nightmares so frightening, bad dreams that seemed real and who wants bad things? So with that he could rest without worry. He could sleep.
He closed his eyes and let his comfort take him down while his mind covered the next day, Saturday. That meant plans with Cory and Denver. If this was Aaron's weekend with his mother, he may be around for a basketball game. Whatever they did it would be bright, cool, and free. Before he knew it, Jason had slipped past that final barrier and into sleep again.
How long that lasted he wouldn't know. He would remember that he didn't wake up to sunshine and birds, but blackness and heat.
There was no dream and no safety in rationale; the thing that came earlier was back and smothering him. This time it was pressing on his face, his chest, holding his body tight together to keep it from flailing and waking someone again.
Jason felt the life in his chest tighten, solidify, expand like concrete inside his body. He struggled against the force holding him still, trying to kick his legs, but the thing was too heavy. He tried to pull his arms free, but the thing was too strong. He tried to move his head, but the thing was too determined.
He wondered, just before everything left him, how his father could have been so wrong. How could the man who'd taught him to tie his shoes, ride a bike and how to swim—how could that man not teach him about monsters?
The blackness over him faded to dirty grey. Breathing didn't seem quite so important anymore. His head pounded.
Jason's body went limp. A hot stinging breath struggled its way into his lungs, a small, insignificant breath. A light appeared over him, a shadow of sound, like something desperate. And the pressure around him eased.
If he'd had time to form another thought, it would have been that his next conscious vision would be of Heaven, and the light when he opened his eyes convinced him that's where he was. But in Heaven no one would be slapping his face and telling him, "Wake up, Jason. Wake up. Please be okay! Please, God, let him be okay!"
Jason blinked and struggled for another breath and this time it came, filling his body like hope. He looked up and saw his mother's face.
Her face shone red and she’d been crying. She leaned over him, looking down. The shadows made her look like someone had painted her face in rouge.
"I told him there was something in here," Jason said. He tried to sit up, but a head rush kept him down. He rolled over instead, closed his eyes and breathed.
"Are you okay?" his mother asked.
"I think so," he said. "I told him."
"Can you get up?"
"Yes."
"Get my phone. I want to stay here."
Phone? Was he still dreaming? The past minute had been like that, with his mother's rouge-covered face, the monster, and now this request. The phone?
"Um. Okay."
She grabbed his hand and helped him up. He squeezed his eyes shut again. He shook his head, regained his balance and looked down. He asked, "Why do you want the phone?" This was a dream. It had to be, simple as that.
"I'm going to call the police," she said.
Jason stepped over his father's unconscious body on the floor, noted the pillow clutched in Allen's hand and went for the phone. He tried to wake himself up, but when that failed, he resigned himself to a truth worse than the monster in his room.
* * *
Stephanie sat on the edge of Jason's bed. The phone rested in her lap, with one hand covering it, ready to pick it up and dial. The other hand clutched a knife.
Allen hadn't moved in ten minutes. She hoped she hadn't killed him. No, he was breathing. And if she had, she'd have a hard time feeling guilty about it. He'd been straddling Jason, pressing a pillow over their son's face. Why?
Jason sat behind her. His back was against the headboard, knees up and feet pulled against him. His arms were wrapped around his legs and every few minutes he asked, "What are you gonna do?" or "What's gonna happen?"
She always answered the same: "I don't know."
It was 11:30 when she came in. She didn’t start nudging him with her foot until midnight. "Wake up, Allen. Allen, wake up. Wake up before I kick your face in, you sorry piece of shit."
He groaned, moved and opened his eyes. The knife loomed near his face, hiding Stephanie, but he heard her voice, "What the hell were you doing in here?"
Allen sat up. He glanced over and saw Jason looking at him and turned back to Stephanie, his face going red. The room temperature jumped ten degrees for him.
"Answer me," she said.
He looked down and mumbled something.
She moved the blade closer to his face and said, "What?"
"You don't want me to do that," he said.
"I don't? No, I think I do."
Allen rubbed his head. What had she hit him with? It didn't feel like he was bleeding, but he’d be lying with his head turned for a while. He sat up and Stephanie stood, putting herself more between Allen and Jason. Allen moved to rest against the wall. He rubbed his eyes, his head again, and sighed.
"If I tell you, Stephanie, you won't believe me."
"You tried to smother our son, Allen. Are you out of your mind?"
"I'm not sure how to explain myself," he said. "Not without sounding crazy."
"Well you'd better give it one hell of a shot," she said. She held up the phone. "Because if you don't tell me you're going to tell the police."
Jason shifted on the bed. When he came back with the phone, she sent him back again for a knife. When he came back with that, he saw his bat lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. He picked it up and it rested next to him now. He kept it by the door, not at the foot of his bed. It must be what his mother used on his dad.
"Believe me," Allen said. "It won't put you at ease."
"I'm going to tell you one more time," she said. "Explain to me what the hell you were doing. Because if you don't, I swear to God . . . " She raised the knife.
"Fine," he said. "But don't say I didn't try. The Blood Bitch came." He stopped and looked at her, as if this alone should have explained it.
"And?" she said. "What does that mean?"
Behind her Jason swallowed. His fingers touched the bat.
"It means she was coming for him. I had to stop her."
"By smothering him? What the hell is a blood bitch anyway?"
"The Blood Bitch is what comes out of the shadows. Hers is the hand you keep your feet under the covers to avoid. She's the monster under the bed and in the closet."
Stephanie didn't have a response. How did you reply to insanity? She didn't know. What she did know, however, was that if Allen didn't make his point soon, she was calling the police and letting them deal with it—yes, yes, she'd call them anyway because he'd tried to kill their son, but before she called she had to know why.
"The Blood Bitch was coming for him, but I knew if I beat her to it I could ease things for him. Believe me; my way was much better than what she would do."
Stephanie put her hand to her face and rubbed her eyes. She sighed.
"You've got three seconds to start making some fucking sense before you're so sorry."
"What do you want me to do, make something up? I'm telling you the Blood Bitch was coming for Jason. She would have done worse things to him than a pillow over his face. It was mercy that brought me in here; it was love for my son. I can't stop her, you can't stop her, the most anyone can do is make it easier on him."
Allen's voice rose with every sentence. He sounded almost panicked.
Stephanie looked back at Jason. "You okay?" she asked. Jason nodded his head and looked back at Allen, desperate to know what his father knew.
"So," Stephanie said, turning back to Allen. "Blood Bitch is a monster. Tell me."
Allen told her what he knew.
* * *
Earliest mention of the Blood Bitch says she was born from an egg like a reptile. There's no mention of a parent or some cosmic event to lead to her birth, there's just the egg. Her story says she fell bloody and screaming to the rocks and that she lay there whining and trying to move, weak from the effort of birth. She couldn't cry out and give voice to her pain because the Blood Bitch was born with no mouth on her face. But she did have a mouth on her stomach, a mute one that opened wide and had many tongues. After a time, the bugs came to see what the still thing was. A cricket was too slow, and the Blood Bitch's stomach opened, and her tongues lashed out, grabbing the insect. The Blood Bitch ate her first meal and sat up. She found more insects and she swallowed as many as she could grab, wrapping her tongues around them and pulling them into her stomach. She lived like that for years, decades, apart from the world.
"There are accounts of her in a half dozen books if you don't believe me," Allen said.
As she grew, so did her food. She went from bugs to small animals, squirrels and birds. In the woods there were wild pigs and eventually she was eating them.
"She'd chase and catch one and just," he shrugged, "pull it into her stomach."
Stephanie stared at him, not sure if he was trying to be clever or if he believed everything he'd said.
"So, this thing comes into people's houses now and . . . eats their children?"
"Something like that."
"And there are stories about her in books, yet she's never been on the news, no one's ever woken up to find their kid gone from their room and said, 'Oh, the Blood Bitch must have gotten 'em.'" She squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head and frowned. "Do you have any idea how stupid that is? Do you think anyone in the world is going to buy that? You came in here to put a pillow over your son's face, and this is what you come up with to explain it?"
"I'm not making it up," he said. "Stephanie, please, I was only trying to make it better for him. She's coming no matter what. See, you don't have to believe in her, because I do. These things don't live in the world we live in. They move through shadows and come and go where they want. They live on fear and myth. They want people to think they're made up; it allows them freedom. If no one believes in them then no one can stop them."
* * *
She looked at him, fuming at his persistence with this stupidity. This wasn't his attempt at explaining himself. This wasn't the best he could come up with. It was stupid, that's all. And then she saw something in his face, a twitch or a set in the jaw, something she couldn't pin down, but something sure enough that made her think, He believes this. And that, for her, made it more impossible to believe. Not that Allen believed it, but that she believed he believed. She'd been ready fifteen minutes ago to condemn him no matter what he said, but he told his story with such conviction she couldn't help but wonder.
If no one believes in them, then no one can stop them.
"Jason, can you get me a bottle of water?" she asked.
When he left, she leaned close so she could keep her voice down and still be heard.
"So where is she? If she's coming, I don't see her."
"She won't come into the light. I told you, they live in darkness."
"Who's 'they'?"
"All the things you ever thought were under your bed or in your closet. All the things you feel in the dark."
"So if she won't come out in the light, we'll just keep the light on all night and in the morning everything will be fine."
He shook his head.
"If not tonight, then tomorrow."
"Then we'll take Jason and go somewhere else."
"She'll find him."
"Why do you have to contradict me?"
"I'm just telling you what I know."
"What makes you the expert?"
Jason came back with the bottle. He handed it to her, and she took a drink. Jason sat on the edge of the bed. He'd taken the bat with him to the kitchen and now it rested between his legs. He sat and listened, not sure what to say or do, scared his dad was right, scared he wasn't. If he were right, something Jason couldn't imagine would be coming for him and that terrified him. If he was wrong, then his father had just tried to kill him, and he thought that might be worse.
"I'm not an expert," Allen said. "I told you, there are books."
"Show me one," Stephanie said.
"In the garage."
She paused for a second, then asked, "Why in the garage?"
"I didn't want you to be worried, if you found it and read it."
"Where in the garage?"
"In my toolbox."
Jason's room faced the backyard. Through his window Stephanie could see the garage. It was dark. That's how the Blood Bitch traveled, Allen said. So she would go herself and Jason would stay inside, in the light.
"Jason," she said, "stay where you are, but keep your hands on the bat. He flinches, you hit him. Do you understand?"
Jason looked at her. He understood, but he didn't reply. He glanced at his father, then at his mother and down to the floor.
"I'll be right back."
When Stephanie left Jason wanted to ask his father why he'd done it. If the Blood Bitch was real and why she'd chosen him. He tried to ask, but nothing came out and he realized he didn't want to know the answers to any of those questions.
He heard a noise outside and flinched. He looked out the window and saw only his mother going into the garage.
He lost himself in the view, the garage, the streetlamp, the yard. That middle of the night calm hung over the world. The noise of his mother opening the door, even muffled through the bedroom window, was an unwelcome break in the silence.
His mind wandered then, remembering his plans for tomorrow and that made him wonder if Denver had a Blood Bitch waiting for him. If he did, what would Denver's father do? Did his father know about it? And if Denver one day was just . . . gone, how would that be handled? Jason shivered, then rubbed his arms, feigning a chill in the air. He came back to reality when his father spoke.
"You know I'd never do anything to hurt you on purpose, don't you?"
Jason looked at him and wanted to ask, Then how did we get here with you on the floor and me holding the bat? But he couldn't make the words come so he remained quiet.
"I swear to you, Jason, I'm telling the truth and I wish to God I knew how to stop it, but I don't. The only thing I can do is try to spare you from what would happen otherwise."
Don't tell me these things, Jason thought. Why do you have to warn me about it if it's going to be so terrible? What did I ever do, he wanted to know. What makes me so special she wants to come for me? Why not Denver? Or Aaron? His parents were divorced anyway. With Aaron gone, they could stop dealing with each other and get on with their lives, right? Why Jason? And before he could go any further with this, his mother burst into the room.
* * *
She wasn't holding a book, but she did have a small brown bottle in her hand.
"What the hell is this?" she asked, staring at Allen.
"That's nothing," he said. "Did you find the book? Did you read the part about the Blood Bitch? You see now, don't you?"
"No, I didn't find any book, but I did find these, and I asked you what they were?"
"Those are nothing, like I said. Are you sure there wasn't a book? I put it in the bottom drawer. It should have been there. Unless someone came and took it."
With his mother back, Jason retreated to his bed, the bat clutched in his hand and resting on his legs.
"That's what happened," his father said. "Someone knew I was close to knowing everything I needed to about the Blood Bitch and they came and took the book. There must have been something in it I wasn't supposed to see. Some connection I hadn't made, but the facts were there. What am I not seeing?"
Stephanie closed in on him and leaned into his face.
"Allen, there was no book. There was no room for a book. No one came and took a book. What are these for?" She held the pill bottle in his face again, rattling the pills inside.
He stared at her, but didn't answer, his face defiant.
She turned it and read the label. "Risperdal? What's this for, Allen?"
Again, he refused to answer. He looked past her to Jason. The boy was scared, that was easy to tell, but Allen couldn't say why. If asked he'd have said Jason should be scared of the Blood Bitch because the second the light went off, she'd be here, pulling Jason screaming and bloody into the mouth in her torso. And if Stephanie insisted on hindering her any longer the Bitch would be after her, too. It had crossed his mind once he decided to take Jason off the Bitch's block that she might come to him next. He wasn't worried about that, because he kept a gun under his side of the bed and if she came to him, he'd make sure he was dead before she had the chance to take the first bite. But Stephanie didn't believe and there was no helping her unless Allen could find a way to calm everyone into going back to bed. Then he'd just take care of them all, himself included, and when the Blood Bitch came, she'd find no victims.
She brandished the knife and said, "I'm asking you once more. What's Risperdal for? If you don't know I'm sure Dr. Gronniger will. He's the one who prescribed it, right? His name's on the label, here."
But he wouldn't be bullied, and he knew the knife was a bluff. He'd remained acquiescent because she'd caught him off guard, but this had gone on long enough.
He wanted to snatch the knife and push her to the floor. He had readied himself for that move—but she backed away.
She held up the phone and dialed. After a second, she said, "I need the number for Dr. R. Gronniger?" A pause. "In Copley." A pause. "Home, please."
Her mouth moved, trying to memorize the number, then she hung up and dialed again.
After a few rings—she counted four—a very tired woman's voice answered, "Hello?"
"Yeah, I'm calling for Doctor Gronniger? My husband is a patient of his."
"This is Doctor Gronniger," the woman said. "Who's the patient?"
Stephanie looked at Allen. She'd given him a chance to tell her and he'd refused. She hadn't wanted to wake this woman, but she had to know just what the hell was going on.
"His name's Allen Foster. Um, we've had a kind of an incident here. I found a prescription bottle with Risperdal in it; I was wondering if you could tell me what it's for?"
She heard the sound of the woman moving, probably getting up from the bed, maybe turning on a light.
"Risperdal. Yes, Allen, I know him. And he hasn't told you about the prescription?"
"No," Stephanie said. "He's right here and I've asked him, but he refuses to answer."
"May I talk to him?"
Stephanie shrugged and said, "I'll try." She held the phone out and Allen looked at it. He didn't take it at first, but it hung there insistently so he grabbed it.
"Hello?" A pause as he listened. "No, Dr. Gronniger, I know, but . . . No, it's just . . . Yes, but they weren't doing me any good, other than the impotence and I took the . . . Yes, I know what we discussed, I was there—," a pause, and he was becoming agitated, "No I am calm, but you don't underst—," a pause, he sighed, "Yes, I know, but you're not here and you don't see the things . . . all right, goodbye." He hung up and set the phone next to him.
Stephanie stared at him, her eyes a question, until he said, "She said don't worry about it and in the morning everything will be fine."
The phone rang and Stephanie moved quicker than Allen, bending and grabbing it before he had time to even register it had rung.
"Hello?"
"This is Doctor Gronniger, I'm calling for Allen Foster's wife, is this her?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Foster, I can't believe your husband hasn't told you or that you haven't figured something out sooner, but apparently he's hidden it very well—which I guess should be seen as a good sign, but it doesn't take away the reality. Your husband suffers from schizophrenia. His signs are what are called positive signs. He suffers hallucinations, delusions, which we’ve been treating for quite a while now with the Risperdal. He believes he sees monsters, most notably what he calls the Blood Bitch—"
"Yes," Stephanie said, "I'm becoming familiar with the phrase."
"Your husband's delusions make him believe these creatures exist. He also believes that these creatures derive their power from the belief of their victims. If someone believes in the monster, it becomes real. And your husband, due to his illness, believes. So for him the danger they pose is real."
"He tried to smother our son with a pillow tonight."
Jason shifted on the bed. He swallowed and his throat felt dry.
"Oh, no," Doctor Gronniger said. "Did he say why?"
"He said the Blood Bitch was going to come after Jason—our son—and that smothering him would be a more gentle fate than what was in store for him."
"That's horrible. I'm so sorry. The way he talked, it was as if he'd integrated his medication into his life, as if everyone in the house was aware and supportive."
"No," Stephanie said. "This is the first I've heard of it."
"Mrs. Foster, you've got to get your husband to Corinthians Hospital. He's obviously off his medication and until we get him back on it I think it's best if he's out of the home."
Stephanie glanced back at Jason and before she could turn around Allen lunged for her. He knocked the phone from her hand. It hit the floor and slid across to the wall. He had her by the neck with one hand, the other wrapped around her wrist, keeping the knife away from him.
"You're not letting her in here," he said. "She'll get in on her own, believe it, but you are not inviting her in. You want her to take him, don't you? You want him gone and then you'll be free to—"
Stephanie kneed him in the crotch and Allen went down on all fours.
"Don't you ever touch me again!" she screamed, batting him with her fists. Their arms were a whir of flesh. Stephanie swatted him and Allen moved in defense.
Jason sat to the side and watched with the bat clutched so tightly that his fingers were white and aching, but he couldn't make them loosen up.
"Jason," his mother said, "get next door and wait for me. Call the police."
Jason shot off the bed in a blink, trying to get past them without giving his father the chance to grab him. He skirted the outside, but they were so close to the door he wondered if he'd make it. In the end he did, but his father still reached out for him and almost had him. His mother's fist to the side of the head halted that.
Jason ran down the hall with the bat in his hands. He flew out the front door and into the wet grass, slipping once in his hurry, but he was up again before he knew it. The neighbors were the Retnas on one side and Whitakers on the other. He headed for the Whitakers' house for no reason other than it was the direction he went. He hopped their fence and pounded on the door, yelling, "Wake up, wake up, call the police! Let me in!"
Heavy sleepers, the Whitakers, because he kept pounding, but they didn't answer. He considered, briefly, using the bat. A light came on inside and a voice mumbled, "What the hell is all that—" and then Allen grabbed his son, slapped a hand over his mouth, picked him up and carried him across to their own yard, around the house, into the back yard. In the shock of his father's attack, Jason had dropped the bat.
Through his own muffled screams and squirming Jason heard the front door open and Mr. Whitaker say something—he couldn't make out what—then close the door again.
His father's arms were tight around him. Allen's palm pressed against Jason's mouth, rough and smelling of soap. "Shh," Allen whispered into Jason's ear. "Shh. In the dark she can get you. Listen for her."
Jason wished he could open his mouth, then he'd bite his dad's hand, bite his fingers right the hell off if he had to. What struggling he did, amounted to nothing; his father was too strong for him, too worked up, too determined. The hand covering his mouth became a pressurized seal and Jason had to breathe through his nose—until Allen's thumb came up and pinched it off.
"You can't imagine the things she'll do to you," Allen whispered. "I've read about it. Your mother says there's no book, but I know there is. Someone's taken it. But I read the important parts and believe you me, the Blood Bitch is vicious. She doesn't just eat you. She rips you apart in the process. The mouth in her stomach has six tongues and three rows of teeth, all pointed. It's big enough to pull a person your size into. That's why she comes after children, they fit better. But I knew she was coming; I saw her outside the house tonight. I won't let her take my son. You're safe with me. I love you and I'll be damned if the Blood Bitch is going to get you. Just sit quiet here. We can't stop her, but we can spoil her plan, you and me. Just sit quiet. Shh."
Allen listened and heard only crickets. He looked and saw only the back yard, empty of monsters. He felt his son's limp body in his arms, and he looked down. Jason was unconscious. He still felt warmth and a heartbeat, so he wasn't dead yet, but he would be if Allen held on tight and Allen was determined to do just that because there was no way the Blood Bitch would take his son away from him.
He heard movement in the bushes and looked up to see her coming out, coming toward him, her naked body shining and full of curves, the mouth in her stomach splitting like a wound and opening wide to reveal the angry teeth.
Cold metal against the back of his head and a voice said, "Freeze!" before the Blood Bitch vanished and Allen began crying.
What seemed like a swarm of police emerged from everywhere behind him, their hands clutching, arms pulling, guns drawn and voices yelling to let go of Jason, but Allen had seen her, she'd come out and wasn't happy. Someone pulled Jason's body from his grasp and not without a strong effort on their part, but Allen kept his eyes on the bushes. That's where she'd come from. Jason went to the ground, and someone turned him over, checked his pulse, began work on him.
They tried to turn Allen around, but he craned his head back, watching the bushes. If they brought Jason back, she'd return. His hands were behind his back. Lights flashed in the front yard. Stephanie stood to the side, crying like there'd be no tomorrow.
He glanced at her just for a second as he was stuffed into the car—she would never understand, he knew that—then back to the yard, the bushes, waiting, watching for the Blood Bitch. She'd come, then gone, because Allen had beat her. She would never take his son.
––––––––
END