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“A FACE IN THE WINDOW,” Jones said, pointing to the attic window. “I swear I saw it, someone’s up there.”
“Don’t be silly.” Marsha said, pulling a suitcase from the trunk. She looked at her husband and placed a hand on her back. “Could you help?”
He glanced at her bulging belly and pulled out the rest. Marsha’s cell rang, and she put it on speaker.
“It’s mom, I saw the pictures. You should have waited to get married until after you had the baby, you look like a beluga whale after a seafood buffet.”
“Thanks, mom.” Marsha rolled her eyes. Jones grabbed the luggage and hauled it inside.
He left it in the entry and looked around. Marsha wanted to have a hideaway honeymoon, far from technology and people. Though the closest town was thirty minutes away, her cell phone magically still worked. Jones went upstairs and looked around. Another stairway stood halfway down the hall, he stopped at the bottom.
“The attic,” he muttered. “Someone’s up there.”
He crept up. At the top stood a door unlike the rest of the interior. The other levels had rich mahogany. This door looked weathered like it had been beaten by harsh rains and wind. He reached for the doorknob and jerked back. Heat radiated from the metal, not hot enough to burn, but hot enough to give him a start.
Suddenly aware of his pounding heart, Jones swallowed hard.
“Jones!” Marsha yelled. “Where are you?”
He let out the breath he was holding and turned around.
“Upstairs,” he yelled. The door swung open and Jones turned around. Gray-green hands crawled from within the too-dark depths. Ligaments showed where the skin had fallen away. They crawled closer to him. Jones stumbled backward. His breath caught in his throat. He groped for the railing as he fell. His head struck the stairs, and all went dark.
He awoke at the bottom of the stairs. His head felt like it had exploded, his neck shrieked with pain. He rubbed his sore spots and got to his feet. Looking out the window, at the long shadows, he realized a few hours had passed. The door on the third floor had closed.
“Marsha?” He called. Why hadn’t she come when he fell?
He limped down the stairs, hissing against pain in his ankle. The door at the end of the hall stood open. Marsha lay on the bed, very still. Jones limped down the hall and stopped in the doorway. The bedspread by her legs covered in blood, Marsha’s eyes stared, glazed and vacant. He watched her round belly as it pulsed, like the beat of a heart. The skin split like an overripe tomato and a dead hand poked its fingers through. Jones gagged and stumbled back against the wall. A scraping sound came from the hallway. He chanced a glance as dozens of hands crawled through the door, searching. He looked back at Marsha as the hand from her belly, covered in blood and tissue, leaped at his throat.
