If he did, Philip would crack Brian’s head open. In fact, Brian was free to cough his fucking head off-it would draw out the monsters-but Brian better not give his goddamn cold to Philip’s little girl. Brian’s younger brother Philip told him it was okay to cough in the closet.
Plastic coat bags hang down in the darkness, brushing the sides of Brian’s face. The closet-barely four feet wide, and maybe three feet deep-is as dark as an inkwell, and it reeks of mothballs, mouse droppings, and old cedar. He sees tracings of light with each cough-like tiny filigrees of fireworks across his blind pupils. He knows the sound of his rasping is attracting all kinds of attention outside the closet door, out in the convolutions of the house, but there’s nothing he can do about it. And now he feels the pounding stab of a fever with each cough.ĭoubling over in another hacking, wheezing fit, he keeps his hands pressed down on little Penny’s ears as he coughs. The dampness gets into his bones, saps his energy, and steals his breath. It happens to him every fall, when the Georgia days start getting dank and gloomy. For days he has been fighting this goddamn cold, a stubborn blight on his joints and sinuses that he cannot shake. Then comes the silence, broken only by the sticky sound of boot steps on bloody tile, and a flurry of angry whispers out in the vestibule.īrian starts coughing again. The seven-year-old keeps shuddering in his arms, jerking at the intermittent THWACK-GAHHHH-THUMP outside the closet. Sadly, the only hands Brian currently owns are busy right now, covering the tiny ears of a little girl in the closet next to him. It occurs to Brian Blake as he huddles in the musty darkness, the terror constricting his chest, the pain throbbing in his knees: If only he possessed a second pair of hands, he could cover his own ears, and maybe block out the noise of human heads being demolished.
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