“He is my friend! He found my puppy!” she cried, and yanked her arm free.

“No, don’t go to him!” Carlton pleaded.

*  *  *

John.

“Get back!” John screamed and jolted awake, swinging his arms up to block an attack and jerking back. His head cracked against the cabinet behind him. “Ow.” He groaned, regaining awareness of where he was. He rolled over, holding his side gingerly, then held perfectly still, tilting his head to listen. Silence reverberated through the space, weighing down the room with emptiness. “Charlie,” he whispered, everything that had happened rushing back all at once. The hallway. John pulled himself to his feet with a sick dread, bracing himself against the cabinet door. His right foot gave way as soon as he put weight on it, pain shooting up through his ankle, and he put a hand against the wall for balance, then hopped on his left foot to reach the door.

He crashed hard against the doorframe, wincing as his ribs flared with pain, then squinted, trying to see in the dark. “Charlie!” he called. The closet door was open, and he could see figures inside, but he couldn’t make out anything distinct. He made his way to the closet, leaning on the wall and trying to ignore his throbbing ankle. It was difficult to see through the hanging coats; and he began to shove them aside, then stopped abruptly, scarcely avoiding the blade of a massive knife—almost a sword—pointed directly at him. He blinked as his eyes adjusted: the blade was connected to an extended metal arm—the figure he had first thought was holding the knife had instead been run through with it, and behind that was something else—something familiar. He backed away, bending to look at the inhuman face of the creature impaled on the knife.

He stared for a moment, his face growing hot, then suddenly he turned away and doubled over, overcome with a wave of nausea. He dropped to his knees and retched, his ribs screaming protest as he heaved, but there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. He gasped, trying make it stop, but his stomach clenched and spasmed until he felt like he would be turned inside out.

When at last it began to abate, John rested his forehead against the wall, his eyes watering. Light-headed, he got to his feet, feeling as if years had passed. He did not look into the closet again.

John limped toward the door, grinding his teeth with every step, but he did not stop moving until he was outside the house, and he did not look back.

*  *  *