“Take her out!” Jules was told. So he did. It was a nice clean shot too. But then his boss phoned to ask if his wife was having a good time.
The monster oozes from the closet, slinks past Tim’s bed to Jon’s. It pulses wetly. Jon sobs, “No, Timmy!” It writhes, slurps. Tim smiles.
The first wave of attacks only maimed the humans. Further research determined the best way to a man’s heart was through his rib cage.
“He was a saint, an inspiration! Father Joe will be missed.” We lied through counterfeit smiles and timorous skin for the entire funeral.
From the apartment’s stairwell, sodium-lit from the streetlamps, came a strident scream — which all heard, but to which no one responded.
Two lovers in a rowboat. My wife and her assistant. Their lake is oil dark, still, but dangerous. Like me.