“Oh, I like this one,” it said, flicking the bottle out like a splinter. It grabbed Riley by the throat, lifted her until her feet dangled. “You have good fear. Smoky. Spicy. And your brother…” It turned its head 180 degrees to stare at Jamie. “He smells like vanilla. Sweet. I’ll save him for dessert.”
It reached for Jamie. Riley lunged, driving the broken bottle into its shoulder. Black ichor sprayed. The creature didn’t scream. It laughed—a high, wet, wheezing laugh. Jeepers Creepers
“I’ve been waiting for fresh ones.” “Oh, I like this one,” it said, flicking
It lunged. Riley shoved Jamie through the church’s broken door and slammed it shut. The wood splintered instantly as a claw punched through, retracted, punched again. They scrambled over pews, into the dusty apse. A stained-glass window of a saint watched them with serene, indifferent eyes. “He smells like vanilla
The last thing they heard, fading into the static of the radio, was a single, scratchy line: