“Jamie! The lighter!” Riley choked out.

The cellar exploded in a ball of white fire. The creature shrieked—a sound that split the air, that shattered the remaining stained-glass window, that sent every bird for a mile into panicked flight. It thrashed, wings flaming, and crashed up through the church floor, taking half the roof with it.

A body. Or what was left of one. A man in a tattered postal worker’s uniform, his back arched at an unnatural angle. His eyes were gone—two wet, hollow sockets staring at the stars. And from his open mouth, the song continued, a recording stitched into his vocal cords.

They drove until dawn. They didn’t speak. They didn’t cry. They just drove. And twenty-three years later, Riley still checks her backseat every time she gets in the car. She still locks the doors before the sun goes down. And she still wakes up some nights, sure she hears it—flap, flap, flap—just outside the window, waiting for the next spring.

And then she saw it. A loose board in the wall behind the creature. Beyond it, a glint of metal. An old fuel oil tank.

“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.”