Her Terrifying Love

Part 93

The city lights were a welcome sight. The horrors buried on that godforsaken hill were now behind them hopefully, forever. 

Lyla glanced at Jack who was slumped against the passenger door. 

"Jack?" she called.

She couldn't tell if he was breathing. She nudged his thigh and raised her volume. "Jack!"

"Unnnnnnn," he mumbled.

"We should go straight to the hospital."

"No." He spoke in a fading voice. "Just get me... home." He rolled his head in her direction. He didn't even look like Jack. His eyelids drooped, his face was pale and swollen.

"You need a doctor," she said.

"Take me home." His voice dropped off. He slurred a whisper of incoherent speech.

Now, on a well-lit street, she could see that his shirt was like a sponge that had absorbed its capacity in blood. 

"My God!" she cried.

In a barely audible voice, he whispered, "No... hospital."

Tears cascaded down her cheeks. She'd nearly lost Jack when he slipped from the edge of the cliff. 

After all this, don't let him die now.

She steered the car to the curb in front of her house and wiped her eyes. 

"I'm gonna put the tools in the shed, she whispered. "I'll be right back. You gonna be okay?"

He responded with a weak uncoordinated nod.

She slipped out of the car and gently closed the door. Apparently, her dad hadn't seen the car in front of the house. He hadn't come to the window. Hopefully, she could return the tools undetected. She crept to the back bumper, and quietly popped the trunk.

BANG! A cold, strong hand clamped her windpipe shut. 

Lyla's eyes bulged, she couldn't utter a sound.

Lying in the pit of the trunk, was Keenan, or rather, what remained of Keenan, a decaying cadaver with sunken cheeks, and drawn, thin lips. The terrifying demonic eyes set deep in his sockets burned like glowing embers.

She tore frantically at his arm, desperate to escape his chokehold. Chunks of rotting flesh fell from his twisted ligaments, his grip like a vice, tightening.

Her arms went limp. Her brain and her body were shutting down.

Then she noticed that Keenan held something in his other hand. He raised his arm to show her a beating heart that was slowly dying. THUMP-THUMP... THUMP-thuump ......... thuuuuuump-thuuuuump..........

He cackled a throaty laugh.

Her knees buckled. Just before she blacked out, she saw Jack leaning against the car, his face as white as milk. Keenan had ripped the heart from Jack's chest leaving a gaping, ragged hole.

Lyla bolted out of the nightmare. She stood beside her bed, shaking, her chest heaved, her pulse pounded. She clenched her eyes and repeated her mantra. 

"He's gone. It was just a dream. He's dead and buried. It's over. It's over."

No amount of cognitive behavioral therapy could help her escape the constant threat of Keenan lurking in the shadowy corners of her dreams. Sometimes JoJo, too. It would be a long time before she could sleep peacefully. 

Maybe never.