The bell rings, drawing Kyle’s attention to the front of the diner. He walks in, the soft ocean breeze following him through the door. Once inside, he stands by the door for a few moments before heading back to his usual booth. Daws hands Kyle a glass of water and turns back to the tuna melt he’s preparing. “It’ll be ready in a minute,” he says.
Kyle glides across the room, feet barely touching the floor. Dropping the glass onto the table she says, “I thought you weren’t coming tonight. I mean”—she holds her wrist in front of her face, checking her non-existent watch—“it’s 8:06. You’re so late it might as well be tomorrow.” She grins at the side of his head.
She knows he won’t respond—won’t even turn to look at her—but she doesn’t care. She’s still riding high on the feel of her fingers laced with Colter’s as they lay in the bed together. The press of his lips to her forehead before he left. The sly, knowing looks they shared across Mr. Branscom’s classroom as they worked their brushes over the canvas.
She looks over her shoulder to the kitchen. Daws is prepping his plate—it’ll be ready in a few seconds. It’s now or never. “I see you, you know,” she says, and she knows he’s listening even without any indication. “In my dreams. You’ve been coming for years now. Who are you?”
He sits so still she can’t be sure he’s breathing. Only his fingers move, infinitesimal flexing of the muscles pressing the tips into the tabletop. The skin on his temples crinkles with the squint of his eyes.
Daws gets to the table with his sandwich just as the bell chimes again. An old woman stands inside the door, clutching an umbrella. Rings adorn every finger, and her neck is laden with necklaces of multiple lengths. Her clothes, old and dingy, cling to her skeletal frame. Her face shows shadows of her former beauty, wrinkles and crevasses framing lively eyes. Kyle leaves Daws with the silent man and heads toward the door.
The woman’s voice is frail and shaky. “I am sorry, miss. Were you closing?”
“No, ma’am. Come on in. Let’s get you a table.” Kyle leads her to a booth near the kitchen.
Despite her frail appearance and weak voice, the woman seems to have all the strength of youth left in her. Her gait is strong and sure, unlike the shift and shuffle of many her age. She takes her seat, and Kyle hands her a menu. Their hands brush.
The old woman recoils from the touch. Horror spreads across her features, and she presses herself against the back of the bench. Kyle sets the menu on the table hesitantly and turns back to the kitchen. Daws is standing at the grill.
“What was that all about?” he asks, gesturing toward the woman’s table.
Kyle shrugs. “No idea.”
“Well, darlin’, why don’t you just take her some water and get outta here. I’ll handle her.”
“Are you sure?” Kyle turns to look at the clock above the office door. “We don’t close—”
“Please,” he interrupts, “you really think I can’t handle an old woman and Ginger over there? Besides, you’ve been itching to leave all night.”
Blood heats Kyle’s cheeks. “I didn’t realize I was that obvious.”
Daws’ deep laugh booms through the room. “You definitely shouldn’t pursue a career in theater then. Give Old Mother Hubbard her water and go see whoever has that smile plastered on your face.”
“Thanks, D.” Kyle fills a glass with water and heads back to dining room. The old woman’s gaze locks on Kyle as soon as the kitchen door opens and never leaves her as she walks to the table. She avoids the woman’s eyes as she sets the glass down.
She is halfway to the door when the woman’s icy grip seizes her wrist. A blinding blow comes down on the right side of her head, followed immediately by a second. Kyle tries to back away, to turn, run, anything, but her feet are glued to the floor. She twists and jerks again as a third blow glances across her forehead. A warm rush of blood flows around her eyebrow and down her cheek.
Kyle’s head spins; her senses are numb. Through the haze, she can see the old woman’s umbrella as it’s lifted once more. The woman grows taller, towers over her as Kyle crumples to the floor. The pain of her face hitting the tile is overshadowed by the searing jab of the umbrella tip into her ribcage. She rolls onto her back and looks through blood and tears at the woman.
Daws rushes through the door to the kitchen as the woman pulls the umbrella back again. His arms wrap fully around her body, trapping both her arms in his hug. The woman spits on Kyle, mixing her saliva with the blood.
“The jaws of hell shall open up and swallow you whole.” Her voice is no longer weak. “For all eternity you will suffer and burn with your creator. You deserve no life on this earth. You deserve only death, as your kind is already dead. You will pay for the abomination you are.” She spits again. “Filthy cambion.”
Kyle’s vision blurs, and the scene before her unfolds in fragmented flashes: Daws pulling the woman away; a shadow falling across Kyle; a flash of orange; arms wrapping around her body, pulling her tight; the crisp smell of air right before a snowfall.
And then nothing.
YOU ARE READING
Incubus, Episode One
Teen FictionAll Kyle Prideaux wants is a normal life. But with a serial killer in town, murdering women the same way her mother died seven years ago, and a silent stalker watching her during the day and invading her dreams at night, normal is impossible. After...
