text: [Themes: horror]
  
  Collectively, you all agree to stay with the Father. Grandpa takes off, moving with an air of grace seemingly too spry for the old man's age. "This way," Father Mark ushers towards the nearest bedroom, in this case, the guest room. He waves his arms in such a way that he might as well be finding you empty pew seats on a Sunday morning. Down the hall, another light flickers, then explodes into a burst of light and glass: The Little Mermaid night light.
  
  When you arrive in, Father Mark slams the door shut. "What the fu...dge is happening?" you mother bursts out, taking a corrective course on her word choice.
  
  "Susan is plagued by inner demons," Mark explains. "It's happened before, and I didn't think it'd happen again." Dad is solemn, taking in the news and the events that just transpired, the target of the ailment, his birth mother.
  
  "The table," you say. Four heads turn in your direction questioningly. "The table from the video," you repeat, scouring the wicker basket for the VHS tape. You find the blank white box at the bottom and tear it open. Caught by surprise, you fumble the tape. Instead of 1973, which was written on the side, it says:
  
  "What the fuck," your dad says, completing the full word unlike your mother. He snatches the tape from your hand, gripping it with a hand at each end and snaps it in half. Plastic pieces and film roll onto the floor, pouring from the inside of the VHS like entrails.
  
  White noise suddenly fills the room at deafening levels. The TV compliments the sound with internal mechanisms moving and locking into place, the screen stuck in its static black and white state. Emma screams again, noticing that no one is near the TV buttons. This time, Father Mark comforts her.
  
  Pounding appears at the door, booming into the room like thunderous footsteps, steady, four times in cadence. The TV cracks, loosening its surge of white noise, and quiets down.
  
  Father, son, and the holy grandchildren. My, my what a treat.
  
  The voice projects from the TV speaker. It holds a hint of your grandmother's tone, but is paired with a deeper, scratchier voice as if the two are speaking simultaneously.
  
  "You'll not harm Susan any longer, demon!" Father Mark shouts, then begins speaking memorized prayers in latin, ones that he's prepared beforehand. Both his hands clasp at his heart, and his eyes remain shut completely.
  
  HA HA HA you'd have the same effect reading from the slut's book.
  
  The voice rings again, causing a jump from your mother who rightly interpreted herself as the subject. "That does it," she utters, more to herself, and briskly walks to the TV to hit the power button. As soon as her finger hits the ON/OFF button,
  A mother has eyes in the back of her head
  the screen bursts into a shower of glass, as if a stray foul ball finding a window.
  
  Your mother screams.
  
  She covers her eyes with her hands, and still, you can see drops of red flowing from underneath matching the color of the VHS tape writing. "I can't see, I can't see, I can't see, I can't..." she repeats over and over and over, her voice flaring with emotional strife. All of you huddle around her. The bedroom door swings open as if by a gust of wind, with so much force the knob buries itself in the drywall.
  
  No lights shine through the doorway. Whatever lights were on in the house before are all off. Outside, rain pelts down on the roof, the break in volume allowing the sound to be heard. Even the sun, sitting behind a thick storm cloud layer, offers no evening light to the cottage. Through your mother's cries, and soft drops of rain, the doorway invites you to walk through.
  
  > walk through the door
  The doorway invites you in, promising hope of escape. You're slightly comforted by the fact either choice will likely have the same outcome. Who's to say the guest room is safe? It's obviously not. Your grandfather is still out there, and you figure he's your best chance at survival. As you're approaching the doorway, your father stops you.
  
  "Son, where do you think you're going?" he speaks, a question one you've heard before, usually when going to meet your friends or hang out with the neighbor girl, Sydney. The tone, the one from a place of authority is gone. Instead, a strained curiosity cuts through, which allows you to address him as equals. The situation calls for it.
  
  "Grandpa is still out there," you say. As you begin to explain yourself further, not that you need to, Father Mark interjects.
  
  "The kid's right. The old man and I've been through a lot, and we're better off saving Susan together. Stay put. The kid and I will be back, you have my word."
  
  Father Mark takes point, and you follow closely behind. You exit from the light into the dark, allowing Father Mark's faith to act as courage for you both. The shed is down the hallway, out the back door, and across the overgrown yard. Mentally, you estimate the steps to arrive. It can't be more than two or three hundred. No that far, especially--
  
  --a young girl stands in front of the back door, dressed in a cute blue dress along with white stockings running up her legs. Her blonde hair is curled at the tips in an old-fashioned way, in the manner you'd expect from someone decades ago. She stands, unmoving, holding a stuffed animal. In this case, a rabbit.
  
  "Do you want to fuck me, Father?" she innocently asks, giving the stuffed rabbit a little swing ending with a tight squeeze. "Do you want to tie me up and rip off my clothes and feel my tight pussy? That's what all you men want, huh?"
  
  "What? No, I--" Father Mark is taken aback by the girl's questions.
  
  "My daddy likes it. I bet you'll like it too. Your friend standing behind you can have me next. Here, how's this?" The girl's hair suddenly appears in two pigtails. "There, that's better. 'Suzy, show your daddy how much you love him.' I let him run his hand up my leg, finding my cotton panties. They're soft, want to feel? They'll make you stiff. They made daddy stiff. He showed me, shoved it in me, sprayed it on me. Daddy likes it. You'll like it too."
  
  On her last word, the girl leaps forward, brought upon by a power, allowing her to travel the 15 foot gap like she's playing hopscotch. Mid-air, dark bags flash underneath her eyes, her face twisting back into an elderly state, while still keeping the girl's body. You duck to the side. Father Mark isn't as quick.
  
  > keep searching for Grandpa
  There's nothing you can do to help Father Mark. He's as good as dead. You are, too, if you stay to help. Your family is depending on you. Silently apologizing, you break for the back door. It's normally sticky self doesn't cause you any issue this time. You rip that sucker open in a single pull and slam it behind you.
  
  Outside, dark gray clouds circle overhead, dropping their contents on the earth. Wet streaks fill the air coupled with gusts of wind, sending the overgrown grass to the side as if some invisible force was sitting on top. Lighting flashes, briefly illuminating the gray world into daylight. You continue running across the grass towards the shed and slip through the shed doors.
  Inside, your grandfather is huddled over the workbench. "This is the worst I've ever seen it," he utters, not turning your direction.
  
  "Mom's been hurt! Father Mark is...gone," you manage to say, not sure where to start and how to convey the scenes you just witnessed.
  
  "That thing leaves me no choice," your grandfather says, turning around, the whites of his knuckles firmly locking a woodcutter's axe into place. "It's happened before, and if I don't end it, it'll happen again."
  
  Your grandfather's demeanor for the implication of his statement is rather calm, like he decided the course of action long ago. He continues. "Back in '73, something happened. I don't know what exactly. I was a military man, as your father told you. Returning from the jungle of Vietnam, something was different. She was different, like the demons of her past had finally caught up and taken the driver's seat."
  
  He pauses a moment to inspect the knife at his belt. Satisfied with the M7 bayonet, a tool from his past, a place of war, struggle, and hard decisions, he thrusts it back in its sheath. Fitting that it's at his side, now, that he finds himself back, now that the thing is back. War was supposed to change him. He was the one supposed to come back affected, needing his wife's comfort and soothing. Instead, he returned to find the thing inhabiting Susan. He would make it pay. Still, there's the kid.
  
  Your grandfather fishes in his pockets and pulls out a set of keys, one that looks different from the one you've noticed attached to his belt loop. He tosses them to you. An outdated version of the Dodge logo is emblemed on the largest key.
  
  "Can you drive stick?" your grandfather asks.
  
  You nod. "I'm practicing on an old Accord Dad has."
  
  A laugh briefly escapes your grandfather's lips, despite the circumstance. "This baby has a little more torque. She sticks on gear three, take it easy."
  
  "I don't understand--" you begin to say.
  
  "Keep it running in the front yard. If you don't see anyone in five minute's time, drive away. I mean it. Get the hell out of here and don't look back. Five minutes. Then go."
  
  Your grandfather rests the woodcutter's axe on one shoulder and exits the shed, crossing through the overgrown backyard, heading for the house, for the thing, for his Susan.
  
  > do as he says
  You watch the old man, your grandfather, approach the house, holding his axe casually like it's just another day. He passes through long strands of grass, dancing in the wind. Your fingers feel the keys in your palm, noticing the ridges and smooth patterns of the aged Dodge logo. The ring consists of two keys: one for the car, and the other is smaller like it's meant for a padlock or mailbox.
  
  The shed doesn't have an automatic door, so you quickly run to the wooden double doors and swing them open. They glide open seamlessly, without so much of a squeak or
  scratch
  squeal from lack of oil. Then, you move to the driver's door of the '73 Rallye. Same thing, only the car door requires more umph to pull open. The wheel is different than you're used to. It's thinner, but also larger with ridges in the back for finger placement.
  
  Ignition.
  
  The beast roars to life, a pump on the gas aiding, your right hand finding a home on the stick, its typical lollipop shape replaced with a model chamber of a revolver. The roar slowly turns into a growl, like the warning sound of a tiger hunting in the jungle.On the dashboard, the clock shows 6:12. Five minutes, he said. If you don't see anything, then drive off. Could you really just leave your family behind? Cool leather seats behind you, a gravel driveway in front, you stamp your foot down on the clutch and pop it into first.
  
  It jolts forward, sending a spray of gravel in the air. Cursing, you lighten on the gas. Torque, indeed. At a crawl, you bring the Challenger around to the front, exactly as your grandfather told you. Now, the waiting begins.
  
  6:13
  
  The house sits empty, void of the life you noticed when arriving. Its two eyes, the front windows are dark, not unlike your grandmother's eyes. The thought brings a chill to the small hairs on your neck.
  
  6:14
  
  Rain pelts the hardtop, making small puddles on the Challenger's hood, transitioning it into a glossy yellow. The beast purrs, desperately wanting you to step on the gas. It wants to run free. It may be aged, stiff from being locked in its cage, but now it can run free. It can rule the jungle again.
  
  6:15
  
  Your parents' RAV 4 is still parked in the front. Compared to the Rallye, it looks bulky, frail, plastic, like the design is meant to distract you from its severe lack in power, and instead, focuses on features, perfect for grabbing the short attention-span of the public. Are people the same way? Does a flashy exterior attract others, despite lacking strength, a solid foundation "under the hood?"
  
  6:16
  
  The '73 Challenger Rallye is the exact opposite. Sturdy, solidly built, it's a perfect reflection of your grandfather. On the outside, it appeals to certain crowds, certainly not the vast majority. It doesn't attempt to hide from wear and tear, scars accrued over the years. It's not equipped with the latest tech. Hell, there's not even a tape player, and the dashboard clock's analog. Your hand feeling the wheel, back pressed against the leather, you'd pick the Rallye every time.
  
  6:17
  
  No one's coming.
  
  > keep waiting
  The house lies silent, empty, no lights appear at the windows. If not for the green treeline surrounding, the cottage could easily mold into the gray, cloudy environment, absent of color. It's quiet, save for the growling Rallye. 6:18. You're not going to leave your family behind. Where would you go anyway? How would you explain it to the authorities? No, you must trust that your grandfather will do what must be done. You keep your hand on the stick, the chamber of the revolver, ready to shift into first at a moment's notice.
  
  Errrrrch
  
  Your body tenses at the sound, the one you've become familiar with -- and the chaos that follows. Still, you wait for your family, imagining the front door bursting open, your grandfather hurriedly ushering your mom and sister through, led by Dad and Father Mark. They rush toward the '73, waving their arms signaling you to step on it, jumping inside the two-doored machine.
  
  That's not what happens. The cottage door remains shut. You shift your eyes--
  
  --two dark bags underneath eyes, drooping, sagging low on wrinkly skin stare back at you through the rear-view mirror. You don't move, as if sudden movement will spring the creature into action. You don't speak. Neither does the thing. From the corner of your eye, you can see the thing, whatever is possessing your grandmother, in the backseat, still wearing her apron, wrinkly fingers interlaced in her lap drawing attention to the one bitten off, stoic, as if in prayer.
  
  Keeping a watchful gaze in the mirror, your hand reaches for the handle of the car door. No sudden movement. Steady, steady, steady... Your hand finds the release, only the cold metal handle isn't there. Instead, your fingers wrap around leathery skin, twisting, squirming in your grasp. HISSS, a forked tongue spits in your face along with the warning hiss from the snake, like hot steel placed in a bucket of cold water. Instantly, you react, throwing the serpent from your grasp. It fades into nothing as if mist fading into air.
  
  Your eyes return back to the rear-view mirror. Backseat's empty. Slowly, you turn your head to view behind the seats, checking for signs of the thing. Nothing. Still, keeping the steady turn, your head comes back to facing forward. The backseat, passenger seat, dashboard, a sinking feeling enters your body. Face-to-face, sitting on your lap like two kids sharing a swing, lightless, your grandmother straddles your lap. Wrinkled skin, threatening to fall from her face, houses the creature like smeared paint on a portrait, her eyes dark and lifeless, cooking apron once marred with white flour, now dyed red. Her lips part, sending a wave of rotten air into your face. Yellow teeth, sharp like a canine's, peer through the crack in her lips.
  
  The last thing you remember is that horrible rotten smell.