text: [Themes: horror]
  
  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 An outdated version of the Dodge logo is emblemed on the largest key.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.
  
  > follow him to the cottage
  As your grandfather heads towards the cottage, you run to the shed's double doors. It's not automatic, so you have to manually open each one. Once it's open, you climb inside the Rallye, feeling the cold leather seat against your back and the sturdy wheel. The engine roars to life with your turn of the key, settling down to a throaty growl, warning nearby prey that it's king of the jungle.
  
  Heeding your grandfather's warning, you slide the stick into first and stamp on the pedals. She spurts forward, leaving behind a spray of gravel. Then, you exit keeping the engine running. No doubt, your grandfather would hear the engine starting up. The less he worries about you, the better. Your family is still inside the cottage. After quickly searching the shed for something to arm yourself with, you follow your grandfather's footsteps, the wooden handle of a handaxe in your palm.
  
  He's a good kid. He shouldn't be exposed to these things. This is my battle, has been for nearly half a century. I barely made it out last time, me, after all my military training, after facing real combat. No, better for him to escape. Leave this all behind. I couldn't live with myself otherwise. My son's family is as good as dead. At least the grandson will make it out. At least one will survive. It's all my fault. Best I can do is try and correct it now. Make sure the thing can't harm another family.
  
  Storm's picking up. The old man swings open the back door to the cottage. A gust of wind blows at the same time, catching the door in its path like sails at full mast, sending a chunk of wood flying from the cottage wall on impact. The old man and his axe enter the cottage.
  
  The first thing that greets him is Father Mark. Rather, Father Mark's body. Claw marks cover his chest, the red streaks like bloody shooting stars. His eyes have been pecked out. One eyeball dangles to the side of his cheek as if cargo hauled up by a rope. Unable to close his eyes, putting his friend to rest, the old man removes his trucker hat and places it over Father Mark's face. The first victim claimed. The old man knows it won't be the last. His grip tightens on the woodcutter's axe.
  
  > The guest bedroom
  No lights are on in the cottage, save for the guest room. Like a moth to a flame, the old man makes straight for it, testing light switches on the way. They're all dead. He hopes the same couldn't be said for his family. Axe in front, he enters the guest bedroom. Shattered glass lies on the floor, a hole in the TV the obvious source. No sign of anyone.
  
  Then, the old man notices a pair of shoes sticking out from underneath the bed. Judging by the loafers, it must be his son's.
  
  "Son!" the old man whispers. No response from the pair of shoes. The old man gets on his hands and knees and flips the bedskirt open. Sure enough, it's his son's shoes and legs, just...there's no torso. The ground lies red, dyed from from the top of the severed legs. Quickly, the old man pulls his gaze away. That fucking monster.
  
  I'm saving those for later, unless you'd like to taste them now.
  
  Dual voices project from the doorway. His Susan, the thing stands at the opening, staring at the ground hiding the whites of her eyes. Her body sways, though she's standing still, as if upheld by loose cord. There's a new apron tied at her waist and neck. This one reads, HOPE YOU BROUGHT AN APPETITE, a dinner plate and silverware displayed like a skull and crossbones.
  
  "I've beaten you before, and I'll beat you again. There won't be another return for you," the old man threatens, his hand on the axe.
  
  You were weak then, and you're weak now. Look at you, frail, probably can't even get an erection. Do you want Suzy to try? Stick my hand down your pants and feel your manhood?
  
  Susan walks forward, her body shrinking with each step, her hair changing to blonde pigtails. Wrinkles in her face disappear, as if given a good ironing. In her smaller, childish frame, she steps out from your grandmother's clothes, leaving the apron hanging from her neck. The words have changed to A GRANDMOTHER LIVES ON KISSES.
  
  I'll do all the work for you. Don't you want to rip my apron off? There's nothing in the back.
  
  Suzy does a tiny twirl, letting the old man see her exposed backside.
  
  "No..." the old man answers. "This is wrong. I'll not let you use my Susan." He charges forward, axe overhead, ready to chop the thing down. Suzy scowls, her face briefly turning to it's wrinkled state, still attached to the child's body. She waves her arms as if throwing an imaginary ball from each hand, one after the other.
  
  Two objects fly in the air towards the old man. With speed surprising for his age, two swings of the axe cut the forms mid-air. Like a stone in a river, the objects redirect around him, cut cleanly in half. Blood sprays in the air. The objects, now four, lie behind the old man, two pieces of his daughter-in-law, two pieces of his son's torso, both pairs of eyes frozen, horrified, mouth spread open in a fish-like manner.
  
  With a yell, the old man charges forward, this time pulling the knife from his belt and throwing it at the thing. This is not a fight where he can afford to play on the outside. He needs to get in close, down in the trenches, gain victory through grittiness. Suzy ducks, reacting with otherworldly quickness. The knife plants itself behind her in the hallway wall.
  
  The only source of light, the guest bedroom, draws your attention. Your grandfather's voice and sounds of struggle cause you to hurry, not stopping at Father Mark's body to check on him. You already know there's nothing you can do for him. Maybe you can still do something for your grandfather.
  
  A whirl of air, and a knife plants itself in the hallway wall not ten feet from where you're standing.
  
  Heavy footsteps echo the cottage, the charge of your grandfather. You imitate, abandoning the slow, steady, silent approach. Axe in hand, you break into a run, the sound of your footsteps and elevated breath cutting through all other noise. It only takes a few steps to break into the guest bedroom. Light bursts into your eyes, bringing spots with each blink at the sudden change from the dark.
  
  Your grandfather's woodcutter's axe lies on the floor next to him, the girl from earlier, the one you saw with Father Mark, crouches over your grandfather's body wearing nothing but an apron, her bare backside exposed to you. This time, you do not freeze. Axe raised overhead, you charge, you rush to do what your grandfather failed to do.
  
  Pain.
  
  Before you can react, the girl picks your grandfather's axe from the floor, swiping it backwards. It's head buries itself in your chest, sending you sprawling next to your grandfather's body, stiff, the feeling of your limbs starting to subside like slowly dipping your arm in freezing cold water, starting with your fingers, then moving upward. The girl rises to peer at you, visibly confused at your entrance, like her father just explained the Tooth Fairy's secret. She bends down over your body, hands on her hips examining you, the loose apron at her neck falling just low enough to expose a pair of nipples on the verge of becoming womanlike.
  
  Movement suddenly explodes from your grandfather's body, his hand finding the hand axe brought by you. All it takes is one. An uppercut swing, one strengthened by years of work, decades spent chopping, sends Suzy's head flying across the room. Her head hits the wall, like a loose projectile in a pillow fight. Her body transitions back to its wrinkled, aged state, still in nothing but the apron.
  
  You struggle to breathe. Each breath feels like it's pressing the axe further into your chest. Your limbs begin to shake, although you have not the control to stop them.
  
  "You were...supposed to leave," your grandfather manages to say, collapsing back to the floor.
  "I...I.." Words don't appear. Your mind is a flood of memories, the wave too much to organize a coherent sentence. Warmth suddenly grips your hand. The coldness rushing over your body stops as you focus on the source of heat. Your grandfather's hand grips yours. It's calloused, rough, comforting. He squeezes gently, reassuring you that everything will be alright. At this moment, it is, the love of your grandfather displayed in one tiny squeeze of the hand. His grip softens, becoming limp, losing strength. Soon after, your strength fades as well.