“… need … want, want … need …”
She plucked up her breakfast knife, swung it high over her head, and drove it down with all her might, stabbing him in the forearm, just above the wrist, where his flesh still looked more human than not. She had hoped that the blade would pin him to the table, but she didn’t feel it bite all the way through him to the wood beneath.
His shriek was so shrill and piercing that it seemed to vibrate through Chrissie’s bones.
His armored, demonic hand spasmed open. She yanked free of him. Fortunately she was quick, for his hand clamped shut again a fraction of a second later, pinching her fingertips but unable to hold her.
The kitchen door was on the priest’s side of the table. She could not reach it without exposing her back to him.
With a cry that was half scream and half roar, he tore the knife from his arm and threw it aside. He knocked the dishes and food from the table with one sweep of his bizarrely mutated arm, which was now eight or ten inches longer than it had been. It protruded from the cuff of his black shirt in nightmarish gnarls and planes and hooks of the dark, chitinous stuff that had replaced his flesh.
Mary, Mother of God, pray for me; mother, most pure, pray for me; Mother most chaste, pray for me. Please, Chrissie thought.
The priest grabbed hold of the table and threw it aside, tool as if it weighed only ounces. It crashed into the refrigerator. Now nothing separated her from him.
From it.
She feinted toward the kitchen door, taking a couple of steps in that direction.
The priest—not really a priest any more; a thing that sometimes masqueraded as a priest—swung to his right, intending to cut her off and snare her.
Immediately she turned, as she’d always intended, and ran in the opposite direction, toward the open door that led to the downstairs hall, leaping over scattered toast and links of sausage. The trick worked. Wet shoes squishing and squeaking on the linoleum, she was past him before he realized she actually was going to his left.
She suspected that he was quick as well as strong. Quicker than she, no doubt. She could hear him coming behind her.
If she could only reach the front door, get out onto the porch and into the yard, she would probably be safe. She suspected that he would not follow her beyond the house, into the street, where others might see him. Surely not everyone in Moonlight Cove had already been possessed by these aliens, and until the last real person in town was taken over, they could not strut around in a transformed state, eating young girls with impunity.
Not far. Just the front door and a few steps beyond.
She had covered two-thirds of the distance, expecting to feel a claw snag her shirt from behind, when the door opened ahead of her. The other priest, Father O’Brien, stepped across the threshold and blinked in surprise.
At once she knew that she couldn’t trust him, either. He could not have lived in the same house as Father Castelli without the alien seed having been planted in him. Seed, spoor, slimy parasite, spirit—whatever was used to effect possession, Father O’Brien undoubtedly had had it rammed or injected into him.
Unable to go forward or back, unwilling to swerve through the archway on her right and into the living room because that was a dead end—in every sense of the word—she grabbed hold of the newel post, which she was just passing, and swung herself onto the stairs. She ran pell-mell for the second floor.
The front door slammed below her.
By the time she turned at the landing and started up the second flight of stairs, she heard both of them climbing behind her.
The upper hall had white plaster walls, a dark wood floor, and a wood ceiling. Rooms lay on both sides.
She sprinted to the end of the hall and into a bedroom furnished only with a simple dresser, one nightstand, a double bed with a white chenille spread, a bookcase full of paperbacks, and a crucifix on the wall. She threw the door shut after her but didn’t bother trying to lock or brace it. There was no time. They’d smash through it in seconds, anyway.