Beach Blanket Poltergeist cookie
He reaches out to touch it before he can stop himself, fingers ghosting over the edges of the endless spirals gouged out of the wall. The wood is a deep reddish brown where it’s been hacked into and Dean is willing to bey that that’s not just discolored wood turning it that color. He backs up a couple steps to see it fully, every sense straining for movement or sound in the corner of his attention.
There’s a mouth on the wall. It’s almost perfectly spherical, no evidence of teeth or tongue but Dean knows that it’s a mouth all the same, and something about it sends an icy shiver down his spine. Scattered on the floor are similar drawings of an enormous hole (mouth, it’s a mouth), smeared with something that Dean really doesn’t want to touch.
There’s a sound from the other side of the kitchen and Dean turns, immediately alert. He can see the smoke from the barbeque pit through the sliding glass doors and there, on the edge of the door - a bare foot, the faintest bit of green polish still clinging to the nails.
She looks barely eighteen, naked, pale body criss-crossed with ropes that had long since cut deeply into her bare flesh. She isn’t conscious but is drowsing close to it, moving her head aimlessly in a way that Dean had seen far too many times. Alone, as far as Dean can tell, left by herself sitting a few feet away from the barbeque like the world’s most unwilling dinner guest. His knife is out of his pocket before his knees hit the ground before her, sawing quickly through her bindings, eyes moving constantly around them in case whoever did this to her is coming back.
She begins to cry as she swims towards awareness, her fingers weakly scrabbling back along the arms of the chair and Dean speaks in soft, comforting words: you’re gonna be ok, everything’s gonna be all right, I’m here to help, who did this to you? He strips off his outer shirt as soon as she’s more or less free and wraps it around her shoulders, covering the long, cross-shaped slash that runs all the way down her sternum and crosses at her breasts.
“Come on, honey, I’m gettin’ you out of here,” he says.
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Knew it'd go more quickly when I hit the action parts. 8806 9102 words and still going.
There’s a mouth on the wall. It’s almost perfectly spherical, no evidence of teeth or tongue but Dean knows that it’s a mouth all the same, and something about it sends an icy shiver down his spine. Scattered on the floor are similar drawings of an enormous hole (mouth, it’s a mouth), smeared with something that Dean really doesn’t want to touch.
There’s a sound from the other side of the kitchen and Dean turns, immediately alert. He can see the smoke from the barbeque pit through the sliding glass doors and there, on the edge of the door - a bare foot, the faintest bit of green polish still clinging to the nails.
She looks barely eighteen, naked, pale body criss-crossed with ropes that had long since cut deeply into her bare flesh. She isn’t conscious but is drowsing close to it, moving her head aimlessly in a way that Dean had seen far too many times. Alone, as far as Dean can tell, left by herself sitting a few feet away from the barbeque like the world’s most unwilling dinner guest. His knife is out of his pocket before his knees hit the ground before her, sawing quickly through her bindings, eyes moving constantly around them in case whoever did this to her is coming back.
She begins to cry as she swims towards awareness, her fingers weakly scrabbling back along the arms of the chair and Dean speaks in soft, comforting words: you’re gonna be ok, everything’s gonna be all right, I’m here to help, who did this to you? He strips off his outer shirt as soon as she’s more or less free and wraps it around her shoulders, covering the long, cross-shaped slash that runs all the way down her sternum and crosses at her breasts.
“Come on, honey, I’m gettin’ you out of here,” he says.
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Knew it'd go more quickly when I hit the action parts. 8806 9102 words and still going.