Chapter 5: Darkness of Art.

             The house went still. Only the hum of the flickering light… and Matty’s ragged breathing… filled the silence.

            Then came a sound.

            A dragging, wet, uneven shuffle… close. Too close.

            Matty’s voice quivered. “T-Trent… someone’s coming…”

            For a split second, Trent let himself hope. Logan? Chris? Someone human?

            But hope died as soon as the figure stepped through the doorway and what entered the kitchen was something far, far worse.

                                                                        *

            Earlier, upstairs, Trent’s friends Logan and Chris crept through the shadowed halls. The air was thick and musty, carrying the faint tang of iron. The walls seemed to pulse, slow, subtle, almost alive, but neither boy noticed in their hurry.

            Chris pushed open a cracked door at the end of the hall.

            Moonlight spilled across the floor… and glinted off something pale in the corner.

            At first, Chris thought it was a reflection.

            Then he realized it was a boy, he was slight, unnervingly still and dressed entirely in black, a long cape draped over his small frame like a funeral shroud.

            “Who… are you?” Chris whispered.

            The boy didn’t answer.

            He only smiled.

            And in that instant, Chris felt the air tighten in his chest, sharp and cold as a blade sliding between his ribs.

            Logan stepped forward, recognition striking him like a jolt. He knew exactly who this was—who the new kid was supposed to be. But his breath caught when he noticed something else:

            A body.

            Almost hidden beneath a long window curtain that billowed despite the still air. A limp arm lay half-exposed, fingers curled in a position that looked horribly wrong.

            “Chris—don’t!” Logan choked out.

            Chris didn’t even have time to turn.

            The boy moved too fast—blurring forward with a feral snarl. One hand shot out, and jagged claws ripped cleanly through Chris’s side. His scream tore through the hall. He crumpled to the floor, tangled in fabric and blood, the playful ruffles of his Art the Clown costume now soaked and shredded.

            “Chris!” Logan lunged, grabbing his arm, trying to drag him toward the doorway.

            The boy turned, lips peeling back in a silent, animal rage. His eyes flashed, bright, burning, inhuman.

            For a single, fatal heartbeat, Logan froze.

            Chris screamed again, a raw, piercing sound that split the hallway.

            The boy pounced again.

            He yanked Chris upward with impossible strength and sank his fangs into his throat. The bite tore viciously. Blood sprayed across the walls, across Logan’s hands, hot and shocking. Chris convulsed once, then went limp.

            But the boy didn’t stop.

            He hammered Chris’s lifeless body against the floor, again and again, each strike punctuated by the crack of snapping bone. The grotesque impacts echoed through the hall like a drumbeat, until the only sound left was a wet, choking gurgle… then nothing at all.

            Logan stumbled backward, stumbling over his own feet. Panicked stricken, he tore himself free and sprinted down the hall, heart slamming in his chest. He didn’t look back.

            Behind him, a faint, unnatural light seeped into the floorboards. The house seemed to inhale, slow, satisfied and the walls gave a long, creaking sigh.

            By the time Trent heard the screams from below, Chris’s body was no longer just dead.

            Something older… something hungry… pulsed through the floorboards, as if the house itself had claimed him.              

                                                                        *

            Now, in the kitchen, Trent saw him.
            Chris.
            Or what was left of him.

            His Art the Clown costume hung in tatters, the once-white makeup running in gray streaks down his face. The black-painted grin had cracked open, soaked through with something darker. One sleeve dangled in shreds; his forearm twisted at an angle no human joint should allow. His cloudy, filmed-over eyes still managed to find Trent.

            “Chris?” Trent whispered, voice cracking. “Oh my God…”

            Chris’s jaw slackened. A wet, strangled gurgle bubbled out of his throat. Then, through the ruin of his vocal cords—came words that didn’t sound fully human:

            “…T-Trent… it… hurts…”

            Matty whimpered and clutched Trent’s arm.

            Chris lurched forward, one jerky, unnatural step at a time. His shoes squeaked against the tile, leaving behind smears of blood and something thick, dark, and wrong. His head twitched, like his neck couldn’t remember how to hold itself up.

            “Stay back!” Trent shouted, raising the knife.

            Chris’s head snapped sharply toward the sound. His dull eyes went wide.

            Then he sprinted.

            Trent barely managed to yank Matt aside before Chris slammed into the counter, teeth snapping inches from Trent’s arm. The impact rattled the whole kitchen. Utensils clattered. A deep, wet shriek tore from Chris’s throat, and his painted grin split wider, revealing broken, jagged, blood-soaked teeth.

            Trent slashed.

            The butcher knife cut deep into Chris’s shoulder. Dark blood sprayed across the counter. Trent dragged Matt behind him, but Chris didn’t stop.

            He laughed.
            A hoarse, choking wheeze that curdled into a snarl.

            Chris seized Trent’s wrist, his grip impossibly strong, fingers digging hard enough to bruise. His breath hit Trent’s face, reeking of rot and iron.

            “Trent!” Matt screamed, trying to pull his brother free.

            Panic surged through Trent. He twisted with every ounce of desperation, ripping his arm from Chris’s grip just before those broken teeth could clamp down. The momentum sent Trent sprawling across the filthy, insect-scattered floor, taking Matty down with him.

            “Trent…” Chris growled, voice stretching into something mocking and blood-curdling.

            He lunged again, jaws snapping toward Trent’s face.

            Trent kicked with everything he had, slamming Chris backward into the cellar door. The wood groaned and splintered but held firm. Chris’s head jerked to the side—his neck twisting so far it nearly folded. His fogged eyes rolled, scanning the room in slow, twitchy jerks.

            Then he moved.

            Wrong.
            Spidery.
            Unsteady.

            His joints cracked like brittle twigs as he rose. The shredded clown costume swayed with each jerking step, his hands clawing at the air as he dragged himself forward.

            Matt sobbed, voice high and fragile. “He’s not stopping, Trent—he’s not stopping!”

            “RUN!” Trent shouted.

            He seized Matt’s arm and bolted. The hallway warped around them—the walls pulsing, the floor rippling underfoot like the house itself was breathing. Doors slammed shut as they passed, funneling them into a single dark corridor.

            Behind them, Chris screamed—half laughter, half agony—his voice bouncing through crooked hallways, the painted grin flashing between bursts of shadow.

            “One, two, three, four,” he shrieked,
            “I’m gonna eat your brains when they spill onto the floor!”

            He tore after them.