“The cellar,” Jamie gasped, pointing to a rusted ring in the floor.
The harvest moon hung low and swollen over the backroads of Poho County, a jaundiced eye watching the rusted Chevrolet Impala crawl along the asphalt. Inside, sixteen-year-old Riley tapped the steering wheel, her younger brother, Jamie, snoring softly in the passenger seat. They were three hours from home, taking the “scenic route” back from a college visit. Jeepers Creepers
“Every twenty-three years,” it whispered, tapping a claw on its chin. “Twenty-three springs. I wake up. I eat. For twenty-three days. Then I sleep. And you, little mice, are the first course.” “The cellar,” Jamie gasped, pointing to a rusted
The creature dropped from the steeple, landing without a sound. It tilted its head, mimicking a curious bird. Then it spoke, not in a whisper, but in the dead mailman’s voice. They were three hours from home, taking the
“Where are we?”
Then the engine coughed. Sputtered. Died.