Feral by Brian Knight

ears.   “How it used to anger your father.”   A current of scorching wind passed over his head, a living heat of violence and malice.   The air groaned around it as if in pain.   He could see its vague shape moving toward his daughter with purpose.   “That’s why I never came for you, you know.   It would have been like killing my favorite pet.   I enjoyed your company so much.”
    Charity saw the shapeless thing coming at her and screamed.   The bright, star-like pendant around her neck dimmed as the dark heat took shape next to her.
    He smiled at Gordon, and it was the same face Gordon remembered peeking out of his closet on those dreadful nights so long ago.   It was the same face that haunted him his every waking moment as a child, and promised new terror with each sunset.
    â€œWe lost touch, Gordon,” the Bogey Man said, almost apologetically.   “I’m afraid it happens all the time.   I have so many children, you know, and my echo only reaches so far.”
    Gordon ran, and though the air around him seemed to thicken further, he was getting closer.   He tried to scream, but nothing came out.   All words, all sound, seemed to catch in his throat, as if his breath had become solid inside him.   He focused on Charity and tried again, felt he would explode if he couldn’t voice his rage, but it was still in vain.
    She watched him struggle toward her with a heart-sickening sadness, but did not move.
    â€œShe’s a rare one,” the Bogey Man said.   “I’ve never seen one like her in all my years.”   He looked down at her; a smile of affection and speculation lit his eyes.
    Gordon was suddenly more frightened than he had ever been, frightened for Charity.   He knew the look in that old monster’s eyes.   He felt like killing and dying at the same time.   He was closer now and could see the same sick understanding in Charity’s eyes.
    â€œWe’ve been watching you, Gordon, we’ve been watching you for a long time.   I’ve told her all about you, the good and the bad.   She wants to see you again, but she knows it can never happen.   She understands it is not meant to be.”
    One hand crept over her shoulder, around to the back of her neck, stroking her long hair.   “She’s a smart one.   If I live to see the end of time there will never be another like her.”   Then he moved behind her, dark hands clutching her shoulders, holding her steady before him.   “I won’t let her go, Gordon.”   All softness had left his face; all feigned humanity fell away from him like a mask.   What was left was a look of hate in its purest sense.   “I’ve left you alone because she wants me to, Gordon; that’s the only reason you live.   Stop following us, leave us alone or I will rip you apart like I did her worthless bitch of a mother.”
    Gordon was close enough to see the other changes in his daughter now, a distention of her belly that looked freakish in relation to her thin frame.   It was not the loose flab of a portly child.   It was something else.
    â€œShe was meant for me, Gordon.   She’s mine!”
    Finally the scream came; a great inarticulate whoop of rage.   Then they were gone, and he was alone.
    In the receding echoes of that great, soul-rending scream he heard the laughter of children.
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    H e awoke with her name still caught in his throat, and this time it took an act of will not to scream it aloud.   His heart beat so fast he could hear his pulse throbbing in his temples.   The dream followed him into full consciousness, clinging like the cold sweat on his brow.
    After a few minutes his heart slowed and the coolness of the room dried his sweat, but the images and implications of the dream lingered.   As he rose he became aware of the dampness in his crotch, and felt the absolute depth