Feeding her to the strands?
Wren said nothing, only stood at the window and watched the action play out.
And dear God, was that a phone? Two of them? He watched as the woman covered in white moss dialed on the house phone and put it up to her ear. She was making a fucking phone call. And the alien just stood a few feet away, doing nothing after handing her the phones.
Wren didn't care if the creature heard him. If the alien wanted him dead, then he would have already killed him. He reached to the window and gently pushed up, cracking it. The noise felt substantial, as if anyone living in the surrounding five hundred miles would hear it, but neither the alien nor woman seemed to take notice.
Wren moved his head until it was nearly out the window, trying to hear what she said on the phone. He couldn't make out everything, just bits and pieces of conversation, but the woman that walked around the house picking at her hair and mumbling to herself couldn't be in control. The voice, while the woman's, was too collected—focused, something that Wren didn't think the real woman could actually do.
Something controlled her.
The white strands covering her, they allowed something else to take over. And that something else, well, it could only be one thing—Morena, the head honcho in this affair.
Wren, half standing from his chair and almost leaning out the window, looked back to Bryan. The noise from the window opening should have woken him, for sure, but he still lay with his eyes closed.
Wren didn't know exactly what was happening outside, but he knew it was some kind of transfer. Somehow, the alien had taken over the woman, just as she had taken over Bryan. The strands allowed it to happen. Could Wren do that with Bryan, with Michael?
Where's he going to go, though?
He couldn't put Michael back in his own body, that was clear. The body Michael once owned stood outside the window, looking like some kind of freakish bodybuilder—growing at an unnatural rate.
But if he found somewhere for Michael to go, a body for him to inhabit, could he make it happen? Could Wren figure out how those strands made the transfer and then force the head honcho to do it for him?
Would you do it? Linda said. The question didn't concern Michael, not directly. No, because to find a body for Michael would mean taking someone else and replacing them with his son. Would he do that?
Maybe , he said to his dead wife, but he knew that to be a lie. Of course he would. He would do anything for Michael.
* * *
R igley gasped for air , as if instead of strands covering her body, it had been water combined with a cinder block tied to her ankle. She felt the cold air run over her skin, the world finally touching her again instead of the maddening warmth the strands provided. She turned over on her hands and knees, gasping for air and dry heaving at the same time.
Snot and spit flew from her face, landing on the writhing strands beneath. Tears dripped straight from her eyes as she stared downward.
What just happened?
WHAT JUST HAPPENED?
Her mind screamed at her like a wife having found a condom in her husband's pocket. Demanding answers, pleading for the truth, and above all—confused.
Rigley looked at her arms and hands through a watery haze, seeing the red dots litter her body. Tiny holes. HOLES. IN HER BODY. She didn't need a mirror to know that they dotted her neck and chest the same as they did her fingers. The strands had gone everywhere, digging in a few millimeters, and now tiny drops of blood dried in each hole, looking like chicken pox.
She realized where she was, on all fours still atop the things that had done this to her. Panic welled in her body, overflowing into every synapse and muscle fiber. Rigley flipped backwards, landing on her ass and using both hands and feet to scoot as fast she could to the house.
She felt dead grass under her hands finally, and launched herself another foot just to make sure she was completely clear of it
Wren said nothing, only stood at the window and watched the action play out.
And dear God, was that a phone? Two of them? He watched as the woman covered in white moss dialed on the house phone and put it up to her ear. She was making a fucking phone call. And the alien just stood a few feet away, doing nothing after handing her the phones.
Wren didn't care if the creature heard him. If the alien wanted him dead, then he would have already killed him. He reached to the window and gently pushed up, cracking it. The noise felt substantial, as if anyone living in the surrounding five hundred miles would hear it, but neither the alien nor woman seemed to take notice.
Wren moved his head until it was nearly out the window, trying to hear what she said on the phone. He couldn't make out everything, just bits and pieces of conversation, but the woman that walked around the house picking at her hair and mumbling to herself couldn't be in control. The voice, while the woman's, was too collected—focused, something that Wren didn't think the real woman could actually do.
Something controlled her.
The white strands covering her, they allowed something else to take over. And that something else, well, it could only be one thing—Morena, the head honcho in this affair.
Wren, half standing from his chair and almost leaning out the window, looked back to Bryan. The noise from the window opening should have woken him, for sure, but he still lay with his eyes closed.
Wren didn't know exactly what was happening outside, but he knew it was some kind of transfer. Somehow, the alien had taken over the woman, just as she had taken over Bryan. The strands allowed it to happen. Could Wren do that with Bryan, with Michael?
Where's he going to go, though?
He couldn't put Michael back in his own body, that was clear. The body Michael once owned stood outside the window, looking like some kind of freakish bodybuilder—growing at an unnatural rate.
But if he found somewhere for Michael to go, a body for him to inhabit, could he make it happen? Could Wren figure out how those strands made the transfer and then force the head honcho to do it for him?
Would you do it? Linda said. The question didn't concern Michael, not directly. No, because to find a body for Michael would mean taking someone else and replacing them with his son. Would he do that?
Maybe , he said to his dead wife, but he knew that to be a lie. Of course he would. He would do anything for Michael.
* * *
R igley gasped for air , as if instead of strands covering her body, it had been water combined with a cinder block tied to her ankle. She felt the cold air run over her skin, the world finally touching her again instead of the maddening warmth the strands provided. She turned over on her hands and knees, gasping for air and dry heaving at the same time.
Snot and spit flew from her face, landing on the writhing strands beneath. Tears dripped straight from her eyes as she stared downward.
What just happened?
WHAT JUST HAPPENED?
Her mind screamed at her like a wife having found a condom in her husband's pocket. Demanding answers, pleading for the truth, and above all—confused.
Rigley looked at her arms and hands through a watery haze, seeing the red dots litter her body. Tiny holes. HOLES. IN HER BODY. She didn't need a mirror to know that they dotted her neck and chest the same as they did her fingers. The strands had gone everywhere, digging in a few millimeters, and now tiny drops of blood dried in each hole, looking like chicken pox.
She realized where she was, on all fours still atop the things that had done this to her. Panic welled in her body, overflowing into every synapse and muscle fiber. Rigley flipped backwards, landing on her ass and using both hands and feet to scoot as fast she could to the house.
She felt dead grass under her hands finally, and launched herself another foot just to make sure she was completely clear of it
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