Page 29 of Can't Stop
Two of the frame’s legs broke off in the initial impact, casting the mattress at a downward angle at the foot. I step toward the head and peel back the curtain. Lying on the bed is a body in surprisingly good condition. The lips have begun to peel back, showing the teeth more than they should, but other than that, he does look like he might get up and walk. Thick blonde hair drapes his forehead. He wears a suit, and he can’t be much older than Samuel is now.
I can see how a desperate mother could get confused. That doesn’t explain how the insanity and desperation spread, however.
“Can’t you see that he’s still alive?” the mother pleads.
“Can’t you see that you need some intensive grief therapy?” Rayna quips. “Lady, he’s dead. I get that you think my pussy is magic, but I can promise you that I do not have the Lazarus Labia. He ain’t coming back from that.”
I open my mouth to encourage her to tread lightly and have a little compassion. I mean, this is her son. But the woman speaks first.
“Please, if you’ll just let us perform the ritual, you’ll see.” She goes to stand, but Rayna is having none of it. She swings the barrel toward her head, forcing her to stay seated or get walloped. She chooses to stay seated.
I step closer to Rayna and place my arm around her waist. “There’s a new ritual in Oak Hollow, I’m afraid, and it’s being held by the Halloween Harvesters. Nice to meet you.”
Rayna giggles and passes the shotgun back to me. “This is going to be the best Halloween yet!”
Chapter Seventeen
Rayna
We secure everyone’s hands and feet, then lead them toward the master bedroom upstairs, away from the body of their dead relative. Everyone is mostly coherent, save the father. I’m fairly certain he’s bleeding internally. He slips in and out of consciousness at the back of their daisy chain.
The mother groans as she takes a step forward and is forced to drag her husband’s limp body. “He’s dying. If we don’t get him some help, he won’t survive.”
“Funny that you think your survival is our goal,” I mutter.
The father comes to again. He gets on his hands and knees and crawls behind his family. I aim the shotgun beside him and pull the trigger. Shrieks erupt, including a high-pitched screech from Dalton as he whips around.
“Sorry,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders. “He isn’t moving fast enough.”
Dalton snatches the gun from my hands and motions for the others to file into the room. They do as instructed, even going so far as to sit in the chairs we set up in front of the bed. If the mother knew what I had up my sleeve, she’d have run screaming from the house, shotgun aimed at her stupid head or not.
When they’re all seated nicely, I begin tying them down as Dalton points the gun at the grandmother. That’s enough to keep them in line, and she doesn’t need to be tied down at all. She’s done little more than hold the fox and whimper since I arrived.
The father’s head lolls to the side, and a trickle of frothy foam oozes from the side of his mouth. It’s pink, meaning he’s got some serious internal injuries going on. His hands are cold as I tie them down, and he’s definitely in the process of dying. We’d better hurry this up before we lose a quarter of our audience.
I hurry to the foot of the bed and begin removing my shirt. That earns an immediate squeal from the mother. She clamps her eyelids shut and turns her head away from us.
“I won’t watch!” she shouts. “You can force me to sit here, but I won’t witness your perversions. It’s an affront to our beliefs!”
I scoff and lower the hem of my shirt. I’m so glad I made a pit stop at the morgue before plowing into the side of their house. It’s also good that the mother reminded me to grab my things from the truck. After giving Dalton a kiss on his cheek and telling him I’ll be right back, I hurry to the bedroom downstairs.
A soft tick-tick-tick drifts from the truck’s otherwise silent engine as I enter the room. I clamber over the bed to reach the driver’s side door, only pausing long enough to spare Jebediah a glance. It’s all I have the courage for because he really looks like he could sit up and speak at any moment. If I hadn’t viewed the medical records myself, I’d almost believe he was still in there too.
But he’s not. That much is clear when I grab my bag from the truck and use my knife to make a small incision in his wrist. The dead flesh doesn’t spread and fill with red the way live flesh would. I briefly consider dragging the corpse to the master bedroom and turning this into a threesome, but it doesn’t feel right. Not many things feel wrong to me, so when they do, I listen.
After securing my bag on my shoulders, I stuff Van Gogh safely into his inner pocket and bid Jebediah farewell. Back in the bedroom, Dalton sits on the edge of the mattress as he picks dirt from his nails with the end of a silver letter opener. Our (literally) captive audience is seated and secured.
Now it’s time to put on a show.
I set my bag beside Dalton on the bed and begin digging around inside. From the shadowy depths, I pull two silver devices that look like something from a torture film. Dalton doesn’t know what they are, but the mother does. She begins wailing immediately because she knows what I intend to do.
“You can’t make me watch! You can’t!” she screams. “Even if my eyes are forced open, I’ll turn my head!”
I slide off the bed with a laugh. “Lady, I’ll ram a rod alongside your spine to ensure your cooperation if I have to. My boyfriend and I plan to entertain you assholes, and I’ll be damned if any of you will opt out. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” I jingle the metal contraptions, and she shuts her eyes.
“Have it your way,” Dalton says with a shrug.
He hops down from the mattress and grips the woman’s head between his hands. I imagine what it would be like if he squeezed until something cracked, and that’s enough to get me excited. I step forward and ram the prongs beneath her upper eyelid. The prongs scrape along the slippery globe, and she lets out a guttural scream.
