As the howl rattled to its end, the beast collapsed to the ground, its sides deflating upon uttering a final wheeze.
Jane didn’t know how or what she was meant to feel upon the sudden defeat of the beast. But she did know that she didn’t feel victorious, only ashamed, especially as the corpse continued to twitch.
Her gut ran cold. She needed to go out there and finish this deed, either to properly earn a sense of victory or to put the creature out of its misery.
She kept a free hand braced against the wall as she hobbled to put on her coat and, using the Winchester as a cane every other step, went outside.
Mist cloaked her and she raised the rifle as she approached the wheezing beast. Blood continued to pool from its gaping mouth, and it whimpered in a way that made Jane falter in her steps. It whined with the pain of a wounded hound.
Jane held her breath and tried to will herself to raise the rifle to shoot. But a thought stayed her hand. If she planted a bullet in the beast’s skull, would she also kill Terence along with it, just as Ruben did to Matthew? The two were linked to one another, whether it be physically or spiritually, and if she could bite its paw and leave a wound on his hand, she could only assume a shot to the head would end them both. The sin of ending a human lifewas a mark her soul lacked the courage to bear. The rifle started to shake in her hands as one of the beast’s eyes rolled to meet her gaze.
There was no more time to consider the topic any further when the beast’s body jerked, and in her fright, Jane failed to raise the rifle to deliver a killing shot. She just yelped and backed away from the convulsing corpse.
The beast’s paws began clawing at the ground, flexing and grabbing at the grass in an action too much like one that’d belong to human fingers with human joints. It was as if it were trying to grab fistfuls of grass in an attempt to drag itself through the dirt, across the yard, and toward the house—toward Jane. Then the skin began to peel.
Discarded pieces of hairy flesh were scrubbed away by the grass, the claws fell away like rotted teeth, until two human hands remained, sticking crudely from the beast’s body.
Something in its torso, between its ribs, began to writhe. Not in the rhythmic way of breathing, but rather from something wriggling around within a costume, a parasite wrestling for dominance.
Jane gagged but didn’t dare to touch the body, as thosehumanhands continued to pull themselves forward, ridding themselves further of the beastly pelt. In a burst of blood, they at last hauled a body from the beast’s now hollowed torso. The corpse deflated as the man continued to pull himself free. There was the sound of rib bones collapsing upon no longer possessing a thing to cage.
It was eerily similar to the image of the man-beast abomination buried deep in Matthew’s grave.
Terence groaned after pulling his legs out from the beast and curled into a fetal position, allowing the rain to wash away the discolored blood painted across his naked body.
Despite everything in her body demanding that she stay put and return to the house, Jane dropped the Winchester and hurried to Terence’s side. She knelt beside him and tried to not be bothered by the fact he was utterly naked and had clumps of gore caught in his hair.
“Terence,” Jane didn’t know what else to say as her hand hovered over his shoulder, and she winced seeing the mark where her shot clipped him. The wound continued to weep blood, oozing.
Would a bullet need to be fished out?Or I can just let it scar over—that would be far easier…
It would serve as a reminder for the beast.
He groaned as he rolled onto his side, burrowing his face into the grass. Chains clinked around his wrists, his throat, the flesh beneath them rubbed raw and bleeding.
Jane sighed, shucked off her coat, and draped it across him. She nudged him with her foot. “Come on, boy—up. Let’s get you washed.”
Beside them, the beast’s pelt began to audibly sizzle, melting down into an acidic sludge until the marsh’s mud soaked the evil back into its accursed depths.
Terence kept silent and his gaze cast down as Jane guided him to the washroom upstairs.
She threw her coat, now soaked and crusted with the blood, to the corner, ran water until the room began to fog withsteam, and eased him into the tub.
At some point, Mrs. Foster rushed in, as poised as ever, and unlocked the manacles clinging too tightly around his throat and wrists. The skin was blistered and bled the moment it was exposed to air.
With the soap and cloth she found in the cabinet, Jane began to slowly swab away blood until the water clouded a murky maroon color.
Her scrubbing paused, though only briefly, as she washed his back. A latticework of scars stared at her. A cross-hatching of pale welts and fissures left in the wake of claws, the arched imprints of beastly teeth. A map of a lifetime of horror.
And I’ve added yet another mark.
A forefinger traced over a particularly brutal scar that slashed down the length of his shoulder. She bit her lip as she wondered how Terence had gotten such scars, how young or old he had been, and which skin he was wearing when he got them—beast or man. His skin jumped beneath her touch, but he otherwise remained deathly still.
Jane sighed and replaced her fingers with the cloth. “I’m sorry I shot you,” she murmured.
He gave no response. He only stared ahead with a numb gaze.
“This blood isn’t mine,” she tried again. “It’s yours.”
