Little, Awful Things

The first of them hits a window with a wet thunk. Valerie jerks upright at the sound.

“What the ‘ell was that?”

Richard mumbles, rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head.

Valerie clutches the quilt, listening. A few more smacks—amplified noises like insect kamikaze against a windshield at high speed—echo from the kitchen.

“Richard, wake your lazy arse.” Valerie shakes Richard’s shoulder.

He moans, sucks a breath into his lungs, and opens his eyes. “What you want to go and wake me for?”

“Something’s outside the house.”

Smack, ping, crunch.

“Probably cicadas.”

“Too big for cicadas.” Valerie clicks on the bedroom lamp. “It’s so damn hot in here besides…”

“My allergies,” Richard says, sniffing as loud as he can. “You want me to suffer?”

Valerie hops from the bed and shuffles to the window. “I got to have a breath of fresh air.” She shuffles through the hallway, into the kitchen, and unlatches the sliding patio door. Tiny shapes flit in the darkness as Valerie pulls her nightgown close to her throat.

Bit chilly, she thinks. Then she hears the sound, soft and flapping. Tiny wings. She reaches backward, pulls open the patio door without looking, and fishes for the light switch. The tiny shapes sharpen in the light.

“Fairies?” she mutters.

Drawn to the sound of her voice, the little creatures flap their bat-black wings, swarming toward her. They reek of rot and decay with gray, poisoned skin. Valerie stumbles on the patio steps, bangs her knee against the glass, and struggles with the door. The minute undead dive bomb Valerie’s semi-prone form, seeking bare skin with their yellow, pin-prick teeth and snatching fingers. She moans, and the flitting, black leather of their little zombie-fairy wings cover her body like an undulating shroud.

In the bedroom, oblivious to Valerie’s plight, Richard stifles a sneeze and calls out, “Shut the damn patio door, will you?”

* This one's for Cate Gardner. Photo by René Ehrhardt.