The Slick Ones
Something came up with the worms.
It started after the rain.
Bridgeport stank of river mud and drowned things. The earth soaked until it wept black water from every crack. Billie Crenshaw squatted at the bank with his worm bucket between his sneakers. His fingers were black with soil. The river swelled, brown and slick, breathing against the shore.
He dug into the bucket. The dirt was wet, collapsing around his hand, alive with wriggling.
Until his thumb slid across skin that wasn’t worm-skin at all.
Warm. Smooth. The texture of an inner wrist.
He dragged it up. It came writhing from the soil, pale and heavy. Its body humped in his palm, gleaming as if it had been dipped in motor oil. At its tip, where a worm’s blunt head should’ve been, a face opened its eyes.
Tiny. Human.
The lids fluttered. The mouth opened, pink lips trembling. No sound came, only a wet hiss that made Billie’s gut tighten.
He dropped the bucket. More spilled out, sliding through the grass. Half a dozen pale, boneless lengths. Some had their eyes sealed shut. Others stared wetly, mouths yawning open and closed like they were gasping for air.
Billie ran. He gagged the whole way home, the smell of the river clinging to his skin like sweat.
That night the rain came again. Billie lay on his bed. He bit his nails until the quicks bled. Every muscle in his legs remained tense, ready to bolt.
The first tap on the window was soft. Then came the smear. Something heavy dragged its belly up the pane.
He sat up. He saw them. Pale lengths pressed to the glass. Their faces flattened white where they pushed through the rain.
One had his grandmother’s sunken cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Another had his best friend’s chipped front teeth. The last one was Billie. It looked just like him, but its tiny, wet forehead pulsed against the glass.
They mouthed his name in silence. Their lips split on teeth too small for sound.
Billie didn't move. The rain hadn’t washed them away. It had brought them back, and they were waiting for him to open the latch.
This story isn’t alone…
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