There is a terrible contorting, in the way the figure moves. It does not crawl. It does not speak. There is only a dreadful, singular purpose in the manner its fingers and feet scuttle closer, spread from its body like a human spider, though I am neither human nor spider.
There is a dead girl walking the quiet streets of Applegate, leaving mangled bodies of child murderers in her wake. But when a boy with strange tattoos moves into the neighborhood, so, she realizes, does something else.
