Page 40 of Molt

I don’t sleep.

Every sound from upstairs keeps me awake.

A floorboard. Pipes. Once, footsteps. I imagine August above me. One hundred and seventy-four years old surrounded by pieces of me. I wonder what he looks like naked. “Jesus Christ, Lenora.” I roll over.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

We don’t touch. We don’t become what we were.

Fine.

I close my eyes.

The moment sleep begins to pull me under, a memory slips through.

Not mine…but mine.

His mouth between my thighs sucking my clit and flicking his tongue against it while my fingers tangle in his dark hair. Like gaslight flickering across bareskin.

My own voice moaning.

August sliding his fingers inside me until I make a mess of his face. My body shivers with need.

Then I wake with a gasp.

My body is hot.

Aching.

My thighs press together.

“What the fuck?”

I sit up. The room is dark. My breathing is too loud. Then I hear something.

Scratching.

Soft.

Close.

I turn on the lamp.

Nothing.

Then I hear it again and look toward the wall.

No.

The sound is coming from beneath my bed.

Every horror movie I’ve ever watched tells me not to look.

But here I am kneeling and lifting the blanket as I look.

Something pale is underneath.

My stomach drops.