Riley grabbed Jamie and ran. They didn’t stop. They ran through the burning church, through the graveyard, past the corpse in the culvert, whose mouth had finally fallen silent. They reached the Impala. The keys were still in the ignition.
It reached for Jamie. Riley lunged, driving the broken bottle into its shoulder. Black ichor sprayed. The creature didn’t scream. It laughed—a high, wet, wheezing laugh. Jeepers Creepers
They drove until dawn. They didn’t speak. They didn’t cry. They just drove. And twenty-three years later, Riley still checks her backseat every time she gets in the car. She still locks the doors before the sun goes down. And she still wakes up some nights, sure she hears it—flap, flap, flap—just outside the window, waiting for the next spring. Riley grabbed Jamie and ran
“Oh, I like this one,” it said, flicking the bottle out like a splinter. It grabbed Riley by the throat, lifted her until her feet dangled. “You have good fear. Smoky. Spicy. And your brother…” It turned its head 180 degrees to stare at Jamie. “He smells like vanilla. Sweet. I’ll save him for dessert.” They reached the Impala
“Where are we?”
They pulled it open. The smell of mold and old coal rushed up. Riley went first, dropping into darkness. Jamie followed. Above, the door exploded inward.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She turned the key. Nothing but a dry, death-rattle click. Jamie stirred, wiping drool from his chin.