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He raced up a nearby staircase, still laughing. I almost
stepped on his shadow as I gave chase, nearly catching
him in the grinning arc of my sister’s shining teeth, but he
managed to push the remains of his borrowed body just
slightly beyond her reach.
As we rounded a corner I was surprised by a mob bearing
knives, keys, canes, anything they could seize upon. I should
have known that a luxurious hotel, little more than a hive of
the rich and indulgent, would be thick with secrets for the
antlered god to sup—and feast he did. I could hear the floors
above me shaking under the wide trample of secret-keeping
crowds. Mercifully, these new devotees were without the
physical adjustments that madness could supply, so I was
confronted only by crazed humans.
My father cleared a flowing red path amidst the teeming
throngs, but my pace was sorely wounded. I lost sight of
the bleeding god somewhere on the third floor. I slipped
into a hallway that had been closed off for some kind of
maintenance, hoping the god had taken the same route. Sure
enough, he stood at the far end of the corridor, holding the
slack darkness that tumbled all around him as if it were a pull
string. “Where is your mother now, Vincent? Do you even
remember what you did to her? What she did to you? Think
hard, Vincent. You can do it, my boy. I’ll even help you.” I
felt the god’s psychic fist slam into my mind, crashing past
memory and dream alike, searching and clawing for more
secrets.
This time, though, my family was home, and they were
admitting no visitors. I grinned at the terrible violence that
greeted the god’s efforts. After all the slashing, hacking,
and smashing, Tom seemed to reel from the inner conflict,
holding himself up via the grip he continued to exercise upon
the flowing darkness of the corridor. After a few moments of
satisfying quiet, Mister Hush seemed to regain his sense of
humor, letting drip a small stream of oily laughter as he rose
from his psychic defeat. “Oh, yes. I forgot about that awful
184 | Mark Anzalone