Nightfall (Devil's Night 4)

But if I could’ve faked it, I wouldn’t have. It wasn’t my style to fit in. Screw ’em.

“Did you assimilate to her?” I broached, almost whispering.

The woman he talked about at the pool showers. The one made for him.

He faltered and then stilled, a faraway look crossing his eyes.

I swallowed, but I smiled to myself. I’d found his weak spot.

“Still hearing noises?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“No.”

But I might know where they were coming from now.

I glanced at the phonograph near the windows, still playing Schubert.

“Why are you roaming?” he asked me.

I shot him a look, an excuse lost on my tongue.

But then I remembered.

“I, uh… I saw the garden shed,” I told him. “I thought I’d look for tools. Maybe a ladder. That panel is off its hinges.”

I pointed to the roof and the broken panel of glass.

But he didn’t look, just kept working as he cut and cleared weeds. “Come here,” he said and held out his arm, inviting me in.

I reared back a little, but then…something pushed me forward.

I inched in, and he circled my waist, pulling me down into his lap.

I protested, trying to stand back up, but he took my hands in his and pushed them forward, palms down into the plant bed and sliding them underneath the soil.

What the hell was he doing?

Turning my head, I looked at him as he squeezed my wrists, keeping my hands in the dirt. What…?

“What do you feel?” he asked.

I hesitated, speechless. What did he mean, ‘what do I feel’?

“Soil,” I said.

Obviously.

He cocked his head, looking unimpressed.

Did he really have to hold my hands down?

Sighing, I wiggled my fingers a little, indulging this as the crisp feel coated my skin.

Almost like planting your face in a fresh pillow.

“Cool earth,” I finally told him. “It’s soft with water. Fluffy. Like flour, almost.” I looked over at him, his nose inches from mine. “Thick but…clean between my fingers.”

He released me, but I stayed there and watched him pick up a small glass pitcher, pouring water over the soil covering my hands.