“Jeepers creepers, where’d ya get those peepers…”
It lunged. Riley shoved Jamie through the church’s broken door and slammed it shut. The wood splintered instantly as a claw punched through, retracted, punched again. They scrambled over pews, into the dusty apse. A stained-glass window of a saint watched them with serene, indifferent eyes. Jeepers Creepers
The creature dropped from the steeple, landing without a sound. It tilted its head, mimicking a curious bird. Then it spoke, not in a whisper, but in the dead mailman’s voice. “Jeepers creepers, where’d ya get those peepers…” It
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. They scrambled over pews, into the dusty apse
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.
A body. Or what was left of one. A man in a tattered postal worker’s uniform, his back arched at an unnatural angle. His eyes were gone—two wet, hollow sockets staring at the stars. And from his open mouth, the song continued, a recording stitched into his vocal cords.