Town called West Thomas

Billy’s face was gray, his eyes pale, his body cold beneath Michael’s hands.

He was dead.

After several moments, Billy blinked and turned his head.

Michael stepped back, breath catching as the body sat up.

A dead body doesn’t do this, he thought.

Yet Billy rose to his knees, then to his feet, staring through him with eyes that no longer belonged to anyone he knew.

Michael Wayne lived in a small duplex just outside town. Billy Stokes occupied the upstairs unit.

Michael had just sat down for dinner — a simple, quiet task.

“Damn it!” He slammed his fist onto the kitchen table. A bag of fast-food hamburgers fell to the floor as Billy dragged his feet overhead.

“Pick up your goddamn feet!”

“Shut up, you prude,” Billy shouted back. “Mind your own. I’ve got shit going on!”

“What kind of shit?” Michael yelled. “You’ve got no family. You sit above me all day. What do you have to do?”

Billy swore. Something heavy crashed. Glass shattered. The building shook.

Then silence.

“Stokes!” Michael shouted.

He grabbed his coat and stepped outside, rounding the corner toward the staircase.

Billy’s car sat crooked in the drive.

“Really?” Michael muttered. “If my knee goes, that’s on you.”

He climbed the shabby wooden stairs and pounded on Billy’s door.

“Billy Stokes, are you alright?”

The door swung open.

Inside, the air was thick with beer, cigarettes, and something sweet.

Glass crunched beneath Michael’s shoes.

Frames that once hung neatly on the walls were scattered across the floor. Furniture lay overturned. A large television rested atop a body.

“Billy!”

Michael rushed forward, lifting the television aside.

Billy lay face-down. Cold. Still.

Michael flipped him over.

Gray face. Pale eyes. Chest rising faintly.

Billy stared at the ceiling.

Then he blinked.

Michael stepped back as Billy slowly sat up.

He looked dead — except for the breathing.

“A dead body doesn’t do this,” Michael whispered.

Billy rose to his feet.

Then he lunged.

Michael barely dodged as the body slammed into the wall behind him, shaking the apartment.

It turned. Blood streaked its face. The pale, pupil-less eyes stared through him.

The creature screamed.

Michael’s legs gave out and he sank to the floor.

“What the hell are you?” he gasped.

Whatever this is… it’s wrought.

The creature charged again.

Michael scrambled upright and struck Billy across the face.

“I hate you,” he growled. “I’ve wanted to do this since that winter.”

He waited for recognition. For satisfaction.

Nothing.

Silence stretched between them.

Then the creature grabbed him by the throat and lifted him against the wall.

Michael’s breath left him.

The grip tightened.

Its breath was putrid. Its dead eyes flicked to the side as if distracted by something unseen.

Needles stabbed at his throat. His vision blurred.

The pressure increased.

It was becoming impatient.

Then the grip loosened.

The creature stumbled.

Air rushed into Michael’s lungs.

Billy’s goddamn knee.

Michael kicked forward, striking the bad joint. The leg buckled. The body collapsed.

Michael wheezed, barely upright.

Behind him, the creature moaned and tried to stand again.

Michael backed into the hallway, opened the apartment door, and stepped outside.

He closed it.

Then began the slow trip down the stairs.