Joseph Yenkavitch

The thing shifted, the piece closest to his hand lifting, as if it wanted to touch Malcolm's.

He let his hands caress it, just once, a timid sort of touch you might give a baby gator at one of those petting zoos.

His breath rushed out of him.

It felt wonderful.

It was like touching something.

Something.

He was petting it now, his fingers wriggling into the surface that was pliable and soft.

A sharp pain suddenly erupted in his hand, cutting off that strange, euphoric feeling.

Malcolm lurched back, a scream poised on the edge of his widening lips.

Unable to fly out of his open mouth because... Because... Because it doesn't want me to scream, he thought in horror.

his hand tingling with a growing heat.

He pushed at the scream hard, wishing it would fly out of his mouth already because the pain, oh the pain, was like his skin had been filled with fire or something worse.

Bits and chunks of the thing clung to his skin.

No matter how much he shook his hand, the goopy substance would not unlatch.

In fact, he could feel it weaving into his flesh.

Little threads of the blobby goop hardening and digging and digging.

Until... Oh god!

The pain!

He fell onto his back.

Now his arm was on fire.