JV Hampton-VanSant

He grips his lake-bloated skull, clawing at himself again with that blade-gloved hand.

Red, raw gashes open up, but instead of blood, they sprout fur.

Rabid, wiry fur.

Ears turning pointy.

Teeth and maw elongating, savage claws hooking the air.

All of this in a stop-motion flash.

Still, you know what you're up against.

The exit at the back of the theater isn't an option.

More chains cocoon the double doors leading to the lobby.

Desperate, completing an insane loop...

You slip back into the top row and hobble, chair by chair, right leg meaty and clanking.

You can't avoid it any longer.

Your attention shivers downward.

Before the evening got going, your watcher must have split your pant leg to the hip.

What you glimpse now, between the swinging bell of fabric, is not your leg.

This jagged, bruise-modeled horror show, with bulging lumps and the festering zipper of black stitches, cannot be your leg.

What did you do to me?

You gasp, voice strangling.

With a vicious stretch and tear of flesh...

and a grisly snap and fuse of bone, your watcher completes his transformation and raises his slathering, blazing attention your way.