Mason

We stumbled into the mud, backs to trees, staring at the doorway.

The door opened wider.

The man stepped out.

Up close, he looked worse.

Not monstrous, just wrong in a way that made him feel more dangerous because he was real.

His jacket was soaked and stained.

His beard was stringy.

His eyes were bloodshot, and the skin around them was raw, possibly from the bear spray, possibly from something else.

He held the blade in his right hand, relaxed at his side like it was just part of him.

He looked at us, and there was something almost satisfied in his expression, like he'd been waiting for this moment.

Mason raised the bear spray again.

I saw his thumb tremble on the safety.

The man's smile returned, small and calm.

Then he spoke, and his voice was quiet, almost gentle.

I told you you can't go back, he said.

You came anyway.

Mason sprayed.

This time he aimed better, straight at the man's face.

The man jerked back, raising his arm, and the spray hit him full.

He made a choking sound and stumbled off the porch, eyes clamped shut, wiping at his face with his sleeve.