ZIPPERJAW | Part 1

The full zipper jaw trilogy is live on Patreon right now. Start your seven day free trial of Dr. No Sleep Premium to hear all three parts instantly. No delays, no waiting. Cancel anytime, no commitment. Just go to patreon.com slash drno sleep to sign up. The link is also in the description below. That's patreon.com slash drno sleep. The corpse was missing its face. It's an epidemic around here. A bad habit this town has with its murder suicides. It's not enough for somebody to shove a knife through a ribcage and suck back on a 12 gauge anymore. Now, now everybody has to be original. Unique. They've got to peel off their victims face. Then scarf it down like skin jerky before slashing their own throats. Do you know how long it takes to bleed out after cutting your carotid artery? Not long. 30 seconds maybe. A minute if you're really unlucky. That's not a lot of time to stage and arrest. To interrogate a murderer. It's not a lot of time to parse through the mental quagmire that drives an individual to carve off a face and swallow it whole. It just isn't. So I've had to make do. I've spent the last three decades digging through old case files and buried corpses. First, as an inquisitor for the Order of Alice, then freelance. After they'd terminated me for being psychologically unfit and operationally unsound. Whatever that means. But across all my research, all my interviews, I couldn't find a single solid lead. Not one. Until tonight. Enter Jonah. Seventeen, top of his class, captain of the football team, and shooing for valedictorian. It's like the brat walked out of a hallmark movie. Well, except for that bit where he ate his father's face. But then, no one's perfect. And as good as he was at everything else in life, Jonah wasn't much when it came to suicide. Lacked the follow through, you might say. He didn't sever his jugular so much as dramatically naked. Deep enough to pass out from blood loss, but shallow enough that the paramedics were able to salvage his life. And surviving, that was Jonah's biggest mistake. Because now he's all mine. I've never cared much for hospitals. It's a combination of the sterile fluorescence and the way the air smells like chemical warfare. And the way everywhere you look, it's either more clutter or abject emptiness. Maybe that's why Jonah looked so unnerved when I opened the door. It's my expression. Bitter, repulsed. It's hard not to feel this way. Hospitals make me think of my sister. And my sister makes me think of things I'm better off forgetting. Who are you? Jonah Crookes. He's propped up in his bed like a mummy. Bandages strangling his throat. Chest buried beneath a pile of baby blue blankets. It closed the door behind me and lock it. He asks the same question. It sounds even more painful the second time around. But I still don't answer. Instead I cross the room, unbuttoning my jacket before draping it over his bedside chair with a cough. Then I take a seat. All the while, he's staring at me like I'm a hallucination. Some drug-induced fever dream. Tough to blame him. After all, it's the middle of the night. A stranger just walked into his room wearing a black suit and a skull, carrying the kind of briefcase that screams bad news. He probably thinks I'm here to audit his health insurance. That or snatches kidneys. But I've got worse things on my mind. I cracked my briefcase, rifeful through an ocean of reports, 30 years of case files. The order wanted them back when they terminated me three years ago. But I told them to fuck off. This research is mine. I pull my clipboard from the bottom of the mess. Attach a 33A interrogation record. The kind of form that determines whether someone's possessed, cursed, or just garden variety homicidal. My pen clicks. I scribble the kid's name up top. He tries to speak again, but only manages to wheeze. It takes him a minute to push words past the staples in his throat. Which suits me fine. I'm busy cataloging details. People dilation, chestnut hair, stubble jaw, the ear tugging tick that screams anxiety. Then I categorize bullshit that's too dull to describe. Age. Location. Are you with? Jonah Grimiss'. It probably feels like throwing up asphalt every time he speaks. Are you with the police? I look up from my report. Meet his eyes for the first time. Just to let him know I see him. That I hear him. Then I go back to the clipboard. See, the secret nobody tells you about conversations is, it's not about what you say, but what you don't. The only thing more agonizing than being spoken to is being ignored. So that's just what I do. I make the kid an afterthought. But sure I'll get to when I find the time. And right on schedule, he starts to break. He lurches up in his bed, hits the call button. Once. Twice. Then he starts hammering it. Only nobody is coming because I'm good at my job. Nurse? He weasers. Hello? The nurse isn't coming. My mother. Scratching down the last of his tombstone data. Neither is security. Turns out, chloroforms pretty cheap when you buy it in bulk. A smirk slips across my lips. And considering this entire wing is empty, you'd be better off saving once the left of your voice for my questions. His eyes widen, horrified. They snap to the locked door, then to the handcuff, chaining him to the bed. He gives it a feeble rattle, confirming what I already know. He's not going anywhere. Not until I'm finished with him. Who the hell are you? An inquisitor. His face screws up with confusion. Oh, what? To put it simply, I lean forward, cutting my voice to a whisper. I'm the guy you call when the monster under your bed eats to be euthanized. His heart monitor starts to sing, picking up speed like a steam engine. That's good. The monster makes people honest. I pull out my pocket watch, snap it open. It's an old Victorian thing, uglier than burnt toast, but standard issue for those in my line of work. Once upon a time, the face glowed with occult sigils, displayed threat data, and acted as a direct line to the order of Alice, like a sort of nightmare in Pokédex. Now, it just tells time, the guy I'm running out of. Hey, to rush things, I say, pressing my pen to the clipboard. But I'm operating on a pretty strict schedule here. I'm going to need to wrap introductions and start the interview. Interview? Yes. He opens his mouth like he wants to keep wasting my time, so I shift in my seat. Give him a good look at the magnum strap to my waist. Jesus, you brought it gone? Of course I did. Tell me. What do you know about the no thing? The color drains from his face. If he looked scared before, now he looks terrified. I read the police report's kid. You told them a monster convinced you to murder your father and eat his face, and only one urban legend supports that framework. The psychiatrist said it was psychosis. Echrokes, that I imagined it. I almost laughed. Psychosis. I've been tracking this monster for 30 years. I can assure you that it's very real and more likely than not, coming back to finish the job. Finish the job? That's right. The no thing doesn't leave survivors, and that makes you a mistaken need of correction. His beeping pulse kicks into overdrive. And you can help me. I'm the only person who can help you, but I need information. Data I can use to. A cough erupts from my throat. Then another. It's all blood and flammant worse. For the time I'm finished wiping my lips, the kids looking at me like we should trade places. You're sick. We're all sick. I reach inside my jacket, fish out a pack of cigarettes, and slip one between my teeth and light it on fire. It's leukemia, isn't it? My mom added too. I recognize those coughing fits. You really shouldn't be smoking. I blow smoke in his direction. Probably not. He grimaces, and I ash the cigarette on the floor. First question, I tell him. How the no thing invents you to murder your old man. Jonah pays the locked door one final glance. Then bows his head in resignation. He's finally getting the picture that we aren't done until I say we're done. I don't know. He says slowly. It's murky. Hard to remember. But it wasn't my fault. You gotta believe that at least. I wouldn't. I mean, I'd never. Relax. This isn't a trial. And if it was, I'd acquit you. I mean his eyes. You're a victim as far as I'm concerned. No different than all the others, the no things turned into murderers. No different than my sister. Your sister? I not. Just tightening. Adelaide. She died 40 years ago. The first victim of the no thing. Oh God. I'm so sorry. I'm not looking for a sympathy kid. I'm looking for a name. But I lift a hand, cut him off. Save your breath. I already know the legend. You figure out its name. Then it comes to kill you at midnight. I don't care. Frankly, I'm counting on it. Wait. He sputters. You want this thing to come after you? More than anything, yes. He stares at me. One caught between confusion and horror. I'm 46 next Sunday. I explain. Cigarette smoldering between my fingers. I've lived my entire life knowing my sister's Reaper was still out there. Carving off faces. Butchering families. You know why I want this thing to come after me? So I can kill it. So I can make it suffer just like it made Adelaide suffer. So I can make it bleed. Just like it made her bleed. The kid rubs his arm. Gases out the window. Stairs at that endless expanse of rural fuck all-nothingness. Flat farmland buried in the shadow of rain clouds. And he says, I'm sorry. I want to help, but I can't. 30 years. Countless dead ends. I've only got until midnight to get what I came here for. And this kid wants to play hard to get. It makes me want to wrap my hands around his throat. It makes me want to squeeze the brat until. No. Deep breath, Thomas. You're not your father. You can get what you need from the kid without making him bleed. Probably. You are trying to protect me. I tell him carefully. Not snowball of you, but ultimately pointless. He pays me a look of shock. I've only got a couple more years in me. I continue. And that's assuming I kick this habit. A few months if I don't. I crushed the last of the cigarette on the armrest. Hacking a performative, watery-eyed cough. You can do the mouth on that yourself, I guess. Jonas' expression crumbles. Jesus. So that's why you're not afraid. You're dead anyway. Bingo. He sucks back a shuddering breath. You don't get it, though. There's more to the lore to its rules. Stuff they don't talk about in the campfire stories. It doesn't make you kill just anybody. It makes you kill. You think I don't already know that? I snap. Cutting him off. Look at the scars on my face, the gray in my hair. You think I got that working a desk job? I've been hunting boogie men since before you were born. So tell me the damn name, kid. Help me save lives. Help me make your father's death mean something. He wins his. Of course he does. It's almost pathetic how easy boys his age are to predict. It doesn't matter how smart they are, how driven. It doesn't even matter how mature. All of them are haunted by the ghost of their father. By the pathological need to prove themselves, chasing their old man's validation, even while he's buried six feet under. I press the advantage. You want your dander out of way? No, when you murdered him for nothing. Or do you want to save people? To have this sacrifice mean fine. Jonas snaps. He wipes the sleeve of his patient gown across his eyes. You've made your point. I'll do it. He hesitates, shutters his eyes. Then he says the sweetest word I've ever heard. The name of the monster that massacred my future, that butchered my sister and devoured my childhood. He gives me the key to the gates of hell, and it's called... SIPPER JAW! My pen moves on instinct. The letters appear one by one. But before I can finish, they've already started to melt into the page, vanishing. My heart pounds, hardly able to believe it. I'm smiling like a maniac. The no thing. I finally learned its true name. This town, this night. How fitting it is that everything should end here, where it began, forty years to the day. My hand is tremoring. No, my whole arm is. I'm afraid. How long has it been since I was truly, honestly, afraid? Already, I can feel the cold kiss of goose bumps crawling up my spine. My chest tightening and pupils dilating with. Jonas drops his face in his hands and starts to sob. I'm sorry, he gasps. I'm so so sorry. My smile fractures. The rush of adrenaline giving way to a surge of annoyance. We've been over this kid. I'm already dead. You've got nothing to feel bad about. He looks up through tear-stained eyes. You don't get it. Of course I get it. It's him that's still catching up. I've been playing Jonas since the moment I walked in that door. Everything I've done from lighting the cigarette to letting him catch a glimpse of my gun was deliberate, calculated. He sees the scars on my face and thinks he knows me, but masks go deeper than skin, and he's about to learn that lesson. Super-chot doesn't just kill you. He chokes out. It makes you kill the person you care about most. Makes you eat their face, just like, just like. He gags. Just like it did to you and your father. I say flatly. I'm a monster. A thoughtfully built wardrobe really comes down to pieces that mix well, last, and don't make you feel like you overpaid. And that's exactly why I've been loving quince lately. They make up everyday essentials using premium fabrics and thoughtful design without the luxury markup. 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I'm not exactly a pleasant person. I'm angry, bitter. I drink too much, my teeth are the color of nicotine. Most women are smart enough to avoid me. That means I haven't got kids. No spouse, as for my parents. My father's voice crawls out from the back of my mind, drunk, and vicious. Sip it boy, sip it before I fucking. My shiver. Well, let's just say I'd have killed my old man if my sister didn't beat me to the punch. Jonah's tears evaporate into quiet horror. I know, I know, I'm trauma-dumping. I give a self-deprecating wave. Never quite learned the trick to being human, though. To grasping the whole concept of conversational boundaries. I pause, considering. My psychiatrist thinks it's got something to do with my brain. Sociopathy, she calls it. Or maybe psychopathy, or to keep track. Jonah's eyes widen. The bandages go taught around his neck as his throat moves up and down. He's a smart kid. Naive, sure, but smart. No doubt he's putting it together now, recognizing that some nightmares wear suits and ties. The point is, I continue, leaning back in my chair and staring at the fluorescent sky. I don't form attachments, unlike you. Unlike most people do. My work is the only thing I feel truly connected to. So I guess you could say I'm married to my job. Silence. Jonah isn't laughing. His heart monitor plays us to cato rhythm. He's staring at me like he's trying to reconcile the man who gently talked about his sister with whatever he's seeing now. You're waiting for the punchline? I say quietly. There isn't one. His hands grip the bedsheets. My sister died when I was six. She was only 10 when zipper job butchered her. My voice stays level. Clinical. I found her. She wasn't dead yet, not quite. So I got to hold her while she blood out. Adelaide was the last person who meant something to me. The only person. I clunched my jaw. And now? There's nothing I cherish more than the thought of watching that creature die. And the only way I get to do that is through you, Jonah. He shrinks to the far side of his bed. Shaking his head like denial might rewrite reality. I rise from my chair. The legs screech against Linoleum. But you have survived zipper job. I say, prosing to his bed. My fingers close around the railing. That means you can tell me things nobody else can. Its rules. How it functions. What binds it to this god for a second reality? His eyes dart to the locked door. To the handcuff on his wrist. His voice cracks. I don't know any of that though. Sure you do. It's just been buried. Locked away and repressed. My lean closer. But that's why I'm here. I'm going to help you remember what it was like to butcher your father. What it tasted like when you swallowed his face. He yanks at his handcuff. It doesn't give. He's big, but not that big. By the time he turns back, I've already crossed the distance. My hand closes around his throat. Not hard enough to choke. Just enough to feel his stitches shifting beneath the bandages. Just enough to hurt him. Stop! He has a lot of gasps, clawing at my wrist. Please! You get it now, don't you? My hiss. Close enough he can smell the tobacco on my breath. It's you, Jonah. Right now, nobody in the entire world is more important to me than you are. His eyes widen with understanding. With horror. You're my everything. A whisper. He gives a pathetic whimper. He's finally letting himself see it. The horror of what he's done. The horror of what I've done to him. I release his throat and watch him gulp for air. You used me. Erasps. Consider it leverage. I sink back into my chair. Clipboard on my lap like we're discussing insurance. Some motivation to plumb those buried corners of your psyche. I pay him a dark smile. You're right. He says slowly. Voice shaking with disgust. You really are a monster. Yes. But a necessary one. I wet the tip of my finger and flip a handful of pages on my clipboard. People are dying in this town. They're butchering families, eating faces. It's a disaster, frankly, and somebody needs to address it. It's what my sister would want. Jonah recoils like I slapped him. You think your sister would want this? You sacrificing some teenager for your bullshit revenge fantasy? My eyelid twitches. My sister would be proud of me. I say to my teeth. And even if she hated it, it wouldn't make a damn difference. I lean forward, dropping my voice to a graveyard whisper. See, this isn't about anilade. Not really. This is about fairness. About making zipper jaw pay for what it took for me. I narrow my eyes. And I intend to collect no matter how many lives it costs. Jonah's expression curdles. You are deranged. No arguments there. But you know as well as I do what happens at midnight, kid. My pen clicks and stabs the clipboard like a knife. So I'd start talking. Or pretty soon, you won't have a face to talk with. I snap the pocket watch shut. 10.40pm. Tick tock, kid. Jonah feeds me a glare that could topple an elephant, hands twisting in his lap. Let me get this straight. He spits. I help you. And maybe we live. Or maybe your better at bloke, smoke up your ass and you are adunting monsters. And we both end up dead anyway. That right. I run my tongue across my teeth. I'm plenty good at hunting monsters. Believe me, I can kill this thing. Believe you, eScoffs. I don't know. Lying seems pretty on brand for you. I tap my pen, studying him. Then chuckle. Oh, so this is happening. You're going to what? Go score a start on me. Keep your mouth shut so we both go down with the ship. Is that it? ESnires. Even if I live, I'm looking at life and prison. That's shitty enough. I'm considering just calling it a year. At least I died knowing I wiped that dumb grin off your stupid face. Stupid face? I roll my eyes. Come on, kid. You can do better than that. Fuck off, tip shit. Yes, there you go. Throw a little heat on it. Make it burn. He folds his arms, scathing. Look, our issue is one of perspective. I say, you sabotage this, and sure you get to watch me die. And believe me, I can understand the appeal. But every corpse after tonight? Every dead child? Every dead parent? That's on you. All that death because you couldn't set aside your pride to cooperate for a single fucking hour. Make it glairs, nostrils flaring. His mouth works, searching for a counter-argument. Only there isn't one. Not for him. The sad truth is no amount of cold pragmatism could ever overcome his hopelessly overturned moral compass. It's almost criminal that people like him even exist. Naive lambs wandering a world built for wolves. I'll admit it, I tell him. You've got the right idea of me. I'm a piece of shit. A deplorable example of what it means to be human. By all counts, I'm a certified lunatic that be better off in a padded cell. Glad we agree. But I'm not an idiot, and neither are you. What does that mean? It means the math checks out. leukemia, prism, whichever way you cut it. Our lives are already over. So the least we can do is make our final hours count. He clenches his jaw. You're doing it again, manipulating me. Of course I am, but it doesn't change the calculus. He's silent for a minute. Then too. Thinking. Considering that he claws a hand through his hair with a snarl of frustration. If we somehow live, then I want your help getting out of this town. Got it? A clean slate. New identity. Whatever strings you can pull. I almost smile. The kid's learning. Sure. And be honest, he says. Can you actually kill this thing? I settled back in my chair. A self-satisfied smirk on my face. Don't see why not. I've killed plenty of other boogie men. With your experience and my proclivity for violence, I'd say we've got a shot. A shot? What's our percentage of success? You don't want to know. He heaves a sigh, head falling back against his pillow. Great. So we're dead no matter what then. Everyone's dead no matter what. We might just die faster. That's supposed to make me feel better. My watch shutters in my pocket. I pull it out and find the minute and hour hands spinning out of control. The glassy face flickering with a static haze. What's wrong with it? Jonah asks. No idea. It was working fine just moments ago, telling time, being a watch. Now, it's like it's remembering what it used to be, what it used to do. Only that doesn't make sense because it was disabled the day I was excommunicated. I snap it shut with a frown, look up at the clock on the wall. Forget the watch. Our hourglass is burning sand. It's already 1048 and we haven't even talked to Chain of Custody. Chain of what? Somebody told you Zipper Jaws name. They passed its curse onto you. Who was it? Nobody. I arch an eyebrow. Thought we were past this kid. It's the truth. Nobody told me. It just came to me in a dream. Same one I've had every night since I was four. Since my mom died. His voice breaks. Only this time there was a girl. What girl? He stares out at the bleak countryside. It's a brain trickle down the window glass. Don't know. She wore a burlap mask. Looked out made. Get remembered. He tells very well. Only that she was bleeding. Now we're talking. My pen carves across the page. Bleeding from where? From her throat maybe. Under her mask. Her dress was soaked red. She was choking. Gurgling. Almost like she was trying to speak. Just one word. Zipper jaw. And the second she said it. I woke up in a cold sweat. Thought it was just a nightmare at the time. But he trails off. Guilt stricken. Probably thinking about eating his dad's face. That's when I heard this zipper. My pen pauses. Zipper? He nods. It started after leaving my bedroom. I heard something unsit downstairs. Slowed and fast. Then slow again. Jonas says. Tugging his ear. It was loud. Grading. Like opening a backpack with a rusty zipper. I told my dad. And he did as usual. Zipper told you both to shut the fuck up. I shoved my own father's memory down. As usual being what? I asked. Reminding me how I disappointed him. How hard he worked after mom died. Buying that country manor with Uncle Dutch. The lights flicker. 10.54 pm. The room goes dark. Jonah lurches up. My hand snaps to my magnum on instinct. It's still over an hour until midnight. That means this is probably a power outage. A coincidence. Only I don't trust coincidences. Do you hear that? Jonah croaks. Shhh. I close my eyes, focusing past my pulse, thundering in my ears. And there, behind the locked door, in the empty hallway. It's a mechanical growl, like metal teeth unfascening. The lights flash back on, blinding us both. Jonah's gone ghost white. His eyes are fixed on the door, voice creaking with dread. It's out there. It's waiting. You're probably right, I say. Stalking forward. But entities like this are bound by rules. He can't touch us until midnight. I press my ear to the wooden surface. All I hear is silence. We're good, kid. Keep talking. He gapes like I've lost my mind. If there's a way to kill this thing, it's in your story. I've got the expertise. You've got information. So talk. Or die. He glances at the door again. Uneasy. Unconvince. For a second, I think he's going to drag this out. Make a headache out of it. But then he opens his mouth and starts to speak. The zipper sounds followed me all day. He says slowly. In class. At practice. But after school on the football field, things got bad. I saw the masked girl sitting on the sidelines with the doll in her lap. I mean, he hums the melody in my chest constraints. That tune I've heard it before. But where? A memory scratches at the edge of my thoughts, stubborn, persistent. It's the kind I'd rather avoid, but it won't let me. The next time I blink, the hospital room starts to melt, the sterile walls, the old locker in the corner. All of it bleeds into the floor, mutating into a living room bathed in an analog glow. There once was a woman who lived in a shoe. A size two snug book. What could she do? But that's not where her story ends. Thanks to a little help from her experience, friends, she got her score into much better shape and relocated to a box fresh new place, with room to grow and a mortgage to suit. Now, she lives in a spacious four-bedroom cowboy boot. Better your experience, credit score, to help get mortgage ready, experience. Better your score, better your story. I'm six years old again. I'm sitting on stained carpet across from my sister, Adelaide, who must be 10. Our father snores on the couch, surrounded by beer cans and pill bottles, paying killers from an old work accident. Addy's humming. It's our mother's lullaby, the one she'd sing us before she died, before she split her throat up and at the kitchen table. Addy shows me her doll. It's got googly eyes, a zipper smile. Mother soded for her the week she killed herself, told her, it would be a friend she could always count on. One last gift. I got nothing. What's it called? I hear myself ask. The no thing. Addy answers. That's a dumb name. It's not a name. She says flatly, combing its red thread hair. Nobody knows its real name. Why not? Because once you know its name, it gobbles you up. My frown. Be serious. It's true. Mom told me herself before she. You said that. Father staring at us from the couch. No longer asleep. His hands are cracking into fists. His round face, creasing with rage. Oh, fuck did I tell you to? Don't talk about my wife ever. Sorry. Addy laid says quickly. We didn't mean to wake you, dad. But father's already peeling himself from the couch, staggering forward in a snarling drunken stupor, deciding which one of us he'll hurt first. You with me. My eyelids wrench open. Jonas halfway off his bed, reaching toward me. A look of genuine concern on his face. I sit upright, adrenaline singing through my veins. What happened? You zoned out. He says, started drooling. Thought maybe you were having a stroke. But then I figured it was probably just the curse. The curse, huh? A massage my head, scowling. So there's a memory component to this thing? Yeah. Could have mentioned that. Could have mentioned you were using me as a human sacrifice, too, prick. I grimace. The kid makes a fair point. What'd you see? My sister. I say slowly. We were kids. She was telling me about the no thing. Pretty sure it used to be her doll. His face twists with shock. You're saying zipper jaw is what? Your sister's toy come to life. I'm not saying anything. It's just a theory. My teeth find my lip, knowing with uncertainty. But Adelaide was the first victim. So the timeline tracks. I need more data, though. Starting with that masked girl in the football field. What happened after you saw her? Things got bad. He says, real bad. Give me specifics. He swallows. I felt metal claws taking down the center of my face, man. Right there in front of my whole team. His voice shakes. I felt like something was unsipping my face. It was agony, physical, mental, ebosyro. I blacked out from the pain. Woke up in Uncle Dutch's truck and he looked pissed. He shifts on the bed, growing more unsettled with every word. Guess the school called the house. Left a message saying I'd been having some kind of episode screaming in front of my whole team. Dutch told me I should be ashamed. That I embarrassed the family. That I drew the wrong kind of attention. But ebuses meets my eyes. When that thing unzipped my face, I saw things. Terrible things. I screamed about them loud enough that half the school must have heard. Outside, there's a crack of thunder. Rain matters the window and wet streaks. What kind of things? Family things. He says, when dad got home, I heard them arguing about it while I was up in my room. Dutch sounded furious. He was punching walls yelling, kept saying they were both going to prison. That dad broke their promise and told me their secret. I leaned forward. Secret? He nods. Voice beginning to tremble. Something about mom. Dad said he never told me, but Dutch said he must have because I was screaming about whatever it was in front of my team. His words catch in his throat. That's when dad cocked his shotgun. Told Dutch he needed to take a walk, clear his head, that he wasn't thinking straight. Dutch said that a lot of money was writing on this, that he was starting to doubt if dad had the balls to shut me up if it came down to it and his mouth stops mid sentence. He shrank. And dad said he could. And he already shut my mom up. So Dutch shouldn't doubt his loyalty. Christ. So what? They killed your mom? Jonah goes called. No, he spotters. My mom. She died of leukemia. I know that. But whatever they were talking about, it sounded like they wanted me to zip it. My father snarl slams into me like a storm front. Only it isn't reaching my ears. It's echoing inside my mind, over and over, louder and louder. I grimace, staggering from my seat before collapsing onto my hands and knees, sweat beads down my nose. Relax. It's just another memory. Jonah, the kid's trying to coach me through this like it's science homework. It's harder the more you resist. He doesn't get it. There are things in my past I can't bear to remember. Things that would destroy me. My fingernail scrape across the floor. The scuffed linoleum blinking into carpeting and back again. I'm trying to hold on, trying to fight. But zipper jaws too powerful. With a final anguished roar, my consciousness gutters. And suddenly I'm falling backwards into myself. Into a nightmare. The apartment hallway rises up around me, cramped, dark, and dressed in wallpaper stained a nicotine yellow. This moment, it feels familiar. This was the first time I learned about father smacks the back of my head. I'm talking to you dumbass. He jabs a finger at the closet at the end of the hall, where a pile of clothes sits in tatters beside a pair of purple scissors. This mass. He barks, spit flying in my face. You make it, boy. I'm trying to work my mouth, trying to say it wasn't me, but the adrenaline is hijacking my nervous system. I'm in fight or flight, stuck in a stuttering loop of another smack. This time hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. You death gift, shit! Answer me. There's a creek of a folding door. The closet opens. A girl steps out. Red hair blazing almost as bright as her eyes. Leave him alone. It's my mess. Adelaide. Father's attention swivels. Lip curling upward in a snarl. Egestures to the scraps. These are my wife's clothes. They'll let you do them with them. She's not just your wife. Addy says, finally. She's our mom too. And I was using her old clothes to make an outfit. An outfit? Father stomps forward, towering above her. What? You don't like the clothes I buy you? Of course I do, but... He grabs her face, squeezing. Cepet. Hear me? Not another goddamn word. Fucking in grade. He releases her with a scall, shoving her heart against the wall. Clean up your shit. Do it again. And I'll bore shampoo in your brother's eyes. He turns, marching back to the living room muttering beneath his breath. Addy hurries forward, tossing the scraps into the closet with the rest of her sewing supplies. Sorry Tommy, she says quietly. Didn't mean to get you involved. You okay? Yeah, I say shake it. Why are you making an outfit? She ruffles my hair with a bittersweet smile. To protect us. The no thing gave me the idea. I'm almost done with the mask. Can I see? I ask, trying to pierce past her end of the closet. She blocks my view. No. Why not? Because it's a surprise. And because you're little enough, you'd probably get nightmares. I'm not afraid of clothes. It's not the clothes you need to be afraid of. She says quietly, taking an uneasy look over her shoulder. It's the thing that'll be wearing them. And before I can argue further, she wheels about vanishing into the dark of the closet. But before the door ground shut, I see it. The metal gleam of a zipper smile. The no thing perched atop a burlap sack like a patchwork king, staring back at me with empty eyes. The memory tilts. The hallway starts to spin. The yellowed wallpaper darkening into a pale orange. The dim lighting becoming the foggy gloom of a December morning. A school bus. I'm sitting on a school bus now, next to Adelaide. Her hand is clutching her ribs, face caught in a pained grimace. The no thing sits in her lap, smiling serenely, almost like it's savoring her suffering. Why do you bring it to school? I ask, staring at the doll. It creeps out the other kids. That's because I told them the legend about how strong it is, how scary. Why though? I thought you wanted us to make friends. Because that's how you make legends real. You spread them. The bus hits a bottle, jolting violently. Addy wins his winpering. No one else notices. No one ever does. Father makes sure our bruises never show. He's getting meaner. I say, the laughter of the children drowning out the fear in my voice. It's almost summer. You remember what he did last summer? Addy's quiet. Staring down at the doll. Fingers tangling in its red thread hair. I remember. She says coldly. But it's okay. I've got a plan. My stomach drops. It doesn't involve the no thing, doesn't. Even looking at it sends goose bumps across my arms. No. Then what? The bus lurches to a stop. Air breaks hissing. The doors swing open, and children surge toward the exit in a river of backpacks and laughter. Addy's already moving, swept up in the current. Addy! A scramble after her. My hand me down backpack, bouncing against my bruised spine. Wait up! She doesn't. Her eyes are locked straight ahead. Feet carrying her toward the principal's office. My heart ceases. No. Not again. You can't tell! A grabber arm. Try to pull her back. But Addy's four years older and 20 pounds heavier and determined in a way I've never seen before. Remember the last time we told? No one believed us. Dad kept us in our rooms for three days without food or water, his punishment. All I can do is hang on as she drags me across the playground. My sneakers leaving twin tracks in the mud. It won't be like last time. She mutters. Resentment in her voice. This time, I'm not telling a teacher. I'm telling a social worker. My voice cracks. Oh, what? A social worker? She says with a sigh. Stopping so suddenly I crash into her. They can help us. They save kids from monsters like Dad all the time. I blink. Stunned. It almost sounds too good to be true, and that probably means it is. As the field, a kickball game is starting. Normal kids doing normal things. We are not normal kids. Addy, what if… But she cuts me off. Trust me, okay? I promise we'll be safe soon, Tommy. Her arms wrap me in a hug, squeeze, and then she turns and marches toward the school. Toward hope. Toward help. But my gut is twisting with dread because even at six, I'm smart enough to know there is no hope. There is no help. The roads lead to monsters. Industry leaders are transforming business with AWS AI. From Phillips advancing patient care to smarter auto design and games that evolve in real time, AWS AI is how innovation happens every day. My eyes snap open. I'm doubled over on the floor, panting, sweating. Welcome back. Jonah is on his feet now, standing next to his bed in that pale blue hospital gown, his handcuff rattles against the railing. What? Beyond the door, there is a shrill crash followed by a clatter of steel, a series of thuds, almost like something colossal is stumbling down the hallway, staggering from one wall to the next. It's coming. Jonah says 11.06 pm. No, it can't be. This is too soon, way too soon. I'm gritting my teeth, running through possibilities, but each seems more impossible than the last. Can it break its rules? Jonah asks, eyes fixed on the door. Can it arrive before midnight? No, of course it can't. Not unless my words catch my throat, a wave of horror washing over me. Unless what? Unless it's evolving. If it's outgrowing its rules, then we might not have until midnight anymore. My heart races. Everything we know about this monster might already be obsolete, useless. The entire interview might be up. The sound crawls from behind the door, slow, patient, then it moves to the ceiling, then up from the floor. Jonah's eyes are darting everywhere in an anxious panic. Maybe it knows who we're trying to kill it? He's stammer. You think it's watching us somehow? I clutch my jaw. Kid, I'm starting to think it might be inside of us. He gasps. Like a parasite? Yeah. Only the kind that burrows into your mind. That makes you do the sort of shit you'd want to kill yourself just thinking about. I hack a cough. But if that's true, then it needs an opening to infect us. Same as any parasite. That means as long as you're talking, as long as your mind's occupied, you're still you. Got it? To move your fucking lips and finish your story. Jonah sputters. Orified. Okay, okay. Shit. Let me think. He grips his hair. Takes a deep breath. Dutch left the house after the argument. I must have passed out again, though. Because when I woke up, it was midnight. Only somebody was knocking on the door. I figured Dutch might have got drunk and lost his key. So I went down to let him in. But when I got to the door, it wasn't Dutch on the other side of the fog to glass. It was a shadow. Something that didn't look human. Footsteps. I'm hearing footsteps now. The kind that are all creeks and grounds. The heavy kind. The kind that are getting closer and closer. What do you mean it didn't look human? I say, trying to keep the kid occupied. I mean it was tall. He croaks. Eyes squeezed. Shot. Dollar than anyone I'd ever seen. The door only went up to its chest. It had this tangle of hair that fell to its waist, rather than blood. Instinct told me to run. But then? I heard another voice. A little girl's scared. Like she needed help. Rage boils in my gut. The masked girl. If it was Adelaide, maybe this is what the no thing wanted for her to murder her, to take her soul as bait so we could lure future victims into lowering their guards. The footsteps halted the door. It's just heavy breathing out there now, coupled with the occasional whimper. I bring the magnum up to aim, forgetting to even breathe. Jonas gone silent too. My skin crawls. That's a fingernail. A single fingernail dragging down the wood in one long, deliberate stroke. Testing. The silence stretches. Five seconds. Ten. More nails join the first, not frantic. Patient. The kind of scratching that says it has all the time in the world, and knows we don't. They drag across the door in overlapping patterns. The door's fiber is screaming as the torn loose. 11.09 pm. Call me an optimist, but I figure if an entity like Zipper Jaw wanted in, it'd break the door down. That means the midnight rule is likely still holding. That this is all just a bit of theater to... The door lurches inward. Dust rains from the frame. The hinges shriek. The deadbolt groans. Fuck. Each impact hits like a wrecking ball. The door bows inward, wood splitting in spider web cracks. Then, as suddenly as it started, the pounding stops. The silence is somehow worse. Come on kid. I grow up. Give you happen. Don't give it an opening. But Jonas lost his head. He's in full blown fighter flight, struggling against his handcuffs, trying to break free. And fear is fertile ground for possession. I feel it. He whimpers. The eyes in my skull. The whispers it's just like before. The cuffs rattle stubbornly. He can't escape, but he can't focus either. Not while he feels trapped, cornered, like prey in the face of a predator. And like prey, there's only one sure fire way to calm him down. I point my gun at him. Quit swarming. He goes rigid as stone, a feeble plea on his lips. It's like he thinks I'm gonna shoot him. So I do. There's a crack of gunfire. A trail of smoke winds from the tip of my barrel, and Jonas cuffs turn to ash before they ever hit the floor. He doesn't notice. Don't kill long enough. He seeds, massaging his wrist. Lucky I did it at all. That bullet cost me 10 grand. You know they sell them at Walmart, right? Not the kind this gun uses. For a second, I think we're back in business. That setting him free was just the relief he needed to get his head in the game. But then a low-grown seeps through the cracks in the door. It starts deep, subsonic, then rises into something bordering on human. It cycles through octaves that don't belong in a single throat. A girl sobbing, a man roaring, a boy begging it all to end. And finally come the words. Cold. Aking. They slither through the air like tear gas. Each syllable spoken by a different mouth, a different victim. Should have told the truth. He got his new voice. Jonah Wimper's clutches his head. We don't have to kill it. He says, boy strained. It's only trying to help. That'll be Zipper Jai, suppose. Seems it used the assault on the door as a distraction, creating an opening for itself to snake into the kid's head. Smart. Smarter than my research ever implied. Not good. There's another crash. A light fixture tumble. Exploding in a storm of glass at Jonah's feet. He staggers backward, momentarily loose it again. I don't waste the opportunity. You forgot your job? I bark. Keep talking. He takes a shuddering breath, eyes snapping to me. Right. Right. He mumbles with the full body shiver. Yeah. I heard a girl outside. Someone needing help. It froze me to the spot. When the shadow knocked again, and this time it's fist tore right through the glass. His voice gets small, fragile. That's when I sighed, standing hunchback on the porch. All these scraps of clothing stitched together into a patchwork dress. The center of the door bulges. The wood giving way beneath Zipper Jai's fist. Jonah clenches his jaw, focusing. Its torso was long. So was its neck. But the rest of its limbs were tiny. The arms, the legs. None of them looked like they even belonged to that thing. More like it ripped them off some kid and stapled them onto itself. My teeth dig into my lip. Adelaide. Was this thing wearing her limbs? Did it steal her arms like it stole her voice? Tell me. My heart stops. That voice. Please help. He's turning me out of here. That's her. Jonah croaks. Girl, you here too right. Yes. John, are you in there? Jonah's brow furrows. Who's to army? I am. His gaze swivels to me. Eyes widening as I inch toward the door. Adelaide. Are you really out there? I'm reaching for the deadbolt. Warning bells are screaming in my head, but I can't afford to listen to them. Not when I've spent 40 years without my sister. Not when Jonah snatches me by the arm. This is what it does. Don't listen. Help me tell him he's turning me. He's going to kill me. His grip titans. I know you think it's your sister, but it isn't. Maybe not. But it doesn't change how badly I want to go to her, even just to see an illusion of Adelaide. For decades, she's been gone. I don't even have a picture to remember her by. I've almost forgotten what she looked like. I grimace. A rod of ice splitting my skull. An image flashes in my mind. A little girl with a caved-in face, shattered teeth, gurgling blood while I hold a blade to her throat and the door splinters. The whole room shakes. I shake the memory off, glad to be rid of it. My thumb pulls back in the revolver's hammer, barrellamed at the widening fissure in the center of the door. Splinters fly. A decaying, modeled fist breaks through. It riggles in the center of the fissure. Crooked fingers dancing as they're reaching for. My breath catches. The deadbolt. It's trying to let itself in. Only its arm isn't long enough to reach. John was right. This thing. It's wearing the limbs of a child. My gut twists with disgust. I'm pulling the trigger before I finish the thought. The bullet snaps through the air, bleeding a purple trail of occult sigils behind it and slices through the monster's hand. It doesn't even flinch. These bullets are designed to put down any living thing on Earth, regardless of where they strike, which confirms the theory I've been dreading. That zipper jaw isn't a class IV entity. It's a class V. That means it isn't from this Earth, not even from this reality. It isn't beholden to laws like gravity, because it comes with its own laws, its own rules, and stopping something like that requires using those rules against it. Trouble is, it's outgrowing them faster than I can map them. And that's when it hits me. It's outgrowing its rules, but it hasn't shed them. Not entirely, not yet. That's why I can't just break down the door. It's why it's struggling to tap into its full power before midnight. On some level, it's in conflict with itself, torn between what it is and what it's becoming. Which gives me an idea. You're early, I holler. So fuck off! You've got no claim on us until midnight! There's a pain to snarl. The tiny hand wrenchets itself back through the door, before smashing against the other side. It's angry. Good. Go ahead, break the door down. See what happens when you step outside your laws. I'm certainly curious. Another snarl. This one more tortured than the last. A smile paints my lips. It can't stand being reminded of its own rules, its own limitations. It's a theory the order had been developing. Powerful entities have rules out of necessity. It allows them to interface with our reality, to come here to feed without being purged. You see, our dimension is one of laws, structure. You bring a creature here that's lawless, and reality will bear down on it like a cosmic press, annihilating it entirely. Well, assuming it hasn't transcended those laws of course. Which zipper jaw hasn't. Yet. Get lost! I bellow. A screen erupts from the hallway. Stop that! I turn. Surprise to see the brick shit house that is Jonah towering behind me. Hand on my shoulder. His expression is stone cast, cold. Get you see you're hurting it? He seeds. Gee, when did you get so observant? That's sort of the idea kid. I look back to my target, suck back into their lung full of air. No faces until midnight you disgusting glutton. The monster roars louder than the storm. The cord or trembling as it throws itself from wall to wall. Shut up! Jonah snaps, trying to get his hands over my mouth. That's not fair! He's bigger than me and plenty stronger too. But the best violence requires a touch of sadism. The sort he isn't prepared for. My elbow kicks back, nails him between the ribs. He gasps, stumbling backward before going down. Then, with everything I have I shout. Obey! A voice tears through the room like a shockwave. It hurls me against the wall. My arms spread equal like a dollar store crucifixion. Zip it. It snarls. The window cracks. The ceiling falls in a cascade of tiles, lighting and wires. Then I fall too, crumbling in a heap on the floor. My world's spinning. Leave! I croak. Get the hell out of here! It gives one final groan. Then tears itself from the door. Its bare feet slap like a drunks down the hallway. Pat hazard and stumbling before its footsteps vanish beneath the wind. I force myself upright, chest heaving with horror. That voice. The way it walks. All this time I fail to see the truth staring me in the face. It got inside my head again, didn't it? Joan is on his feet, clutching his ribs. I'm sorry, man. Part of me wants to chastise him, to give him the third degree. But it's already 11-18, and we can't afford to lose more time. Maybe that bruise will remind you to keep your head in the game. I answer coldly. Brushing past him to grab my jacket off the chair before slipping it on. Still, it wasn't a total waste. What do you mean? Zipper Jawa overplayed its hand. It showed me who it was, who it's been from the start, and we can use that. Zipper it! The monster shockwave shout echoes in my mind. It takes me back to that cramped apartment, to the alcoholic ghoul that beat my sister and I as a hobby. Jonah stares. Wait. Who is it then? My mouth twitches, knuckles cracking with 40 years of suppressed nightmares. I tell him. My father.