horror

The kitchen air turned frigid, smelling of stagnant swamp water and ancient rot. Bhuvan burst through the door, not with a weapon, but with an old iron jar of coarse river salt and a bundle of dried sweetgrass. He didn’t look at Miller; his eyes were locked on Sloane, who was now perched unnaturally atop the kitchen counter, her spine curving like a predatory cat’s.

“Get back, Miller!” Bhuvan barked. He began to scatter the salt in a wide, shimmering circle around the girl.