Jeepers - Creepers

Then the engine coughed. Sputtered. Died.

The creature dropped from the steeple, landing without a sound. It tilted its head, mimicking a curious bird. Then it spoke, not in a whisper, but in the dead mailman’s voice.

It lunged. Riley shoved Jamie through the church’s broken door and slammed it shut. The wood splintered instantly as a claw punched through, retracted, punched again. They scrambled over pews, into the dusty apse. A stained-glass window of a saint watched them with serene, indifferent eyes. Jeepers Creepers

The last thing they heard, fading into the static of the radio, was a single, scratchy line:

“Almost there,” Riley lied, squinting at the crumbling road sign: Next Gas 47 Miles. Then the engine coughed

They pulled it open. The smell of mold and old coal rushed up. Riley went first, dropping into darkness. Jamie followed. Above, the door exploded inward.

“Jeepers creepers, where’d ya get those peepers…” The creature dropped from the steeple, landing without

“Gonna get you, too…”

And then she saw it. A loose board in the wall behind the creature. Beyond it, a glint of metal. An old fuel oil tank.

As Riley peeled out, she looked in the rearview mirror. The church was a pillar of fire against the night. And standing on the roof, silhouetted against the flames, was the creature. It was burning. But it was not dead. It was watching them go. And it was smiling.