The house sat in the middle of the swamp surrounded by statues of naked women. Once the family tried selling lemonade from the porch, without much success.
“I believe photographs steal your soul. So I slink between CCTV cameras. I imagine a haze between myself and the observer.”
“The tone is much too low for you to hear. But the frogs, they can hear it. And they hate it.”
From the window it looked like he was on fire. As he stepped forward the footprints curled then evaporated.
Teens lingered around the building, sauntering, their faces frozen in awkward, anxious grins.
The police fenced off the area with something new, something silky and preventative.
Seeping from the cracks in the road was an old thing, and this time it was determined.
Clinging to the sides of the barn were thousands of wet, bird-like creatures that produced a low hum.
The sound of ripping forced them to stop. They counted to ten, slowly.
She stopped her car yards before the swirling green-tinted fog. Behind her she saw the sparkle of the lighthouse on fire.
The ancient monstrosity possessing humanity never guessed the High School had been turned into a resistance command center.
All they could hear was static and warning sirens.
Patrons claimed the song had been playing nonstop on the jukebox a century or more, would be a shame to stop it now.
“They’ve been sitting in the diner since morning. Not saying anything. Just sitting.”
“Frog men.” He said. “Frog men?” She asked. “Definitely.” He said.