SHEOLLA by Greg Lammers
Frank ran down the hallway past the family photos. The children, his wife, and Frank himself stared smiling out at him.
“Sheolla, want…”
He hit the living room at an impressive speed for a man his age and size. Plush carpet gave underfoot. He’d marveled at the texture many times over the previous 14 months. This morning Frank didn’t take the time to appreciate the high-quality flooring material.
“Sheolla, need…”
The front door was locked. Frank reached up on the shelf above his head on the wall to the right. In front of the brass ox figurine, one of his wife’s ancestors had gotten from God knows where was the key. He grabbed the key and fumbled putting it in the door while trying to look over his left shoulder. Did a shadow move out of the hallway?
“Sheolla, will…”
The sun hadn’t shown itself quite yet but its light lent a glow to the neighborhood. The front yard grass was heavy with dew. Frank sprinted across the yard toward his truck parked on the street next to the trash cans.
“Sheolla will have…”
Frank glanced around at his pursuer. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his neighbor, Patrick, coffee cup in hand, step onto his porch and look back at Frank. Frank spun about wildly as a surge of nausea and raw power rose up out of his guts toward his head.
He could feel a strength not his own surging through his body as he vomited next to the azalea bush and began to pull his shirt off.
When the fire kicked him in the throat he threw his head back further then he’d thought possible and screamed into the suburban morning:
“Sheolla will have you!”