I ran. But the white thing didn’t chase. It seeped. Under the door, through the keyhole, up through the floorboards like spilled liquid seeking level. All over Potter’s Hollow, I later learned, the same thing was happening. Refrigerators swinging open on their own. Yogurt cups trembling before they exploded. A man who drank a tall glass of 2% before bed was found fused to his mattress, his limbs soft and spreadable as butter.
Gran was waiting for me in the barn. She held a small, corked bottle of something dark and thick as molasses. spooky milk life
“Now I am the expiration,” it whispered. through the keyhole