by Colleen Foley
Nothing could have prepared me for the
alabaster nightmare in that room. Every surface writhed with a coating
of something viscous, translucent. And beneath, visible, blinking
eyes, moving hands, the lower half of a leg. A nose and lips, perfectly
formed and coated with bright pink lipstick, bubbled to the surface,
gasped, and withdrew.
Then there were the jars, thousands of
them. Shoved into freeform waxwork sculptures, reminiscent enough of
sex and your worst dreams to make me want to scream through every pore.
I grinned instead.
“Seth, they’re moving.”
“Jesus, Nate. Just find him.”
Then everything went dark.