Page 151 of Devil Inside

In that blink—eyelids fluttering once, then twice, open, shut—the thing with the red eyes moves even closer to me. So much closer now. At the edge of my bed. I don’t even see its feet move. If it even has feet at all. It just... drifts. Now I can see all of it. Humanoid. A silhouette that is in fact its body, its skin. It’s not just the dark, not simply shadows, but the body itself. Cindered to a burnt crisp. Everything except the eyes. Those remain red.

It tilts its head to one shoulder, taking me in.So thirsty, it says inside my mind.You need something to drink...

It’s true, I really do. My mouth is a desert. My lips are so chapped, crinkling underneath the medical tape. But I don’t want to take anything from this thing. Whatever it offers me, I don’t want it. For whatever reason, I don’t want to be in this thing’s debt.

Now that I know I can’t talk, I don’t want to.

You must be so parched.

Its red eyes glance at the IV drip to the side of my bed. It’s a cheap trick—made you look—because my eyes immediately follow his, locking onto the collapsed bag dangling overhead, distracting me. The saline solution is all sucked up, the translucent bag is now just a shriveled sac, nothing more than pruned plastic. How long has it been empty? When was the last time the nurse-on-call changed it? I’m so parched, so dry, so unbelievably—

Thirsty, it says again.

Much closer now.

The thing hovers above me, leaning over my chest, examining me from only a few inches away. I shouldn’t have looked at the IV drip. Shouldn’t have looked away from it. That was a cheap trick. A dirty trick, distracting me like that. It knew I’d look away from it.

Now it’s too late. Now that it’s here, its cindered breath spreading across my cheeks, my chest, my neck, it continues to draw near, leaning over, scrutinizing every inch of skin.

Here, it says, extending its hand.Let me help you.

Before I can protest, before I can move—

The thing wraps its swarthy fingers around the respirator tube and... tugs. I feel the pressure in my chest. Something’s stuck, lodged down deep. It won’t budge. Not just yet.

Sothis thing on two legs tugs again, much harder this time. The medical tape at mylipspeels, cracks, releasing the skin around my mouth.

There we go, it says. The tube lodged into my lungs gives. Not by much. Just a millimeter or so, who knows, but the budge feels endless, amile over tender flesh, plastic scraping against my insides, a coarse brush grating across the soft lining of my esophagus.

Just got to put your back into it, it says, tugging harder now.

The tube gives.

And gives.

The respirator unspools from my throat. It’s pulling the crenellated hose free from within me, like some kind of magic trick—The Endless Handkerchief, which, let’s be honest, is one of the worst magic tricks there is, just a goofy joke of interconnected hankies, a daisy chain of different colored tissues, how stupid can you get—up until the ribbed tubing reels its way out from your throat, your lungs, just a never-ending hose scraping away at your insides, unspooling, unspooling, oh my god, when will it ever end, how much is there?

The jagged edges of the tube clink against my teeth as I try to breathe. I’m choking. The air is obstructed by the very device that’s supposed to be breathing for me. I can’t help but gag, chest heaving, my entire body surging up and dropping back against the bed in some fish-out-of-water flop, breathlessly begging for this to all be over with. End it now.

Almost there,the thing with the red eyes says. By the time it tugs the last of the respirator’s tube from my lungs, I feel the plastic tip of the hose whip out from my lips, as if it were the tail of some never-ending serpent whipping about the air.

I’m free to breathe on my own. Free at last to gasp.

There, it says.Much better, yes?

I’m coughing so loud, surely somebody is going to hear me. Save me.

Now... Let’s get you something to drink.

I want to say no, I want to say stop, please, don’t, please, but the words aren’t there. Before I can move my chapped lips, force my shriveled husk of a tongue to manipulate the sound of my own exhale, this thing takes its own hands and slips its cindered fingers into my mouth, one hand cupping my lower jaw, the other pressing against my upper incisors.

It forces my mouth open as wide as the bones will go. I feel the hinges in my jaw pop.

Down the hatch...

The thing with the red eyes pours forth. Into my mouth.

It is fluid.