It’s only when The Skinner is standing a foot or less from me, his face and tight body illuminated by the yellow string of lights hanging from the tunnel wall, that I see how the blade is still buried inside his right cheek.
“Don’t look at him, kids,” I say, voice stern and as unafraid as I can possibly manage. “Close your eyes.”
The kids are crying, trembling, their tears pouring out of their red eyes.
The Skinner stares me down. He tries to talk, but no words will come with his thick tongue impaled on the blade. But that doesn’t prevent him from trying to speak.
The noise coming from his mouth is a mumble, but it sounds like he’s saying, “Rebecca, my little kitten. I love you . . . I . . . love . . . you.”
To my left, a light bulb twisted into the socket. There’s no cage covering
