Steve’s mom had been gone a year. It still hurt. Slogging through the bramble to the newer plots, he glimpsed a cracked tombstone consumed by weeds. It’d been there ages longer than the rest, by all appearances. Curious, he stooped to clear it.
The epitaph read:
—Look Behind You—
Clever gag, Steve thought, standing up. Leaves crunched behind him. Steve tried to resist that childish urge to run. It’s silly, a defunct instinctive response. A heavy grunt followed by warm breath grazing his hand. Steve looked. And boy, did he run. He never stopped. And the beast never stopped chasing him.