Jeepers Creepers -

It reached for Jamie. Riley lunged, driving the broken bottle into its shoulder. Black ichor sprayed. The creature didn’t scream. It laughed—a high, wet, wheezing laugh.

They pulled it open. The smell of mold and old coal rushed up. Riley went first, dropping into darkness. Jamie followed. Above, the door exploded inward.

A body. Or what was left of one. A man in a tattered postal worker’s uniform, his back arched at an unnatural angle. His eyes were gone—two wet, hollow sockets staring at the stars. And from his open mouth, the song continued, a recording stitched into his vocal cords. Jeepers Creepers

The creature dropped from the steeple, landing without a sound. It tilted its head, mimicking a curious bird. Then it spoke, not in a whisper, but in the dead mailman’s voice.

Then the engine coughed. Sputtered. Died. It reached for Jamie

Riley grabbed Jamie and ran. They didn’t stop. They ran through the burning church, through the graveyard, past the corpse in the culvert, whose mouth had finally fallen silent. They reached the Impala. The keys were still in the ignition.

“I’ve been waiting for fresh ones.” The creature didn’t scream

It lunged. Riley shoved Jamie through the church’s broken door and slammed it shut. The wood splintered instantly as a claw punched through, retracted, punched again. They scrambled over pews, into the dusty apse. A stained-glass window of a saint watched them with serene, indifferent eyes.