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“Maris,” it says, softly. Naming you. Naming itself.

Maris.

Or something that knows her well enough to reproduce her to the least detail. Something so close as to bloody well make no never-mind.

You arch to meet it, mouth-first, breathing it in like something addictive, something impossible. Liquid aniseed. Scented flower water. Poison gas. And wherever it touches, nerves flick on like lightbulbs, incandescent.

This lovely thing . . .

. . . makes your veins glow and sing, an unstrung neon network. It runs taut, cool hands down your sweaty breasts, cupping and circling. Pinches both nipples at once, light but firm, just hard enough to draw a moan. Its caress is alchemical—all your post-miscarriage flab miraculously transmuted, in one swift move, to yearning, open curves. It kisses your throat, moves lower. Pulling at the nipples now, teasing them longer than you would ever dare to, unchecked by your helpless whimpers. It fastens its lips on one, teeth and all, then sucks with such sudden fierceness it makes you cringe, forcing the last of your milk out in a single, painfully sweet gush.

Licking down your quivering belly, rimming your navel, tongue cool as well. You shudder, spread wide, hips thrusting automatically up, splaying yourself in anticipation. And it doesn’t disappoint you, plunging its thumbs inside, then sliding farther still—using them like a speculum, peeling the labial rind to get at the tender meat inside. Its rapt interest alone enough to make you grind your hips, oozing, juices welling up like sap. Giving away all your secrets.

The Maris-thing looks up, smiling. Whispering, “You should see what I’m seeing.”

This open book of mirrors, running slick and silver as mercury.

Oh, no. Oh—y

es.

It lowers its face and licks lightly up your swollen crevice, making you thrash from the cervix outward. Pries your lips open wider and drives its tongue in deep, circling your button. Takes your clit between its teeth, and bites down hard.

Yes, yes, yes.

It slips two more fingers in, smooth and easy; you feel yourself grip them like a velvet vice, rippling uncontrollably. A heartbeat clench. Flinching from the strength of your own response. Running like oil and water, like that fresh heat down the crack of your ass, that rush of sweat and juice together. Your thighs trembling, spasming, as it lifts one leg by the soft inner knee, studies the result.

Your whole cunt ticking like some wet, red-pink, tightly ravelled clock—your labia puffed first mauve, then purple, swollen so far they’ve turned nearly inside-out—your fluttering anus, poised to bloom at a touch. And the shiny bead of your clitoris, hot and hard, still quivering for more of that cold tongue. Finding it harder and harder—

Harder. Harder!

—to keep your proper shape.

The thing with your Aunt Maris’ face sucks your clit back between its teeth once more and nips gently, grazing it, scraping it. Sucks soft. Sucks hard. Keeping right on sucking—until you groan, and grunt, and thrust your hips back and forth, your cunt flooding her fingers—until you come wildly, babbling, bursting like some ripe fruit.

Oh yes, you think incoherently. Come in. Come home.

Your muscles sagging. Your ruined womb gaping ever wider, wider. Your flesh spread out in silent welcome, an open invitation. Your hollowed heart, it’s for the taking.

Come back inside me now, now. Now!

And the unclean spirit enters.

* * *

Here is what will happen, days later, when Diehl has finally traced enough of your path from the hospital to guide the police to your Aunt Maris’ house.

You will still be upstairs, in Maris’ bed, a once-fresh stain gone dry enough to sketch a thick, red-brown outline of your legs and thighs against the rumpled sheets. Your body, nude and lax, will be smeared with blood and dust from this last, most terrible (and wonderful) haemorrhage.

When the paramedics peel back your eyelids—deftly, gently—they will find your eyes turned back in their sockets, pupils mere wavering pinpoints. Your flesh will be cool, your breathing shallow. On your otherwise slack mouth, a faint—but unmistakeable—smile will linger.

Back at the hospital, with Diehl’s permission, they will run all the tests they can think of. They will prove you definitely comatose, functionally brain-dead.

And pregnant.

The nurses Diehl hires will watch you swell, marveling at your body’s resilience. All of them will remark on a curious perfume that clings to your flesh, whilst the more allergic ones will also routinely complain that some unknown person, with flagrant disregard for your safety and security, apparently seems to keep on choosing your room as the perfect place in which to break the hospital’s no smoking policy.

Diehl, meanwhile, will attempt to exorcise his rage and disappointment by using his power of attorney over your holdings to buy—and demolish—Maris’ empty house.