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stared at Mitch, its sulfurous eyes burning. “Mitch,” it said. “Why must there always be simple answers? Nothing is simple.”
    “ I know, but still, there has to be some reason to things.”
    “ You want reason, Mitch. Okay, I’ll give you reason. It all happened because I was pissed off. There, how’s that? You feel better?”
    “ No,” Mitch said, giving his head an angry shake. “There’s more to it than that.”
    “ Jesus, Mitch, what do you want me to say? That I hung around because it was fun? Because I enjoy being like this? Because I get off on butchering people?”
    Mitch stood motionless, staring. He felt he’d hit upon something. As preposterous as it was, this seemed the most obvious answer. Even if there was more to it, what difference did it make? He’d never get the truth from this godless creature. He was kidding himself if he thought he could.
    Only now did Mitch realize he still carried the murder weapon, his grip so strong his hand hurt. In a sudden flash of inspiration he knew what he had to do. He wanted a life of his own, a life free of nightmares and monsters, free of the terrible incumbencies of pain that had wracked his existence for so long. The scar on his side was dragging him down, threatening to take him to his knees, further evidence of his suffering, and his need to be free. It would all end here, Mitch vowed. This would be his brother’s swan song.
    Without the luxury of further thought, his right hand moved forward at lightening speed. Moonlight glinted sharply off the knife’s blade in the instant before Mitch buried it to the hilt in his brother’s bulbous head. A searing wall of pain slammed into Mitch’s own head, nearly strong enough to blind him. He screamed, pulled the knife free and staggered back, understanding only too well what fruit the consequences of his actions might bear. He and his brother were linked in some incomprehensible way, and by killing him, well . . . the ramifications were obvious. Mitch stepped forward, however, and again buried the knife into the abomination, ripped it free and plunged it in again, and again, and again. Each time the blade did its dirty business Mitch howled into the echoing night like the tortured soul that he was, both writhing in agony and exulting in triumph, as if life and death were part of the same blurred purpose. Eventually all emotion receded, only to be replaced by its antithesis: oblivion. Numb, Mitch continued silently on with his slaughter, the abomination spitting and writhing beneath his assault, but not offering a single hand in retaliation. This only fueled the ambition inside of Mitch, spurring him on to even greater heights of brutality. If he never forgot the crimes his brother had hung around his neck, then so be it. If he survived this night he would have to live with them. This was an incontestable truth. With this slaughter he’d become the killer he’d convinced himself he’d been all along, The Fear born out to its inevitable conclusion.
    Vile smelling sewage jetted from the wounds he was opening up in the now motionless carcass, soaking Mitch with its poisons. After a very long time, the feeling gone from his body and the sanity from his mind, Mitch pulled the knife free for the final time and staggered back, inspecting his handiwork. He wiped the sewage from his face with the sleeve of his shirt, staring down at the mutilated form. He leaned over and wretched, puking muck from his mouth and nose. Unable to hold onto his consciousness a moment longer, Mitch collapsed in the sand beside his mutilated brother and slept.
    Sometime toward morning the corpse, now reanimated, opened its sulfurous eyes and rolled over. Reaching out with a small, palsied claw, it pried the butcher knife from Mitch’s hand. Turning its gaze toward the east, in the direction of the town, it said, “Mother, I’m coming for you.” With its other hand it caressed its sleeping brother gently on the cheek and said,