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she screamed out. She had accomplished nothing. Gradually the pain subsided. |
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Its movement was now apparent and obvious. Her hands went for the lid, involuntarily twisting, attempting to loosen it. Now it was throbbing. Sweat trickled down her flushed face. She gave it one final twist and the metal lid clattered to the tabletop. |
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Somehow she found the strength to inch her way back from it. |
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The mass had begun to move, inching its way up through the murky liquid toward the top of the glass, spilling out the sickening gray-green, foul-smelling fluids, sending it cascading down the side of the jar, forming a putrid pool around the base of the glass. |
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It continued to gain strength, evolving into something hideous yet hypnotic, pulsating in a labored, primitive fashion, now emitting a faint chorus of whimpering sounds like a small animal. The sound was rapidly becoming guttural. |
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Flora Saint Quentin, unable to move, began to cry. |
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The thing, freed of its glass prison, began to move along the surface. It reminded her of something she had seen on televisiona wounded heart. There was a large open lesion, a rupture in the mass itself, a broken heart. The tear in the mass separated it. It moved as if it tried to repair itself. |
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