AN: Ahh, here we are again! Halloween. Hopefully this'll be a bit better-my mother was having severe health issues last year, ended up in the hospital at one point. Fun times.

This year's theme is 'superstition' because it's so rich. It is a literal goldmine of ideas. :) This story's superstition is death-related: apparently, a European belief states that blood will flow from a corpse's bones if it is touched by its murderer.

So, naturally, this takes place directly after Eyes Unable to Dream, because these fucking idiots can't leave well enough alone. Title from a lyric in (naturally) Neko Case's 'Things That Scare Me'.

The bridge is quiet tonight. No frogs, no insects, no nothing. It's...unsettling.

But they're quiet, too, seated in the dark with the lingering smell of smoke on them, shivering despite the warm air.

Jonathan's the first to break the silence, his voice weaker than he'd like it to be.

"We need to go back."

"We do not need to go back."

"We do," he says, pretends he's not pleased when she leans against his shoulder. "We need to make sure he's dead."

"Either he's dead or crippled. Either way, he's not comin' after us."

"Right now. He might later."

She shrugs and tosses the flashlight back and forth.

"Maybe." Silence. Then, "If he pops up from the ashes and kills us both, I'm blaming you."

"Fair enough."

Neither of them move. He's not scared, for the record. It's just...it's been a long night, and he's comfortable here, and he doesn't want to make her move because clearly she's comfortable here (goodness knows why). That's all. Fear has nothing to do with it.

An owl hoots and Kitty jumps. She jostles him, makes it look like he jumped. Which did not happen, because it's an owl and it's not like he hasn't heard a thousand of them in his lifetime.

He really does jump when her fingers brush his hair, pulling out a leaf.

"Should we tell someone?"

"Not unless they start asking."

She slumps back against his shoulder, twirling the leaf in her fingers. The bridge creaks and settles. In the distance, there's a faint glow, already growing fainter. He'll get up in a minute, but...he's tired. And only a fool would go towards the flames. Obviously.

Kitty straightens up to watch a firefly pass lazily by and he sprawls out on his back, planks rough against his shirt and one very determined splinter jabbing through to his skin. He could sleep here.

"Are you dead?" Her fingers jab against his ribs and he...it's not a squeak. He would like to make that very clear, that that was not a squeak. It was a...a surprised noise, that's all. "Oh god, you're ticklish."

She sounds far too pleased about that.

"Kitty," he says carefully, cracking his eyes open and tensing to roll away, "Kitty, I did not nearly kill a man for you tonight just for you to...to exploit any weakness I might have."

It's probably just the flashlight's beam, but she looks downright ghoulish, especially when she grins at him.

"Exploit? Me?"

"Don't you dare-Kitty!"

The light hits the ground as her fingers dig into both sides and that's not fair-!

He manages to squirm away from her and curl into a ball before getting his legs under him and standing up, bridge creaking under him.

"Well?"

"You'd just leave me here? In the dark?"

"You have a flashlight."

Right on cue, the light dies. It doesn't really matter-sure, it'd be nice to have it to watch for creepy-crawlies, but he knows these fields like the back of his hand. Kitty sighs, says something that might rally the old church ladies to demand an exorcism, and stands up.

"All right, then."

The smoke's still strong even if the rain's mostly dealt with the fire by the time they make it back. The house is still smoldering, a glowing heap of charred timber, and there's no sign of-

-oh.

There is a sign. A little ways away from the embers lies a blackened figure, skin flaking like-and he knows this is a terrible comparison, but it's accurate-like one of Granny's pie crusts. Not like the man looks like a pie crust, or smells like one. It's just...the skin...never mind.

"Is he dead?" Kitty's right behind him, pressed up against his spine with one hand clinging to his shirt. "He looks dead..."

He will be very soon, if he isn't.

"Let's go see."

They move closer, coughing all the while, and Jonathan forces himself to bend down and poke the remains. A chunk of flesh...chips...away,

Just like a crust.

and dark red oozes forth. The man does not stir. Kitty yanks him back, out of the smoke and away from the hissing embers. Now, out in the fresh air again, his lungs and eyes are burning.

And he can still feel the weight of the gun in his hands, the cool metal and the knowledge that if he squeezed that trigger, he wouldn't regret it in the least.

"You've got..." She presses one finger against his left index and he hears a faint squelch, feels warmth spread thin. "Well?"

Her finger is still touching his. Just one-to-one. It could just be the firelight, but he thinks he sees red trickling down from between them.

"He deserved what he got," he says hoarsely, considers dropping his hand and, on a sudden whim, takes hers instead. "We should go."

But they don't, not for another long few minutes, during which she moves so her head's on his shoulder and they're both watching the embers flicker and weaken. He should feel something, he knows that.

But quite frankly, he doesn't give a damn.

THE END