1.

James took off so quickly that he almost pulled Harry off his feet, charging down the empty street with a wild abandon that belied the seriousness of his injured ankle, which snapped and crackled alarmingly every time he put his weight down on it. Harry stumbled and nearly fell, probably would have if not for James shoving his back, pushing him up against his encircling arm, and crying, "Keep looking at it!" in his ear.

Harry's view of the thing was distorted, jolting along as he struggled to keep up with James, running half-backwards, half-sideways, but he saw enough. The moment they started running, the thing moved too, and started lurching after them through the fog.

It moved slowly, dragging something that Harry couldn't make out behind it, but although its steps were plodding and heavy, they were full of a grim determination, a purpose that curdled the marrow in Harry's bones. He wanted to stop looking at it, tear his eyes away, and not only because it was so horrible, so frightening, but because he could feel the drift activating, ramping up its efforts, and his memories, his sense of self, swirled away towards that thing like water pulled down a drain. The drift became a tide, a whirling vortex, and even his closeness to James, even the blonde man's arm around his waist, his hip pressing into his side, wasn't enough to keep everything in place. Reality fractured, shattered, and his identity ripped away in great, bloody chunks.

The blonde man kept tugging him along, and was actually putting some distance between themselves and the creature. The fog curled back around the monster, and it became a dark grey shape in the distance, although Harry could still hear it, its slow, weighted steps and a screeching sound like metal pulled across concrete. The blonde man—James, dammit, his name is James—was breathing hard, his body damp with sweat and exertion, soaking through his clothing onto Harry's skin, and memories, languid and unhurried, started draining back into his mind, memories of himself, and James, and Heather, all flowing together in a confusing mishmash, a blur of colors and emotions. His eyelids felt heavy, his eyes burning in his skulls, and he desperately wanted to close them, shut out the monster and take a few moments to sort these memories, file them away so he could hold on to them, so that the drift couldn't claim him again, but… but James had told him to watch the monster, even if it was only a smudge in the fog, and so he strained his eyes into the distance and watched the thing, even as the hot, acidic tears of exertion burned their way down his cheeks.

James suddenly veered off the street, running to one side, and in one fluid movement he scooped up Harry and held him across his body, chest to chest, as he staggered up a short flight of stairs, before dropping Harry's legs and then leaning heavily against him. In that moment, short and fleeting as it was, Harry felt James's heart pounding against his chest, throbbing with life and energy, and he had a split second to wonder why he didn't feel his own before he was reeling under James's weight. James was propping himself up against him, sucking air into his lungs in great whoops, trembling with pain and exhaustion. In between ragged breaths, he choked out, "Heather… get that… door open!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying!" she cried, her voice close, and Harry realized they were standing on a porch. Heather was behind them, fumbling with a locked door, and Harry could hear her frantic, scrambling efforts now.

James took a few more breaths before pulling himself up and repositioning himself so that he was behind Harry, his chest pressed up against Harry's back, his eyes facing the street and the advancing monster, and his mouth close to Harry's ear. "Listen," he hissed, whispering directly into the cup of Harry's ear, "whatever else happens… don't let that thing get Heather. Let it get me, let it get you, but don't. Let it. Get Heather!"

The vehemence in James's voice caught Harry's attention, and he glanced upwards. He met James's eyes, and had enough time to see James's pupils dilate as he realized their mistake and swiveled his head back towards the street, but it was too late. The monster had closed the gap between them in the single moment, and stood on the edge of the porch, not five feet away.

It towered over them, its height enhanced and exaggerated by the enormous, rusty crimson helmet it wore, and its shoulders loomed broad under the triangular helmet's lip. Its wide chest was covered with a filthy, blood-stained leather apron, stretched tight across heavy, powerful muscles, and its skin was the color of a corpse. Harry only had a split second to take it in, to try and process the horror, before the monster swung one arm out at them and he heard the high-pitched whistle of something sharp slicing through the air.

2.

I had the door loosened, but the damn thing wouldn't open, I wasn't strong enough to force it free, when I heard J.D. gasp from behind me. A fraction of a second later, a blast of icy air enveloped me, freezing every sweat droplet on my skin, tightening it across my face and muscles, and I knew that the thing, whatever that awful, blurry shape had been, had caught up with us.

I turned instinctively, and barely had time to catch a glimpse of it (giant, hulking, oozing violence and death) before it swung one powerful arm out and towards Dad. In the shaking beam of my flashlight, I saw a bright glint of light against steel, and realized that it was swinging an enormous, wicked-looking blade right at Dad's head.

Time slowed to a crawl; I even had time to wonder if this was what being on LCD felt like, because I had time to see everything, in pain-staking, agonizing detail.

J.D. clenched his arms around Dad's chest, pinning his arms to his side, and then flung himself backwards, pulling Dad with him. Dad's head snapped back, and I watched as the blade whispered a scant fraction of an inch past his upturned nose, the air singing as the bloody blade parted it. I watched J.D. falling backwards, knowing he was going to hit me, but unable to move, mesmerized by the beaded condensation glistening on the monster's bare shoulders. J.D. crashed into me, shoving me back into the stubborn door, and with a long, low squall, the water-saturated wood gave way under our combined weight, and the three of us toppled through and into the house.

Time snapped forward again, and I was scrambling to my feet, yanking up Dad and J.D., ignoring the shrieks of protest from my shoulders. "Let's go, let's go, let's GO!" I screamed, half-dragging them across the house's wooden floor, slippery with age and rot.

Bracing one hand against the wall, J.D. hauled himself to his feet, keeping his other arm circled tight around Dad, who sagged, unresponsive, against him. The monster was following us again, hauling that huge knife behind it, turning sideways so it could fit through the door.

"Up the stairs," J.D. panted. "Purple light… upstairs…"

I reached out, trying to take one of Dad's arms, trying to help, but J.D. shoved me away, his face creased in anxiety and fear. "No!" he yelled at me. "You first, now go!"

I reached out again, unable to leave them behind, and J.D. pushed me violently away, nearly sending me to the ground again. "Dammit, Little Bit, go!" he screamed.

It was that name, that name that no one else ever called me, that broke through my mental paralysis and got me moving. I turned, choking back a sob, forcing myself to trust J.D. to take care of Dad, and started up the stairs towards the second story, searching out that glowing purple light we'd seen from the street.