Reconstitution

The first rays of morning sun burned like fire as Vincent rounded the last bend and drew a beeline on the huge Gothic house.

Winter had always been a problem — night lasted longer, but there were always fewer people around. And when morning did come, it came all at once.

Vincent gave up trying to run and rose into the lower boughs of the neighborhood trees. His back pulsed with pain, and he knew had miscalculated again … again.

The heavy leaded windows loomed just ahead, and Vincent thought he might make it if he could just break through one of the thick panes. He marshaled all his strength and torpedoed toward the second floor.

*Thwack*

Winston was reading the morning newspaper when a harsh thud above him broke his reverie.

“Oh dear,” he said to the dark, empty room. He hurried to the front hallway, stooping near the fireplace to pick up a whisk broom.

The heavy walnut door swung open with a hellish groan, and Winston stepped outside. He was blinded by the rising sun at first, but after his eyes adjusted he saw the hoagie-sized pile of ash mounded on the front walk.

“Oh, dear,” he said again as he bent to brush the cinders onto the paper. “You’re late again!”

Winston knew he didn’t have much time. He looked around for someone, anyone, but the streets were empty.

Just when he thought he might have to use his own blood again, a soft humming flitted over the shrubs, and he remembered that sweet old lady who had moved in next door the week before.

Yes, Mrs. Tomlin would do just fine. A shame, but what could be done?

Winston stroked the knife in his pocket.

“Don’t worry, master. I’ll take care of it.”