The Blanks (The Shivers Collection, #3)

by Grady Hendrix

They’re standing in the trees, barely ten feet away, outlined by the Stannards’ backyard light. There are more of them than I’ve ever seen before. Their tall, still shadows stand out against the trees; their dead eyes reflect yellow in the houselights. All of them stare at this window—all of them stare at my son.

Nothing bad happens if you leave them alone, if you just pretend they don’t exist.

“Our daughter,” I hiss, “is not going to grow up without a father because you wanted to pop the hood and look at the engine! I am not going to be a single parent because you wanted to do performative macho bullshit!”

because you’re not supposed to see them, no one sees them; you look away, you ignore them—everyone knows you ignore them; as long as you don’t see them, everything is okay; as long as you don’t notice them, you’re lucky. You’re blessed.