Jeepers Creepers -

Jamie screamed. Riley clamped a hand over his mouth, dragging him backward. “Run,” she whispered. “Now.”

The cellar was a crawl space, barely four feet high. They pressed themselves against the dirt wall, holding their breath. The floorboards above groaned. The creature was inside the church. It wasn’t walking. It was… sniffing. A wet, rhythmic snuffling, like a dog tracking a scent.

But it was the eyes that froze her blood. Yellow. Hungry. Ancient. They weren't just looking at her. They were savoring her. Jeepers Creepers

The cellar exploded in a ball of white fire. The creature shrieked—a sound that split the air, that shattered the remaining stained-glass window, that sent every bird for a mile into panicked flight. It thrashed, wings flaming, and crashed up through the church floor, taking half the roof with it.

“Where are we?”

“Every twenty-three years,” it whispered, tapping a claw on its chin. “Twenty-three springs. I wake up. I eat. For twenty-three days. Then I sleep. And you, little mice, are the first course.”

The cellar door ripped off its hinges. Riley grabbed a broken bottle, held it like a knife. The creature descended, its wings folding tight to its body. Up close, it reeked of copper and formaldehyde. It didn’t attack. It just crouched, tilting its head side to side, studying them like a taxidermist examining fresh pelts. Jamie screamed

Then the singing started again, soft and playful.