Painted Ash

Vincent Harris' life had been defined by his artistic talent. Even in his youth his extraordinary talent of shaping and creating worlds with a stroke of a paint brush on whatever canvas it touched was recognized by everyone around him. It was his talent at art that brought him up from obscurity and made him a renowned artist whose works had sold for top dollar in the art world.  His works had been on display at exhibitions in New York, Paris, and even Beijing. It had been through one of these art exhibitions that he had met his wife Laura, a journalist that had been assigned to interview him for an article on latest paintings dubbed "The Solar Veil". Each work was of the same location (an empty house at first that  eventually found itself occupied by a lone figure without defining features) but at differing moments throughout the day.  Each of the 24 painting were of one specific hour of the day. Critics had raved about the philosophical implications and merit of these paintings, but it was his future wife that had pressed him on the pretentious nature of these latest pieces. She had cut right through the air of mystique he had cultivated around himself. It was the first time he had found himself vulnerable with another human being.  If Vincent had been honest with himself at the time, he would have admitted that it had been less about his personal artistic desires and more about placating his peers. Intrigued by her criticisms Vincent contacted her magazine under the guise of a follow-up interview and requested her specifically to do the follow-up interview.  The interview quickly transformed into their first date and the rest was history. It was his art that has made it possible to meet the love of his life. For a time it seemed the Muses themselves had blessed him with their full adoration. Though Fate was far more fickle on how long Vincent's stroke of luck would last.

Where once Vincent had been the golden apple of the art world his works were soon overshadowed by new up-and-coming artists. At the height of his career his works were often sold before he had even finished them. Now though he found himself being barely able to stay afloat financially. Many of his works still remained on the walls of his studio covered in dust. What artwork he was able to sell were often pieces that ended up in the waiting offices of businesses and doctor’s offices. For Vincent it wasn’t the fall from his prestigious pedestal amongst the art elites  that had truly put the nail in the coffin for his downward spiral into obscurity. It had been his wife cancer diagnosis that had caused him to abandon any further attempts at trying to maintain his career.

The medical expenses quickly ate through his financial resources leaving him at the mercy of loansharks that bound him in a perpetual slavery of loans he could never hope to repay. The rounds of medications and surgeries to remove the cancer from Laura’s body had taken their toll, leaving her infirmed. During her good days Vincent would reminisce with Laura about their early years. Laura would often direct their reminiscing to the memories of their honeymoon stay in a small cottage in a small mountain town that they had chosen on a whim. Their honeymoon had been in the early spring and had involved just the two of them staying in a small cobblestone cottage that was nestled amongst a field of wildflowers predominated by dandelions. They had remained in the cottage exploring the wonders of newfound marriage and had only bothered to leave the confines of the cottage to make food runs to the nearby town or to wander through the natural wonders in the valley. Vincent  had never told Laura, but his fondest memory of the honeymoon was watching her as she ran through a patch of dandelions. The force of her movements caused a whirlwind of dandelion seeds to dance around her. It had seemed surreal to him and there had been a magic in that moment that had remained with him always. It had been without the doubt the happiest moments of their lives. “I wish we could go back and live there forever” Laura would say as the harsh reality of their lives ebbed back into their thoughts. Vincent would smile and assure her that one day they would but both knew that tomorrow was a promise that couldn’t be kept. The last doctor appointment had made that dream impossible. Laura would more than likely not survive the year. Laura had allowed the truth to settle in and had accepted the  her fate. Vincent however could not. Vincent's world had become a coffin with the loansharks and unmanageable debts he had accrued as the nails that were slowly sealing away any thoughts of happiness from reaching his soul. The thought of his wife no longer being with him was a reality he could not accept.

Vincent had packed up the last of his paintings for a trip to his longtime friend and art dealer Robert Dawson. A new business park had recently been constructed and several of the businesses had contacted Mr. Dawson looking for some cheap artwork to furnish their offices. Dawson knew that Vincent was hard up for money and had offered him a sizeable amount for his latest works. Vincent knew that many of the pieces were selling well below a reasonable offer but his last meeting with his main creditor, a particularly vicious loanshark by the name of Laurence had made Vincent instantly accept the offer. Laurence had told Vincent point blank that if he didn’t have his latest payment by the end of the week than he would have a very unfortunate accident would occur in his studio resulting in it burning to the ground.  "Shit happens all the time.  A faulty wire accidentally sparks some of those paints you keep in the studio and then the whole place just burns to ash." Laurence had said this to Vincent while he was recovering through a vicious beating by two of Laurence's associates. As Vincent struggled to stand up Laurence had grabbed him up by the jaw and started unblinkingly into Vincent's already swelling eyes. "Have we come to an understanding?" Laurence asked. Vincent nodded quietly..  Their meeting had concluded with Laurence taking one last drag of his cigarette before pressing the still lit end into Vincent's cheek. Laurence and his associates left without another word. Vincent knew that this was the end of Laurence's patience.  What would come next would be far worse than he cared to dwell on.

Vincent could overhear an argument as he entered into Dr. Dawson’s store with the first load of paintings. “I have told you for the last time I do not deal with art supplies! I buy and sale finished artwork!” Mr. Dawson’s voice was at fever pitch and his bald head was bright red from screaming at what looked to be an elderly man. Vincent could see that the elderly man was hunched over. The man’s spine was heavily curved and warped by some unknown disorder. He wore a simple ill-fitting grey suit and a wrinkled coat that was roughly 2 sizes too big for his frame. The hunched man was keeping himself propped up by an equally gnarled walking stick. The hunched man seemed to be waiting patiently as Mr. Dawson continued his tirade. The old man caught a glimpse of Vincent as he entered and promptly walked away from Mr. Dawson mid tirade. “You are an artist no?” The hunched man said in an accent completely foreign to Vincent. “Yes I am” was all Vincent could reply. Vincent could better see the hunched man’s face now that they were facing. The hunch man’s face showed signs of some trauma of a neurological nature as one side drooped slightly. Vincent would have guessed a stroke but the hunched man’s speech was unaffected by whatever had caused the muscles in his face to atrophy on that side. What remained striking about the man was his emerald eyes that showed none of the age the rest of his body did. They were not eyes of a simple old man but something else timeless and infinitely older. “I am not looking to sell but to give away the remains of my stock. A very special stock of paint and brushes you see. I need to give it to an artist that is deserving of them. Are you such a man that’s deserving of them?” The hunched man asked as his left brow rose in question. Vincent could only say that he did not know. “Tell me your story” The hunched man requested. Vincent looked over to Mr. Dawson and strangely enough he had simply vanished. Vincent looked back to the old man and told his life story. The words to his story came forth without thought and soon Vincent bared to the hunched man all the sorrows and joys that had brought him to this point in his life. He did not understand why but something about the old man caused his soul to spill its secrets.  The hunched man nodded approvingly as he clasped Vincent ’s hands with his own. “I will tell you a tale that I have carried with me for a very long time.”

In the beginning, long before the stars and earth and mankind had been created there was an unfathomable darkness; A timeless abyss without beginning or end. Within that darkness was born a child. How it came to be not a soul could explain. It was an infant opposite by every means one could fathom from the mother darkness that bore it. The child had thought and feelings and found itself wondering what the purpose of its being was. Its cries and demand for answers from the darkness that bore it were met with only silence. Soon the child fell into loneliness and despair. So different was this child from its mother that they could not console each other despite their connection. From that loneliness the child harmed itself. The blood and ichor and flesh that the child tore from its body mixed with the darkness and began to shape the beginnings of the universe. The child realized that it could use the blood and sinew of its own being to create something that would give itself purpose. The child’s very blood contained the power of creation itself, and the child created other beings both wondrous and terrible to stave off its loneliness. The child gave these beings the gift of free will so that they too could share in shaping the world around them as the child had. For only the gift of free will can give any living thing the power of creativity. Though these beings were small and petty and quick to realize their own limited power compared to the child. They watched the child and realized the power of its blood. Despite being created from the blood of the child, these creatures themselves could only manipulate around them what already existed. They could not create by sheer will alone as the child could. It was the one gift that the child was unable to pass onto them. The petty creatures quietly planned and began stealing a drop here and there of the child’s blood from the wounds the child had self-inflicted prior to its latest forays into creation. The creatures waited until they had gathered enough of the child’s blood to create a prison strong enough to hold the child. The child was unsuspecting of the terrible crimes the creatures planned to commit against it and when the creatures came and asked the child to see the marvel they had created the child walked unsuspectingly into the prison. The child’s naivety had led it into the chains that would bind it to the will of its own creations. The creatures drained the child of its blood and ichor and willed into creation their own worlds of wonders with the child’s blood. A small group of the beings still loyal to the child fought to free their creator but failed. Those loyal to the child were exiled to the darkness beyond the borders of the realm the creator had made. The child grew feeble from the frequent bloodlettings and lamented its sad state. The child’s cries echoed throughout all of creation and beyond into the darkness that bore it. The abyss heard the cries of its child and began to seep into the child’s creation unraveling all that it touched. The child’s creations screamed in horror as they were consumed by it. Only those that had tried to save their creator from the betrayal were spared. The darkness felt the child’s pain and realized that the child would not survive if it did not return to its depths to rest. As the child readied to return back to the darkness it relinquished an urn to its faithful creations. Within that urn was the child’s blood. The child had gifted the faithful the power to create their own paradise. In honor of their creator they set forth to continue the child’s work. The darkness relinquished part of itself to the faithful creations so they could have a canvas by which to begin their work. The faithful used the child’s blood to paint upon the canvas of darkness and bring forth the universe that exists today”

Vincent was silent as the hunched man finished his tale. On the table beside the man were a paintbrush and an urn that looked to be made of polished bone. “You see before you what remains of that blood. It is not as potent in the hands of mankind but it still can work wonders…” The hunched man lifted the urn and presented it to Vincent. “We are beings that exist in the physical. For this to work you must bring forth an image of what you desire and paint it with the blood. Once you have finished the painting will be a gateway to your paradise. Do you have such a place in mind Mr. Harrison?” Vincent’s thoughts went directly to the small cottage from his and Laura’s honeymoon. Vincent nodded to the hunch man as he gingerly took the urn. “I must caution you that the painting must be kept safe. It must not be ruined nor allowed to suffer any damage. The world created may become warped or worse”. Vincent pulled the cork that sealed the urn and looked within. He could hear the sound of liquid sloshing within but could not see the liquid itself. As he looked up to question the hunched man he found himself alone in Mr. Dawson’s gallery.
 
He quickly made his departure back to his studio. It was the studio that Vincent prepared a large, unblemished canvas and imagined the small cottage and field of wildflowers. He gingerly dipped his brush within the urn and brought forth a black liquid that covered the bristles of the brush. Not a drop of the liquid fell from the bristles as he examined it. As he brought the brush to the canvas the colors of the wildflowers filled the canvas and soon the blue sky and distant mountains took shape. The small cottage bloomed and soon he found himself staring through the frame and into paradise. Vincent offered no explanation to his wife as he pushed her through the studio to the finished painting. While Vincent had not realized it, nearly two days had passed since he began working on the painting. Time seemed to lose its effect over Vincent as he felt nothing of the desire for food and drink. Laura thought perhaps her husband had a time sensitive commission and had left him alone. Anything she had asked him during that time was always responded with “When I finish you’ll understand.” At first Laura looked upon the painting of their honeymoon cottage with a puzzled look. Vincent took her trembling hand and brushed her fingers across the canvas. As Laura blinked she found herself amongst the wildflowers. The smells of spring perfumed the air and for the first time for what felt like forever the pain that had ravaged her body was gone. With tentative steps she lifted herself from her wheelchair and began to walk. The warmth of the spring sun radiated upon her and with it returned life to her spirit. She looked behind her and saw Vincent standing beside a portrait hanging upon a tree. The portrait looked to be of her husband’s studio. “How….how is this even…?” the words barely formed on her tear stained lips as she looked at her husband in awe. Vincent could barely keep his eyes from releasing the tears that swelled within them. “Because you were happy and healthy here…because this place was our paradise”.

Vincent told his wife everything about the hunched man the origin of the urn. He told her that as long as they remained here that the horrors that had existed for them outside this place would never hurt them again. Hours passed as they enjoyed each other while lying amongst the wildflowers and the spring sun. As they lay embraced together Vincent realized that he had once thing left to do before they could enjoy their paradise together forever. Vincent told Laura that he needed to find a safe place to keep the painting; to shield them from any of the outside world’s horrors from reaching them. Laura was afraid to let him go but relented as Vincent’s resolve became apparent. Vincent looked back to Laura one last time before passing back through the painting.

It was the smell of smoke that first alerted Vincent that something was terribly wrong. When he looked around the studio he realized that smoke was pouring from their upstairs apartment. Before Vincent could react a crowbar came across his back. Vincent dropped to the floor gasping in agony as pain shot up and down his spine. He was quickly surrounded by three men. “I told you this would happen if you didn’t pay up.” The cold, flat voice cause Vincent’s skin to crawl. He knew who it was. “Laurence…I have your money…just help me put out this fire and…” Vincent’s plea was cut short as one of Laurence’ men viciously kicked Vincent in the ribs. As Vincent flopped about on the floor trying to catch his breath Laurence motioned for his other enforcer to continue with his work. Vincent watched as the thug lifted a gas can and splashed it on the painting. The scream that left Vincent caused Laurence’s men to pause and look at their boss. Laurence himself looked almost worried when he heard the rage in Vincent’s scream. As Vincent rolled himself over on his stomach and attempted to push himself up, Laurence placed his shoe on Vincent’s spine and forced him back down to the floor. Vincent looked up to the portrait and realized in horror that he could see the painted image of his wife waiting in the foreground. Vincent watched in agony as Laurence removed a book of matches and struck one. The tiny head of the match flared up and glowed ominously. With a flick of his wrist Laurence sent the match through the air and onto the painting. Vincent could see the fire spring forth like ravenous locust across the canvas, and burning petals of ravaged wildflowers filled the room. Laurence and his enforcers looked about in confusion as Vincent watched his paradise warp into a hellish landscape. He could see the figure of his wife running in the painting, away from burning cinders that would leave her trapped within a smoldering world of ash forever. He knew that it was his mistakes had left her to suffer for all eternity. Their paradise was now her hell. The despair that overtook him made him a coward as he managed to free himself from Laurence's henchman and throw himself upon the burning remains of the painting. The fire consumed his flesh and his pain at first was unbearable. He knew though in the end that at the very least he would die. At the very least he would have that reprieve. He would not live and suffer with the guilt of what his actions had brought upon his wife. For the rest of their lives Laurence and his men would never speak of that night as they watched in horror as the painter burned alive. Sometimes at night they could still close their eyes and see the look of relief on the painter’s face as the charred flesh slid off his skull.

STALE AIR

STALE AIR

Henry Moulder

No one believed Andrew when he told them the shadows were stealing his breath. 

"It’s merely a manifestation of your fears over your asthma," his therapist stressed as always at the end of their weekly sessions. 

But years of therapy had done little to instill any mental protection from the monstrous thing that had been stalking him since childhood. The terror that had overtaken his life for decades had its roots in one seemingly normal afternoon when he was nine years old. There were no omens or warnings Andrew could remember looking back on that day. It had been an average day in all aspects up until that horrific moment in the woods.

Andrew and his group of friends had decided that day to see who was the best at hide and seek. None of the others would have admitted it, but Andrew was the one who time and time again stumped them at this game.  He had considered himself a master of hiding among the overgrown vines and trees at the outer edge of the school playground. Andrew always took special care to tiptoe as quietly as he could as he searched for his hiding spot. 

Today was no different as he had found the perfect place: the hollow of an old oak tree. A thin-framed youth, Andrew had no trouble bending his body into spaces that would have normally been inaccessible. There was something odd about the depth of the darkness within this tree’s hollow though. It didn’t match the tree’s size. 

His hesitance was quickly abandoned as he heard crunching leaves. His friends were nearly upon him. He darted into the hollow, contorting his limbs, and as he struggled to get comfortable, he caught a whiff of something odd in the air. It reminded him of the time he followed his father into his grandparents’ attic after their passing. The air hinted at the prolonged absence of human life within it.  While Andrew did not have the words or years of experience to put these thoughts to any coherent form, he was disturbed by it. And as soon as he recognized that smell of stale, lifeless air, all he knew was that he had to get away from it. As he twisted and grunted to escape the tight confines of the hollow, he felt something breathe against his right arm.  

That was the moment his lungs failed. 

The world spun and panic overtook his senses. As he struggled to take a breath, stale air filled his lungs.  He felt as if he was suffocating.  No matter how many times he tried to breathe, that stale air brought no relief, only another strained gasp.  

As his vision grew dim and consciousness began to slip away, Andrew caught a glimpse of something deep within the hollow. Something infinitely darker than the shadows of nature. Slitted yellow eyes floated quietly out from the darkness, their stare unblinking. The last sound he heard as he lost consciousness was a wet smack. 

Andrew awoke to the steady beeping of hospital equipment and voices murmuring outside his room.  His mother entered before he was fully awake, accompanied by a grey haired doctor whopulled up a nearby chair.

Andrew's mother placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Andrew, this is Dr. Birch.  I know you might be feeling a little confused why you're in the hospital, but he's going to explain everything,okay?"  

Andrew looked from her to the doctor, confused.

The doctor smiled back reassuringly. "I know what you went through was very scary, but this happens to other people, too.  You simply had an asthma attack."  

Andrew weakly asked what asthma was.  

"Well..." Dr. Birch cocked his head. “Things like dust and pollen from plants can cause your lungs to stop working as well as they normally would.  Your mother told me you were playing hide and seek during recess and you used a hole in a tree as a hiding spot.  Do you remember there being a lot of dust in there?"  

Andrew nodded. Remembering the yellow eyed thing caused him to breathe heavily despite the pain in his chest.  He closed his eyes and tried forget about the horrible thing.  

The doctor patted him on the shoulder as he stood up from the chair.  "Don't you worry, we're gonna get you back out playing with your friends in no time." As the doctor turned to leave, he suggested to Andrew's mother that he rest up before he could leave the hospital.

"I'm going to go downstairs and get you something from the cafeteria, okay honey?  I'll be back soon." Andrew's mother left, shutting the door behind her.  

Andrew looked around the room. The breathing mask around his face had started to cause his skin to itch. As he removed the mask from his face, he caught a whiff of the stale air again.

Something wet smacked from the darkness of the bathroom.  

The sound reminded him of one of his friends who had a nasty habit of smacking his lips while noisily chewing on his food. The smacking grew louder as something stirred in the shadows of the bathroom. Andrew dug his fingers into the mattress of his bed as he watched a pair of tiny yellow slits peer out from the darkness. The thing's bulbous head jerked up, and those yellow eyes bore into him unblinking as its mouth--or what Andrew could only imagine was its mouth--opened in the eerie shape of a grin. Jagged bits and pieces of what looked like bone reminiscent of teeth lined its gums, and as its maw widened, the stench of stale air became even more suffocating.

Panic rose in Andrew as he felt the very air seeping out of his body. Tears formed at the edges of his closed eyes as he struggled to get the mask back on his face. As the stale air faded with each breath, his courage returned enough for him to open his eyes again.  

The breath thief was gone.   

His hoarse screams carried through to the hallway, and a flood of nurses ran in to calm him. He tried to tell them what had happened, of the horrific thing that had tried to steal the breath from his body. The sharp pain from a needle left a burning sensation in his arm.  He knew the thing was still somewhere nearby, waiting for him. He could smell the lingering scent of stale air as the drug slowly enveloped him in sleep. 

The horror had only begun.

Decades went by as Andrew struggled with increasingly violent asthmatic episodes. He tried to counteract what he believed was his body's own inherent weakness by restricting himself to a regiment of exercise and a diet that left little in the means of indulgences. Despite the hours upon hours of exercise and constant visits to specialists for any potential remedy, Andrew could never escape that sense that the next breath he took would be his last. 

Every asthmatic episode began the same way: he would always catch a scent of dry, stale air and panic as he struggled for breath.  It was when the episodes reached their height of intensity that he would catch a glimpse of the yellow eyed darkness stalking him. Whether nestled in the branches of a tree or in a dark corner of the classroom where he taught science, it was always nearby,smacking together the outer edges of its grinning maw. He would compulsively struggle to find his inhaler despite knowing he always kept it in the same pocket of his pants. 

He knew deep down this thing was more than some delusion. Logically, he knew it was only a nightmare from his childhood memories, but his instincts screamed otherwise. Despite years of therapy and medications, nothing had managed to banish the thing except a puff or two from his inhaler. He never had any answers until a nightly visit to the gym birthed an epiphany about the nature of the living nightmare that plagued him.

                                                                                                                                                              Andrew was running on a treadmill as part of his daily cardio when a survival show on one of the televisions caught his attention.  Over the carcass of a dead deer, two hunters were discussing the best method for cooking it that night back at camp. As one of the men began to skin the deer, the other expressed concern that the meat might taste bad since the deer had survived the initial kill shot before being chased for another mile by the hunters. "You know how fear can season the meat?" The concerned hunter stated. The other hunter grunted concern as well.  

Andrew slowed his pace as he thought back on the breath-stealing thing. Could it be? It was true that the thief only made itself known at the height of his panic during an asthma attack.  

He pulled up a search on his phone in concerns to fear and its effects on the taste of meat. Many of the articles confirmed that the flesh of a frightened animal did taste different. Andrew's heart raced as he fumbled for his inhaler.  Could this thing have been torturing him all these years just to season him to its liking?  That's just fucking absurd, Andrew thought to himself, but the idea had already buried itself deep in the back of his mind. His hands trembled as he braced himself on the treadmill. He took another puff of the inhaler and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

Despite the gnawing fears pervading his waking thoughts, weeks passed without any asthmatic incident. It was as though his asthma had miraculously disappeared. He began testing himself by pushing his limits at the gym or taking an extra hour outside to tend to his yard.  A reserved hopefulness returned that he hadn't felt in years.  He didn't know how long it would last, but he felt his luck finally had changed.

At the end of a two month asthma-free period, Andrew decided to finally act on a hiking trip he had planned since his youth. With little delay, he packed his hiking gear and made his way back to one of his favorite trails in the nearby state park.

Everything started well enough.  He made the drive from his house to the state park in record time. The sun was barely above the horizon when Andrew parked and began to unpack his gear. It was a crisp fall morning with enough of a chill that goosebumps rose on his arms as he started along the trail. He breathed in the cool mountain air, smiling despite himself. As he breathed out, he watched the puffs of air escaping him.  He felt renewed.

It was midday when he reached the halfway point of the trail.  Unfortunately, he found himself at an impasse. The wooden bridge that crossed an overflowing creek had been washed out. A quick glance at the rushing water and its depth banished any thoughts of crossing without the aid of a bridge. Looking at the trail map, he found an older service trail a few miles from his current point. Time for a little off trail hiking, Andrew thought.  Checking his compass and the map again, he set forward along the creek. 

Hours passed.  Despite the optimistic disposition he had at the beginning, the hiking trip had now become utterly daunting. His once joyful mood soon became overshadowed with anger upon arriving at the service trail.  

The second bridge had washed out as well.  

Cursing himself, Andrew turned to the sun and realized that he was quickly losing daylight. As he fiddled with the top of his water canteen, he caught a faint whiff of something he hadn’t smelled in months. 

Stale air.

He stood paralyzed, wheezing as he scanned the trees for a darkened spot in the woods.  The stench intensified as the first cough wracked his ribs. 

He couldn’t breathe. The scent was overwhelming, choking him without respite.  

He braced himself against the nearest tree and collapsed to the ground.  Something was terribly wrong.  The smell was worse than anything he could remember from the countless other assaults he had suffered from.  Was his delusion amplified by this environment?  His thoughts quickly turned back to his labored breathing as he fumbled through his backpack for his inhaler.  He shook the contents onto the ground in such a frenzy that he nearly doubled over.  As he fumbled through his loose possessions scattered across the forest floor, the sky suddenly dimmed.  

The logical side of his brain prioritized the search for the inhaler, but he felt the overwhelming instinct to run away. With his vision obscured by the fading light, his hands scrabbled for the inhaler. He knew he had packed it.  There was no way he could have forgotten it!  

His teeth clenched between spasms of dry heaves from forced breathing.  Finally his hands grasped the inhaler. He had barely enough strength to bring the it to his lips. Before he could take a single puff, a blunt force connected with his hands and the inhaler tumbled into the nearby brush.  The force of the impact knocked him on his side as he rolled onto his back, gasping in agony. The bones of his right hand had been crushed.  

His eyes darted about, searching for the source. Despite the fits of coughing, his eyes caught a glimmer of something yellow. He tilted his head away from the loam until he faced the shadowy mass looming directly over him.

A thick miasma snuffed out any breathable air.  The light from the sun was extinguished by the impenetrable darkness nestled in the tree limbs above his failing body.  A darkness with two yellow slits for eyes. 

Andrew's last breath escaped as a hiss from his rigid body.  

The breath thief lazily lowered itself down beside his body. Its maw opened and closed, smacking excitedly. Widening its mouth, the thing leaned down, lowering its dripping lips around Andrew's face. As it suckled on the fear-drenched flesh, a strange noise akin to a giggle escaped the creature.  

The meat was perfectly seasoned to its absolute delight.

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