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That thing on the porch won't go away. I called the authorities, but I don't think they're coming. They have got their hands full with the Manhattan quarantine, so they can't squander their time on a nothing at all little town like Otterkill. That means it's up if you ask me and the neighborhood friends, and there are fewer of us every day. Fewer of us, and more of them. Everyone we lose is one more monster to deal with. The Spiller family, the folks from the Retirement Centre, even the Mathises' Rottweiler are now stalking the roadways, waiting for you to definitely get too close. A single touch is all it requires. I don't know which of my neighborhood friends became the thing on the porch, and I suppose it doesn't matter. I've surely got to get out of here, however the Tarbabies already are turning up in Albany, and Philadelphia, and Pittsburgh. There's nowhere remaining to run, and there's no point in covering. Not when the shadows themselves are after you.
