It was the milk that caught his eye first, as he dumped the stack of junk mail onto the table in the hallway, flicked on the lights.
"Joey? Sarah?" he called.
The house was a series of rooms filled with ominous shapes and shadows.
He started for the kitchen when something caught his eye on the steps leading to the second floor.
Milk.
A lot of milk.
He could smell it, sour and thick and heavy on the air in the closed house. It trickled down the steps, each a frothy little waterfall, and pooled on the polished hardwood of the landing.
"Joey! Sarah!" he screamed, livid with anger. What was going on? How did they get a hold of this much milk? There must have been at least 10 gallons cascading down the staircase. And, where was Mrs. Brogan?
Looking down to avoid stepping in the mess, he fished his glasses out of his breast pocket.
A thick, red ribbon swirled through the spreading puddle of milk, giving it the look of a melted candy cane.
He was about to dip his finger into this, when the hairs on the back of his neck stood. He ran upstairs, spattering milk and blood against the walls of the narrow staircase.
)
Thirty years after his psychotic, alcoholic mother was institutionalized, Leo Kearny's memory still haunts him of the day she baked him gingerbread cookies. He remembers the blood dripping from her arms when she scrubbed them with Brillo pads to remove the smell of the gingerbread. Now the smell is back....
