THIS IS THE THIRD TIME. It blobs into the dimension medusa-like, not as amorphous, but still black as a clouded new moon.
Anne knows this time she will not just think it away like before. The ooze strengthens with each incarnation. She senses determination, consciousness–before there was only unfocused malevolence.
Anne assumes a stance of power, asserts, “I’m not afraid of you,” as the convolving tentacles fire. It snatches the child into its darkness.
Anne, amnesic, steps from the nor’easter blizzard shadows onto her moonlit yard. Home. Anne’s mind, now, has become the stronger of the two.