Huskspine Crawler

The deer hide stood beside the fault with no bones inside. A human husk waited farther on. Between them crawled a low, many-legged body, dragging a wet black spine through dust that wouldn't touch it. Teeth moved at the limb joints.

Our lantern reached it. It slipped under the deer skin and stood. The fit was poor, but the square motes accepted it for an instant. It rushed the narrowest gap in our circle, shed the burning hide, and returned under the human face. We tangled fishhooks through every husk within reach. Without a clean surface to borrow, it fled naked into the fault.

A familiar outline matters more to it than a sturdy one. It tests discarded coverings from the edge of attention, imitating broad movement after entering. Weight and breath remain wrong. Fine habits are beyond it. Under threat, the skin is shed explosively; the collapse hides a change of direction.

It attacks an isolated body only when no empty shell remains. Hooking or stitching a husk prevents a quick change, and weighting it does too. Coarse dust sticks to the bare body's wet seams and reveals its route.