Kiss — Haylo

She looked at the shotgun. She looked at the salt. She looked at the thing that had haunted her hollow for a year.

“Now you belong to me.”

Now, at seventeen, Haylo stood in that same hayloft, a shotgun in her hands and a circle of salt around her boots. The moon was a thumbnail paring. The thing was back. Haylo Kiss

That was the first time Haylo understood the name her grandmother had given her. “Haylo,” the old woman had whispered on her deathbed, “is for the place where you hide. And Kiss is for the thing that finds you anyway.” She looked at the shotgun

It stepped closer. The salt sizzled. The thing paused, then smiled without a mouth. “The kiss was never yours to give, Haylo. It was mine to take. You’ve carried my name since birth. Now I’ve come to collect the debt.” “Now you belong to me