The "experts" were just arriving as he emerged from the cellar, looking a little burned. Most importantly his face looked different, like he was somebody else masquerading as the old guy and couldn't quite get it right. Trailing him was a small man who looked a little like a dead version of an Indian politician from the 1950s, wearing a burned white Nehru jacket, who was walking like a bat--knuckles trailing on the ground, elbows up, everything.
They sat at one of the tables in the basement room, and I realized they weren't human at all. They were more like translucent, wraithlike, humanoid lampreys with trailing feelers like catfish. Peculiar but pretty in a deadly sort of way.
You were fascinated. All I wanted to do was find the person in the New Orleans group, most of whom were dressed up like Victorian era reenactors, who was supposed to know what to do. When I looked back, you were coming out of the cellar door where the others had been, and you didn't look like yourself, either.
We looked at each other. You knew I knew you were one of them now. And you planned to prevent me from stopping you and your "friends". I stood there, my stomach in knot, knowing it wasn't you, and wondering how in hell I was going to dispose of the body.
Greg: [Laughing.] Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem.