She advanced, cackling and crowing, her ginger curls falling away from her scalp.

He tried to turn but he couldn't look away

She made an elaborate twirl which sent her pink dress flying; the perfect mating display.

He briefly wondered if she would regurgitate carrion flesh into the mouths of his children.

But no... Only the dead of the pellet and may he not be its bones

The bones are behind the owl door.

 

(The Owl Door is Prompt #3, btw)

 

He hurled a cup of coffee at her and bolted for the door.

The words of the Eagles echoed in his mind... You can check out but...

...if you kick over the jukebox, the horror is forgotten to sound and memory.

he reached for his steely knives.

... but remembered his peaceful, easy feelings, and although his prison was walking through this world alone, a runaway train of horses wasn't enough to make him stay.

lost in metaphor and earworms he paid far too

little attention to where he was going.

(Btw, I frakkin' hate The Eagles.)

He stumbled over his bicycle and out the door and the vulture-headed maiden of sorrow watched forlornly as he pedaled into night and freedom.

(It went without saying)

 

freedom

indeed for he'd left every worldly possession except the bicycle behind with the bug.

He briefly considered doubling back around util he heard the wailing of the maiden and the cold tearing and smashing of metal.

He had left the bones!  That's the reason for his entering the Owl Door.