I collected several items for my backpack, so I'd be ready to go at a moment's notice. I needed some rope or strips of cloth for Kay, and found what I needed in the demon's own garbage can: a set of old curtains, replaced at Christmas, and thrown out when the new ones were finally hung. I took one quietly and sneaked it into my backyard, where I tore it into long, sturdy strips and stashed them in my pack. I don't know if you can lift a fingerprint from a curtain, but I wore gloves jusc in case.
The demon woke up soon after Kay returned, and grew more agitated almost by the hour. I could see him pacing back and forth past his windows, hobbling slowly, stopping now and then to grab his chest. He gripped the couch with his other hand for balance, grimacing. He wouldn't last long.
Clouds grew black and ominous in the sky, and when night fell, it came as a shroud of purest darkness that blotted out the stars. Just a few hours later, when the demon could take it no longer, he went shakily to his car and drove away, looking for another victim.
It was time for me to meet mine.
I was already dressed—warm black clothes, the ski mask to hide my face, and gloves to hide my fingerprints. I pulled on my backpack, and slipped quietly outside. Mom was already asleep, and I hoped everyone else on the street was asleep as well. I wanted to sneak into the demon's yard through the back, out of sight, but that way would leave footprints in the unmelted snow. It was better to run across the plowed street and up the shoveled walk, where I would leave no trace. I had always been leery of being seen or identified while sneaking around, but tonight my paranoia was multiplied a million times. There was no turning back from this; I wouldn't be able to talk my way out of the things I was planning to do. I checked the street a final time when I reached the outside door, reassured myself that it was completely empty, and dashed across the street. At least we didn't have streedights.
I reached the Crowleys' house and ran around the side to the cellar door, pulling out my key. It was pitch black inside, and when I stepped in and closed the door behind me, I was completely blind. I pulled a small penlight from my pocket, and found my way through the boxes and shelves to the base of the stairs. Rows of glass jars winked back the glow from my tiny light, and though I knew they were only canned beets and peaches, I imagined them full of pickled organs—kidneys and hearts and bladders and brains, displayed like specials on a grocery store shelf. When I reached the stairs, I slowed down, counting each step—I had learned earlier that the sixth step squeaked loudly on the right side, and the seventh softly on the left. I avoided those spots carefully and went upstairs.
The stairs let out into the kitchen, which appeared stark and colorless in the moonlight. I checked the GPS unit and saw that the demon was still driving, somewhere downtown.
Cruising for victims, I supposed—maybe on his way to the highway to find hitchhikers or other travelers. Whatever he wanted, as long as he kept moving.
I walked carefully down the hallway, my penlight extinguished. I was moving half by memory now, thinking back to the repair work I had done here on Saturday. The demon had given me a full tour of the house, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I recognized where I was and where I needed to go. The hall from the kitchen stretched backward into the house and, near the back door, the main staircase rose and snaked back toward the front, up to the second floor.
The house was completely silent. I checked the GPS again—the demon was still driving. I went up.
At the top of the stairs I counted the doors, and approached the second one on the right. The master bedroom. I opened the door slowly, wary of a squeak, but the hinges made no noise at all; I smiled, pleased with my foresight in oiling it.
The room beyond was dark, lit only by a clock radio on an antique dresser. Mrs. Crowley was asleep, small and fragile.
Even with a heavy comforter to bulk out her form, she looked tiny, as if her life force had retreated for the night, and her body had folded in on itself. The bed seemed to swallow her.
If not for the visible rise and fall of her breathing, I'd have doubted she was even alive.
This tiny woman was what the demon loved, so much that he was willing to do anything to stay with her. I set down my backpack, held my breath, and turned on a lamp.
She didn't wake up.
I picked over the dresser, nudging aside glasses and jewelry boxes until I found what I needed: Mrs. Crowley's cell phone.
I opened it, walked back to the door, faced the bed, and began taking pictures with the phone—click, save, step, click, save, step, click, save, step, closer every time. It would have a nice dramatic effect when I sent them. I bent in close for the last photo, holding the phone just above her face for an extreme close-up. The picture was ugly and invasive; it was perfect.