The Creeping

“So effing what? His wife and daughter are dead. Surprise, he’s messed up in the head.”


“I really think we should talk about this in person.” From his uneven tone, I can hear the effort it’s taking him to stay calm. “We’ve been getting noise complaints about a party at Cole Damsk’s house. Are you there? I can come meet you.”

I have never for a second been afraid of Detective Tim Shane. I’ve trusted him more than anyone other than Zoey, but alarm threatens to make my voice quaver as I lie, “Yeah, I’m in the upstairs bathroom. But I’m not going to stay here for long, so maybe tomorrow.” I hang up before he can reply. I was right, but there’s no wave of satisfaction, only a sickly sense of losing the solid ground I was standing on.

I crawl under my covers and curl around my bunny. “I wish Sam were here,” I whisper into its floppy ear. Eventually, I stop jittering and push everything to the back of my mind for tomorrow. I’m half-asleep, in that sticky middle world of distorted shapes and tie-dye colors, when my phone buzzes. I expect it’s a still angry Shane, but instead it’s Caleb.

“Caleb?” I answer.

“Stella.” Caleb’s voice is almost drowned out by thumping music. “I need you to come meet me.” Then louder and muffled, like he’s pressing the cell to his mouth. “I’m at Cole’s. Zoey got hammered . . . . I tried talking to her about Jeanie . . . . She freaked out . . . ran off into the woods.” The shouts and bass fade as he moves away from the house. “If she hears you calling her—”

Before he’s finished I’m out of bed, pulling leggings on. “I’m on my way. Meet me in front of Cole’s.”

“Thanks, Stella,” he shouts, and then the line goes quiet. I fumble with a pair of Converse tennis shoes and pull a hoodie over my head. I hope Zoey really is having a full-on attack, because if she isn’t already, she’s going to once she sees that I’m wearing zero makeup in public. I pull my hair into a ponytail as I tiptoe down the stairs. No sense waking Dad for this drama.

My car sputters curbside as I turn the key. Once the engine’s roaring, I speed off across town. Cole lives on the opposite side of Savage like Zoey, but in a newly developed neighborhood, with giant grassy backyards butting up against Blackdog State Park. The houses are mini mansions with waterfall pools, movie theaters, and snaking driveways.

I roll through stop signs and hold my breath for luck as I speed through red lights. The idea of Zoey, alone, drunk, and vulnerable, in the woods while this Creeping or whatever you call it is on the prowl, is too much. I will not lose anyone else. Especially not Zoey; I would never survive.

I sail through a fork in the road. To the right is the highway leading straight to Old Savage Cemetery and Blackdog Lake. I go left, and a mile down is Cole’s serpentine driveway. Cars are parked along it, most haphazardly, taking up more lawn than drive. Cole’s house looks about to burst at the seams, it’s so jam-packed with kids. Brightly colored lanterns hanging from the awning make it look etched in hard candy. A glittering gingerbread home bright as a lighthouse on the edge of the dark forest behind it. I desert my Volvo cockeyed, blocking the four-car garage, and dash toward the multitiered front porch.

Caleb paces furiously at the bottom of the stairs, eyes glued to his cell, oblivious to the yips and hollers of the tipsy partygoers just above him on the steps.

“Caleb!” I shout.

He jerks his head and waves for me to follow before I even reach him. As I scurry past a pulsing blob of juniors and seniors encircling a keg—a mass of holding hands, bumping shoulders, swaying hips, lapping tongues—I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll to Sam’s name. Too many pairs of blinking eyes sticking to me for someone not to mention me being here. Sam will hear that I came to a party tonight. I’m probably already tagged as attending this slosh-fest or in the back of someone’s sepia-tinted picture.

My thumb jabs the send button. I don’t want Sam to think I felt like going to a party after everything we said to each other this morning. But calling him to explain why I am where I am in the middle of the night when I’m not even certain he’ll answer my call (or worse, he will answer because he’s still Sam, and that means he’s impossibly good) right after I accused him of an unspeakable crime doesn’t seem like a great idea. I hit the end button after the first ring and slide the cell into my hoodie pocket. I’ll call in the morning. I’ll apologize. I’m sure he won’t forgive me, but I’ll try. I reach Caleb lingering at the tree line.