The Creeping

“Shit, he has mush for brains.” Daniel takes a few steps away and jabs his finger at Caleb, who’s standing with his hunched back to the trees. “I couldn’t believe my luck when this idiot rolled into town. Fucking coward was pissing his pants when I told him what I did to my mom to keep us out of jail.” Daniel advances on Caleb. “What’d you tell me about Jane Doe?” he taunts. “It was the monster that did it to her?”


Daniel looks over his shoulder at me, smothering a contemptuous laugh. “He actually thinks that creature tucked a finger bone into the little redhead’s hand.” His grin widens, and he winks just as he did the afternoon at the cove—as if we’re sharing a joke. He faces Caleb again. “You think it sliced the girl’s scalp off, took a bite, and put the rest of it back? Your monster’s got self-control, does it?” He spits a fat wad on the ground. Caleb stares at his shoes even as Daniel closes in on him. “Hey, look at me. Shit,” he snarls, sending a spray of saliva at Caleb. “You’re a fucking idiot. You wanna know what goes bump in the night?” A pause. “I do. I’m the monster.”

I have trouble looking away from Caleb. He looks too much like his sister. Zoey. My legs twitch with a shot of adrenaline. They’re twitching to run, to escape, to survive. I whirl around to face the lake, pressing my palms hard against the thudding in my chest, a wild hummingbird heartbeat near exploding. I order my feet to move for a minute before they get the signal. When they finally do, I stagger forward, stumbling, splashing up to my ankles.

I could make a run for it. I’m injured, though, and I’m not sure how fast I’d be. My gaze flicks back to Daniel and Caleb. Daniel shoves his fists into Caleb’s chest. Caleb pushes back. They’re distracted. With a head start I could hide in the woods. I could swim out a few yards and tread water, or float if I’m too weak, at least until Sam and the cops get here. Really, there are a dozen ways I could try to stay alive. But with every passing minute of Zoey knocked out on that bit of an island, it’s more likely she’ll drown. Even if I reach her, I won’t be able to do more than keep her on that dock. Even in better conditions—sun shining, tepid water, and my shoulder not bleeding and split open—I’m not strong enough to tow her limp body to the opposite shore. Daniel and Caleb bet their whole plan on my love for Zoey. On my willingness to die in order to save her. And I’m helpless but to play right into their hands.

My shoulder spasms as I throw my hoodie over my head; its angry buzz threatens to pull me deep into a soupy haze. I kick my tennis shoes from my feet and peel off my socks. I finally step deeper into the lake. The water’s so cold it burns. It won’t be swimmable until July. Great. I’ll add hypothermia to the list of things that might kill me tonight. The dark water laps at my knees, my thighs, my waist. I shove off, closing my eyes and baring my teeth, reaching forward in a breaststroke.

I dunk my face, trying to bear the pain and cold all at once. I surface, mouth gaping open, a silent scream rising from my frozen lungs. The chill tears at my skin, hammers into my spine, drills into my head. I dunk back under and reach forward to propel myself again. I do it ten more times and the numbness begins setting in. The less sensation in my arms, the more I can move my injured shoulder. I pick up the pace, aware that I don’t have long, aware that death is chasing me.

Ten more strokes and no matter how I gulp air, I can’t catch my breath. My legs kick slowly, suddenly too heavy to move through the water. I get stuck under, unable to lift my head above the surface, like Jeanie really is weighing me down. No, Jeanie is dead. Daniel and Caleb killed her. Like they’re killing Zoey.

A little surge of panic electrifies my limbs, and I hit the surface. But I don’t stop. I never stop. Not until my outstretched fingers jam into the dock. I grip its edge and scream, “I made it!”

There are muffled voices from far off, but they’re dwarfed by the thrumming in my head. I feel blindly on the dock above me; my icicle hand jabs at empty space. I kick to move around the dock’s perimeter, dragging myself to its other side. As I round the corner, Zoey’s tiny silhouette slides into the water. I dive forward to catch her before she descends too deep to be found. The water is thicker now, harder to cut through with a kick, as if it’s freezing to a solid. Or maybe I am?

Pins and needles attack my wide-open eyes as I catch her; her skin scalds mine. She still has blood flowing through her veins. I fight to bring our heads out of the water. Hers hangs to the side at an awful angle; her lips are parted, with buckets of water spewing out. I hook my bad arm under hers and reach with the other to grip the dock. It’s smooth. No handles. No seams. My nails claw at the planks. A few nails splinter, but I don’t feel them ripping away from the skin like I should.

“Help,” I cry, spitting up water and bile with the words.