The Creeping

“Hey, Stella, Zoey,” he says. He carries an extra red cup and offers me the beer. I try to get ahold of myself, but it feels like gluing one of Mom’s cobalt-blue vases back together after smashing it into a million pieces on the floor. I remembered something. Should I be jumping for joy or sobbing in fear? I don’t do either. Instead I take the plastic cup from Taylor, and without saying a word, I pound its contents. Definitely not beer. Liquid heat sears my throat.

“What’s up?” Zoey takes control. “Hey, guys,” she adds, nodding to Taylor’s two buddies. Zoey has hooked up in various degrees with both of them. Drew and Dean play lacrosse with Taylor, and for some reason I always have trouble telling them apart. Maybe Zoey does too, which could explain why she’s made out with both at random. I’d feel bad for them if it wasn’t for how infamous lacrosse players are at Wildwood for being players on and off the field. I suspect that this is why Michaela steered Cole toward less chartered male territory in the direction of the kegs, once the boys sauntered over to us. Taylor is more decent than most: He dates in our grade, his exes never say anything bad about him, and he always opens doors for girls—even the unpopular ones. There’s also the issue of that irresistible smile.

“You know, just knocking back some beers and shots,” Taylor states the obvious. Okay, so he’s not exactly Ivy material, but even through my conflicted haze, he’s hot. Over Taylor’s chiseled shoulder, Michaela and Cole melt into the crowd. Cole is a social butterfly, and since she spent only two weeks of our junior year with us at Wildwood, she’s eager to mingle. Flickering light from the fire dances on the tree trunks. It makes it look like the whole world is moving, swaying and spinning to the music’s rhythm. The liquid I chugged spreads fire up my spine from my stomach, and I swear I can feel it seizing my brain, screwing with my equilibrium.

Taylor leans forward, looking at me expectantly. Zoey’s blue eyes widen as she realizes I haven’t been listening. “Sorry, what?” I ask, shaking my head. Taylor’s cocky grin fades. I try to steady myself with a deep breath, but smoke fills my lungs. I sputter as my throat thickens. I’m standing too close to the fire, and Jeanie’s face and its curling trickle of blood keep flashing before me.

“I’ll—I’ll be right back, sorry,” I stammer, turning before Zoey can grab hold of me. With the blaze at my back, its dancing flames behind me, I’m better, more solid. I move away from the crowd and let the yips and shouts fade behind me. I veer straight for the wrought-iron gate of the cemetery. If I can just catch my breath, sit down on a bench, I’ll be alone with my thoughts. All of this is doable. It’s only that I haven’t had a moment to process that I’m losing it.

Zoey calls my name once but doesn’t follow. I reach the cemetery gate and duck under the scalloped archway. Out of habit I reach above my head and tap the iron heart that marks its apex. Zoey told me once that it would keep unsettled spirits away. Otherwise those that aren’t in heaven or hell haunt anyone who enters the cemetery. I know, I know. I’m positive Zoey made it up. But whatever . . . better safe than sorry. Stuff like that really makes my skin crawl.

Anyway, the cemetery is spooky enough without tempting ghosts. It’s one of the oldest in the country, with gravestones hundreds of years old. No one’s been buried here for over sixty. Zoey said she heard it was originally a Native American burial ground that was dug up by settlers. She could have been full of nonsense, but I don’t feel bad repeating it. Weren’t settlers always digging up sacred stuff? Distant giggling and a moaned, “Oh nooo,” make me focus. I swerve in the opposite direction.

I swat boughs from the low-hanging willows brushing my face. The candles are everywhere to guide me. I pass my favorite marble statue of a weeping angel and caress its broken wing. There’s a smooth granite bench rooted to the ground across from the statue and a small, enclosed family plot. I lie down on it. The cold seeps from the stone into my back. I shiver. Blackdog State Park is far enough from the city that the stars blaze like tiny lightbulbs illuminating the sky’s blackness. The candles speckling the cemetery have the look of fallen stars nestled in nooks and crannies.

I close my eyes for a moment, but Jeanie’s bloodied face is there, like an indelible memory I’ve always had and not one that just reared its warty face. I open them and stifle a scream. Two brown eyes hover above me.

I bolt upright. “Sam!” I shout. “Jeez, you scared the crap out of me.”