The Creeping

The morning is bright. Too bright for half past six, but I can’t coax myself back into that sleepy dreamland where the eeriness of last night is awash with honeyed light and the fluttering of butterfly wings. The rumble of a newscaster’s baritone wafting from downstairs hypnotizes me, and before I can even change from the crumpled, filthy thing I used to call a dress, I gallop down the stairs and sink in front of the TV as though my life depends on it. Maybe it does. I shake my head violently to shoo away the morbid thought.

“Morning, Pumpkin,” Dad calls from the kitchen. Dishes clatter against the counter; he lets a frying pan clang on the gas stove. Of course he’s in the kitchen, concocting a meal that he thinks will be an antidote for all this trouble. Dad was raised by his nana, who was a strict believer in the cult of comfort food. She didn’t believe in an ailment that couldn’t be cured with her fried green tomatoes or apricot streusel. Screw you, cancer. She’d kill the nasty disease by adding more habaneros. Although Dad is a reasonable guy—and Nana actually did die of cancer—his first instinct is always to run to the kitchen for solutions.

“Morning, Dad.” I turn all my attention back to the balding, overly tan newscaster. The Oompa Loompa is being broadcast from the edge of Old Savage Cemetery. The ticker on the bottom of the screen recounts short, abbreviated details from last night. With each I feel less and less hungry. Jane Doe found in cemetery. Possible connection to eleven-year-old cold case. Victim of cold case discovered body last night. They’re calling me a victim. Am I? Everyone always says I’m lucky. My mouth goes dry when I think that people might be talking about me like I’m broken. The newscaster waxes on, spewing details of Jeanie Talcott’s disappearance. There are crime scene techs in white plastic suits scurrying around in the background of the picture. It makes the cemetery look alien. Like the awfulness is happening on a different planet with astronauts. I wish.

“The body was found yesterday evening at approximately half past eleven. The sole survivor of the Jeanie Talcott abduction made the discovery,” the newscaster drones on. I glare at him through the screen. I did not make the discovery. Tara Boden did. But I guess that’s not the spooky coincidence they’re after. Isn’t it horrible enough? “Events of yesterday evening unfolded during a fluke storm.” The reporter presses his ear, listening to his radio feed. A smug smile tugs at his mouth. “My meteorologist has just informed me that a similar summer storm occurred on the night of Jeanie Talcott’s abduction. Possibly another strange connection between the crime eleven years ago and the recovered body.” My stomach lurches, and I’ve completely lost my appetite.

Fifteen minutes later I’m watching the same reel as Dad puts a piping-hot stack of pancakes on the coffee table in front of me. I smother my breakfast in syrup, hoping to make it irresistible. I take an unseemly bite; so big I can barely chew with my mouth shut. But there’s no fooling my stomach. The news footage segues to clips of Savage residents reacting to last night’s discovery. An elderly woman with a hooked nose and curlers in her hair crosses herself with her right hand over and over again. The newscaster interviewing her asks if she suspects cult involvement, since the discovery of the little girl’s body in the cemetery could be construed as religious sacrifice. The woman grabs hold of the wooden crucifix around her neck and rushes back into her house, slamming the door behind her. I nearly choke at the mention of cults.

“You want to talk about last night, Pumpkin?” Dad asks, his own mouth full of food, and syrup staining his lips. Rather than answer, I motion for him to dab with his napkin. “Just as well.” He shrugs. “I’ve seen it all on the news, and Detective Shane called last night to brief me. Speaking of Shane, he’ll be here at eight thirty for your statement.”

I nod without making eye contact. I’m relieved that Dad gets why I don’t want to rehash everything with him this morning. How could I when I barely understand what happened myself? What I do understand is that I acted insane last night, clawing through a stew of mud and bones. I did not survive eleven years of Jeanie aftermath by going nuclear. I can’t imagine what it is, but there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. No cosmic voodoo, no monsters, no crazy cults seething under the surface of Savage.