The Creeping

I frown at Shane’s obvious fury and pass Sam the note. I wiggle out of his T-shirt and toss it to him once he’s done. He tugs it over his head and grins. “Smells like you,” he says. There’s a bizarre stirring in my chest. It’s suddenly tighter, making me work harder to breathe. I close my eyes and count to ten.

Sam’s voice cuts me off at seven. “There’s something familiar about what you told the cops that day. I can’t shake the feeling of déjà vu.”

“If you hunt for monsters, you’ll find them,” I speak slowly.

“Yeah, I swear I’ve heard that before, or maybe I’ve even said it,” Sam says thoughtfully. I look at him, startled. The late-afternoon sky is dark with clouds, and Sam’s edges are silver as he shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” His eyes click to me before returning to the asphalt in front of us.

I rest my head against the seat back. “There’s a whole lot of twisted crap that’s upsetting me lately, Sam. Anything you can remember helps.”

“Here’s the thing.” He steers us out of the parking lot. “You were six, right? Six-year-olds believe in monsters and all sorts of things: Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, werewolves. But that doesn’t sound like something a kid would come up with.” His eyes gleam with electric thought. “At least not a kid that young. To me it sounds like a warning someone else told you, and then you repeated it because you were traumatized.”

My eyes are suddenly damp hearing Sam say it. I was traumatized. I watch the houses pass by, their shapes smearing and bleeding like watercolors as I let a few tears fall. I was the lucky one, and I was traumatized. It’s hard to make sense of. I try to focus only on the houses and trees streaking by as we pass, to let their shapelessness numb my mind.

“Do you see what I’m seeing?” Sam asks. I squint through the windshield at a corner house. I roll down my window for a better look at the vague outlines crowding the lawns on the block we’ve turned up.

Every few houses there’s one decorated with symbols and candles. Porch lights illuminate rosaries dangling over front stoops. Bungalows are lit up like birthday cakes in the gray dusk. Eaves are festooned with loops of daisy chains. Wood crosses spear apron lawns and tidy flower beds. We pass a ranch home with a clot of white pillar candles and a framed picture of Jeanie at the center. Orange ribbon knots, like those worn in remembrance of Jeanie for months after her disappearance, are tied around doorknobs and car antennas. Big, clumsy bows are secured around tree trunks; candles, photos, and newspaper clippings are displayed at their bases. Everywhere I look there are vigils for the dead, displayed in front yards like tiny lawn-gnome funerals.





Chapter Ten


Everyone’s heard about the body in the cemetery and Mrs. Talcott’s murder,” Sam says quietly. “It’s a small town. This place was messed-up enough over Jeanie’s disappearance. Remember how long it was before we were allowed to trick-or-treat? People are bound to lose it again.”

I turn away and burrow through my purse for my cell. Sam’s right. I don’t like to recall what Zoey refers to as “the lost years,” the three years after Jeanie was taken. Three Halloweens canceled—trick-or-treating actually outlawed. Three years of town curfews, police patrolling, flashing lights seeping through the blinds. Three years of students hustled from classrooms to their parents’ idling cars, teachers yapping into walkie-talkies at the sight of a stranger. Three years of mandatory weekly town council meetings in the church’s pews—the fire-and-brimstone preacher sharing the pulpit with the mayor to outline safety measures the town was taking. Three is how many years it took Savage to stop being afraid. I can’t face what’s happening outside the car window, time reversing its course. I’m not ready to see the stitches on that collective wound torn open. Not yet at least.

I have only two texts. The first is from Shane. And although he uses a few more curse words, it’s basically the same as the note he left. The second is from Michaela.

Parents have me on lockdown today, but I will break out if you need me. XO

Poor Michaela. Her parents are always griping about her needing to spend time with “constructive influences.” Ron and Helen don’t mind me so much, since they judge all of Michaela’s friends by how many As they earn. Me: I get a lot. It helps that Dad plays golf with Michaela’s dad. But Michaela’s parents condemn Zoey whenever they get the chance. According to them, she’s some kind of anarchist. They’re probably injecting Michaela with one of those GPS micro-chips as we speak and brainstorming ways Zoey is likely to blame for Mrs. Talcott’s demise.