The Creeping

“Blood,” Zoey breathes, staring at the same charnel graffiti. “The cat’s?”


“Probably,” I whisper. A jagged tear rings the cat’s neck like a bloody necklace. I gently nudge the head and it rolls, unattached from the body, pupils focused on me as it tumbles. It rocks to a stop, the creature’s little pink spongy tongue sticking out.

“Ewww!” Zoey screams, throwing herself backward, landing on her butt in the mud. She scurries to her feet and ducks behind Sam; one watering eye peeks out from behind his shoulder.

“Stella, come on. Let’s go back to the car and call the cops.” Sam speaks steady and slow. I shake my head for a moment. How can I leave this helpless little animal alone? I scour the ground for anything I can use to cover the cat. There’s nothing but a loose wad of police tape. I edge toward the head, trying not to see the purple-and-red jelly of its wound. I fold the tape over the head, nimble fingers becoming fat and clumsy, brushing a damp ear. I choke down a whimper and whirl away.

I tail Sam and Zoey through the cemetery. Everything is watery from tears and pounding rain. I try to rub away the sensation of the cat’s fur on my palm, but I can’t. I feel it under my skin rather than on it.

We sprint through the gravel lot and rush inside the station wagon. I wipe the steam from the window and squint out to where the other two cars were parked. They’re gone.

“W-who would do something like that?” Zoey stammers. Sam fumbles with the buttons on his cell, fingertips slippery and blue. I cross my arms over my face and close my eyes. I try to take refuge in the blackness, but the image of the cat’s rolling head is burned on the insides of my eyelids.

Sam’s on the phone with the police station. “Yes. That’s what I said, a dead cat . . . No, not hit by a car . . . Excuse me, but someone butchering a pet is a serious police matter . . . . Hello? Hello?”

With a clatter, he tosses his phone on the dashboard. “They hung up on me. With everything going on, you’d think they’d take something like this seriously.”

My arms droop to my sides, and I stare at the worn ceiling of the car. A yellowed spot stares back. I want to call Shane. Spill everything we’ve been up to. But I can’t risk getting sent to Chicago, not when human lives are at stake. “Everything going on is probably why they’re not taking it seriously, Sam. They don’t see that everything is connected,” I murmur, drawing imaginary lines from stain to stain just like connect-the-dots. “There were cars parked over there”—I tap against the window—“and now they’re gone. We didn’t see anyone in the cemetery.” I pause. Look back up at the stains. “You don’t think they were doing that to the cat while we were in there, do you?” My stomach lurches.

“No, I’m sure it—uh—he or she had been dead for a while.” Sam sounds hopeful, not certain. He turns the key in the ignition, and the wagon springs alive.

“I’ve got to drop you guys off so I can get to my shift at BigBox.” He indicates the car’s digital clock.

I know Zoey is traumatized, because she misses the opportunity to say something snide. Instead she murmurs weakly, “Bring me home. I’m going to puke.”

The ride back is mostly quiet. Zoey gives me a quick hug and nods to Sam before running into her house through the dumping rain. I focus on the canvas of my tennis shoes as we cut through town. I’ve hit my threshold for twisted today—not just today, for a lifetime. I don’t need to see my neighbors patrolling the streets in armed posses or building bonfires to burn witches.

“Is your dad going to be home tonight?” Sam asks as we pull into my driveway.

“Probably not until late.” A little spike of terror runs through me. I don’t want to be alone. There’ll be too much time to think. Too much time for nightmares—real and imagined.

“I get off at nine. If you want, I could come over.”

“I’d like that,” I say speedily, too relieved to care about playing it cool. He smiles a little sadly as he leaves me waving from my porch. I exhale deeply and force myself to push through the front door.

Two hours later, showered, fed, and a little less ragged, I curl on the couch with my laptop.