The Creeping

Sam’s eyes get big. “Hold on. There’s no way I’m letting you go back out to Mrs. Griever’s. Remember her? The one with the shotgun aimed at us? And while there’s a serial killer on the loose scalping children and a cult that’s murdering innocent pets? All so you can dig up their bodies?”


I move closer, desperate to make my point, hands wringing as I do. “Don’t you get it? This is the first piece of the puzzle that we’ve had any luck with. Other than my creeptastic memories, we’re no closer to figuring out who took Jeanie. If we could find out who’s taking the animals, then maybe they’ll talk to us. They know more than we do. There wasn’t just a cat on that altar, it was a cat with red fur. And it was near where a little redheaded girl was found, mutilated and dead. Sure they’re nuts, but they’ll at least be able to tell us what they’re so afraid of.” Having a plan makes me braver. I stand taller sharing it.

“I think it’s time that we go to the cops with this. With everything.” He motions to the door like he might leave to get the police this very second.

“The cops?” I cry. “You mean the cops who hung up on you today when you reported a beheaded cat? You think those cops will help?” It sucks to admit it, but I don’t think Shane would buy one bit of this. I’m not sure if anyone would believe me, except for Sam. My chest rises and falls fast. Sam’s pulse flutters under the skin on the curve of his neck. I rub my collarbone, suddenly warm and itchy with splotches. There’s a shift in the air, a charge different from anger between us.

Sam wavers, the crease between his brows lessening. “You always kicked my ass at staring contests,” he grumbles, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. His hands disappear into his pockets, and he stands uncertainly in front of me. But he’s still here—not just in my living room but near me—and it occurs to me that he shouldn’t be.

“You don’t have to go to Griever’s if you don’t want to, Sam. I understand that this is all . . .” I search for how to say it.

“Horrific? Bone-chilling? Terrifying? Shaping up to be preternatural?” Sam offers.

“A lot to ask of you,” I whisper. “This is dangerous. Just being near me is dangerous.”

“Stella, haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?” His hands cup my face; his thumbs brush my cheeks, leaving warm streaks in their wake. “I’d let you bury me in Mrs. Griever’s front yard if you wanted to. I’d camp out in the cemetery or the morgue or in Jeanie’s abandoned house. I’d do anything for you,” he says wildly, his giant brown eyes earnest.

You see, this is the moment. If I was ever going to free Sam from whatever hold I had over him, this would have been it. In the wreckage of a second I imagine sending him away, finding the lies he needs to hear to leave me. There are a billion things I could say. And he’d be safer if I said any one. For once I’m glad Mom is in Chicago; she’s safe there. I’m glad Dad practically lives at his office; he’s safer there. But Sam . . . he’s standing too close to the campfire, and he doesn’t even know it. Instead I let the moment slip away and cave to wanting him.

“Please don’t leave,” I say, placing my hands over his, eyes begging like every hope and wish I’ve ever had depends on Sam staying. Like my life depends on it. Maybe it does? After a beat I turn and walk upstairs. And of course, a moment later, Sam follows.

His padded steps trail after mine on the stairs. By the time I enter my bedroom I’m shivering, the chill of the house sticking to my skin. Sam is calm and quiet as he strides through the doorway. He moves as though he belongs here, like it’s his room rather than mine. I watch as he leans close, eyes blinking solemnly, crescent mouth curving in a smile, to study the photos and drawings tacked up on my walls. I shiver harder, feeling too revealed in front of his careful stare. I don’t think he misses anything. “Do you want to watch a movie?” I ask, sitting on the foot of my bed. I grip my hands together making white splotches on my hot skin.

“No,” he says softly, eyes not straying from the photo he’s examining.

“No?” I peep.

He turns his head slightly and nails me with a serious look before turning back to read a bunch of quotes I printed out and stuck to my bulletin board ages ago.

“What do you want, then?” I whisper, a little breathless. He doesn’t answer at first. I watch him reach up and unpin a photo. He tilts it toward me and raises an eyebrow. It’s one of Taylor and me from an end-of-the-school-year bash. Sam was there too. I noticed him from the corner of my eye with a coed group in Scott Townsend’s backyard, throwing his head back, laughing. But lately, aren’t I always at least a little aware of where he is in relation to me? Even then I remember wondering what he thought was so funny.