The Creeping

I grab his sleeve and try to pat him calm, until I realize that he’s still and I’m the one shifting from foot to foot. “We won’t be able to go to Griever’s if my house is crawling with cops or if Dad comes home from work because Shane calls him.” Sam rubs his eyelids furiously and shakes his head, like he can’t believe what I’m saying. “I won’t give up because someone rearranged some pictures.”


Sam gestures at the mantel, his eyes wide with disbelief. “It’s a little more serious than that.”

“Sure, but not as serious as figuring out who killed Jeanie. This is proof that we’re on the right track.” I swallow a lump rising in my throat. “If we weren’t, whoever did this wouldn’t have bothered. They’re probably the same people who left rotten strawberries. It’s going to take a lot more than some nasty fruit to scare me off.”

I squint back at the photo. The reflection of a craggy mountain range traces a jagged line in the lake. All those endless trails that dip and climb into isolated crevices and peaks. “Where is Norse Rock?” I ask abruptly.

“I’m not certain I’ve ever heard of it.” Sam sounds thoughtful, distracted—momentarily at least—from calling the police.

“One of the girls who disappeared in the 1930s was on a picnic with her family at Norse Rock, right? It’s what you read in one of those clippings.” I tingle from the crown of my head to the pads of my fingers. “And Shane told me a story about Norse explorers coming here ages ago. They had some kiddie cannibal with them.”

Sam angles his head. “A child cannibal?”

“No. I mean someone who was eating the fingers and toes of children,” I say, flustered. “That isn’t the part that matters. It’s just the Norse part. Another girl you read about disappeared hiking up in Blackdog, right? What if they have more in common than their age, the red hair, and what took them? What if they disappeared from the same place? Norse Rock?”

“Betty Balco disappeared from her front yard on Jeanie’s old drive. You and Jeanie were picking berries,” he says gently.

“For all we know, Betty Balco could have been up at Norse Rock the day before she vanished. And anyway, you can hike straight from the woods at Jeanie’s into Blackdog. And maybe Jeanie and Daniel went there once too?” My pitch climbs. “Maybe they were at Norse Rock the day before or the month before and whatever snatched the others spotted Jeanie? Maybe it spotted her here. Maybe it’s what she’s looking at?” Two steps and I’ve snatched the photo and am waving it at Sam. “It could have been watching her on this day.”

A strange ripple of emotion runs through me. I replace the photo hastily. I backtrack from the mantel. Rather than accept that Jeanie’s killer is caught, I’ve uncovered more fuel for night terrors. I slip my hand into Sam’s; his chilled skin on my feverish palm. My other hand taps search terms into Sam’s phone, and I’m staring at a map of Blackdog State Park in an instant. I tilt the screen for Sam to see.

“I don’t see a Norse Rock, but there”—my thumb hovers over a corner of the map—“Old Norse Trail. The Norse part can’t be a coincidence. It could be named after the Norse explorers, and Norse Rock is probably on it.”

Sam blinks at the rough map. “I don’t know. I saw a special on the History Channel about Norse explorers who established a settlement here. Archeologists claimed to have found a rune stone, like a written record of their time, recounting some sort of massacre. But the rune stone turned out to be a hoax. Faked by a farmer. Shane’s story is just a folktale.” He pauses, holds his breath so his cheeks puff out.

“But what if it’s true, except what if it wasn’t really a Norseman picking the kids off?” I ask. “You said yourself that there are more redheads in this area because the settlers were Scandinavian. As in descendants of the Norse and the Vikings.” I punctuate my point with my finger in the air. “What if this thing was here even then? It could have gotten its first taste of what it would crave for centuries.” I look back at the map. “It would forever hunt little redheads in this one spot.”

After studying the vague lines of Old Norse Trail, I tow a reluctant Sam into the kitchen. I don’t know why, but it feels safer in there, surrounded by appliances and Dad’s brightly colored serving dishes. I guess I’m not so different from my father in that way.

I ogle the fridge’s contents and pull out a cooked lasagna. I’m not hungry, but this is what Cambrens do when they can’t process stuff.

“Zoey texted me what happened at the courthouse today,” Sam says.

“Zoey who?” I ask, sticking the lasagna into the microwave for reheating. I hop up on the counter, socked heels beating percussively on the cabinet doors to drown the racket of my pulse.

He manages a laugh that doesn’t reach his troubled eyes. “Weird, I know. She told me to come straight over here after my shift. Also that she’d meet us at Jeanie’s place tonight.” Sam steps nearer, leaning against the counter between my knees. There’s heat in my cheeks.

“She must be going somewhere before she heads over.”