The Creeping

“Now I really do feel like Hansel and Gretel making their way to the witch’s house,” I whisper as the lane narrows to a footpath. If it’s possible, the barbed vines of the bramble have grown wilder, tendrils braiding with the strawberry vines and resting on the trail, lying in wait as snares to catch prey. No, no, and no. It’s only elongated shadows from the light of the lowish moon. Still, I’m glad I wore running shoes.

The blaring screech of a night bird overhead and the beat of powerful wings. The sky is a milky black with tiny, twinkling tears in its velvet. The canopy interlocks above us and there’s a new spectrum of darkness. Even the stars can’t see us now.

“What if it’s not just animals buried?” I whisper.

“It will be.” Sam pulls me into his side.

“But what if it’s not?”

“Then we’ll call the cops,” he says simply, like a phone call could really save us from what I fear. We round a bend, and clouds of heavy stench warm my nostrils. It isn’t a rotten odor, but the smell of something hot and sweaty cooking.

“Dinner?” I say, gagging.

“We’re close,” Sam says. We slow our pace and creep forward as stealthily as possible. I move as if I’m hunting. We emerge from the tunnel of forest.

“Better switch that off.” I tap the flashlight. The dark really is dark. There’s no other word for it. The moon is good for only a stunted glow, revealing the outlines of things but none of the details. And as Dad says, the devil is always in the details.

My legs tremble. This is insane. What were we thinking? Jeanie’s killer has been caught. Mr. Talcott confessed. Daniel accepted it. So why am I too brain-dead to move on?

I’m about to tell Sam I’ve changed my mind when the heaps of dirt come into view. A foot or so wide, two or three long. Tens, maybe hundreds of their outlines. They’re too unsettling to not be something awful. My doubts are shushed.

“You keep watch from here and I’ll dig.” Sam’s mouth brushes my ear, and I shiver. “If you hear or see anything, signal me.”

“What kind of signal?”

“An owl hoot.” I nod and press my lips to his before he moves through the shadows into Griever’s yard. Sam stops at the mound closest to me and sinks to his knees. Very slowly and carefully he picks at the dirt with the shovel. It doesn’t sound like more than a tiny mouse’s scratching. Minutes pass—it could be two or twenty for all I know—and then silence. After a few seconds I can’t bite back my dread.

“Sam? Are you okay?” I whisper as softly as I can.

Nothing.

“Sam?” A little louder.

Two things transpire next, and they happen at almost the same instant.

“I think I can feel the muzzle of a dog,” Sam whispers, a split second before a deafening boom cracks open the quiet and fills the night with Sam howling in pain.





Chapter Twenty-Four


I move faster than I have ever moved and ever could move again. I fly in front of Sam, shield his crumpled form, and scream, “STOP. It’s Stella Cambren!”

Old Lady Griever’s raspy voice comes from our left, the opposite direction of the house. “I told you not to come round here no more, boy. Sneakin’ round my house at night. You deserve to get a bullet in your leg.”

“I’m not Daniel,” Sam shouts, although it’s more of a wheeze. I drop to my knees, panic radiating through me, hopeful that Mrs. Griever isn’t homicidal enough for a second shot.

I fumble over him, hands searching for the wound, lungs filling with the coppery stink of blood. His right leg is warm and wet. “You shot him, you crazy witch. Call an ambulance!”

“Stella, it’s okay,” Sam groans.

“It’s not okay—you’re hurt. Can you walk?” I try to track Griever’s movement as I duck under Sam’s arm. I have to get him away from here.

He grunts, and I take it for a yes. I move to stand, but my knees shake and my back bows under the weight. We stagger a step forward, and Mrs. Griever starts barking—there’s no other way to describe her halting laugh—like this is all a joke.

“You’re not makin’ it back like that, and I said that boy deserves a bullet, not that he got one. It’s rock salt in your leg. Smarts more than a bullet, mind ya, but won’t do no damage if we take it out quick.”

“You’re insane. I’m not letting you near him,” I yell. “We’re calling the police.”

“Careful, girl. You’re trespassin’ on my land, and if I’m a day over twenty, you came here for answers. You leave tonight, you ain’t ever comin’ back.”

I try to move us toward the path, but Sam resists. “Stella, she’s right. We have to stay. I’m . . . I’ll be fine,” he says in a faint voice. I drag my cell out of my pocket. No service. No way to call for help.

“The longer you stall, girl, the longer he’ll be in pain. I’ve got to take the salt from his wound. Bring him inside.”