The Creeping

I rub my damp hands on my jeans. “Do you know where to find it? Is it at Norse Rock? Is that where it spots its victims?”


A wet snort. “I ain’t tellin’ you. You go up there”—she points at the west wall—“you won’t come back. You ain’t monster enough to survive.”

“But Mr. Talcott confessed yesterday,” I say, taking a step toward her. “No one’s looking for it anymore, and I have to prove it wasn’t him.”

She juts out her chin, examining the sharp tip of the wooden dagger she’s whittled. “Grief does funny things to folk,” she says thoughtfully. A moment later she rises hastily. “It’s time for yous to leave. Out with ya.” She waves her hands like we’re flames she’ll fan out.

“But he can barely walk.” I rush to support Sam as he stands unsteadily from the chair, wincing to put weight on both legs.

“Not my concern. You’ve brought too much trouble round already. Be off.” She waves the pointed stick in the air. Sam takes my hand, coaxing me along as he limps to the doorway. We move surprisingly fast through the hall and back into the night. My eyes take a minute to adjust, and for a while we’re in pitch blackness. Who knows what beasts could be stalking us from the shadows? I help Sam over the busted steps and we start toward the path.

“Girl,” Griever hisses from the mouth of the shack, “best you jus’ move on from here. Take your fella and thank your lucky stars it wasn’t you.”

With Sam’s arm slung over my shoulders, I can see only her head as I glance back. A floating head with black holes under her brow where her eyes should be. I should listen to Griever. But I am stubborn, and stupid, and brave.





Chapter Twenty-Five


It takes ages for us to get back to Sam’s car. Fear nips at my heels with every step, and I get the sense that we’re being watched, followed, hunted even. The white disk of a moon casts enough light for us to see a few steps ahead, and the bramble on either side is black and impenetrable.

“We’re okay, Stella. There’s nothing out here,” Sam murmurs when I whimper at the nearby crunch of leaves. Yards past the old Victorian house, the lane’s only streetlight shines as a second moon.

Somehow we make it to the station wagon without being attacked by night creatures. I help Sam into the passenger seat and sprint to the driver’s side. Once inside I slam my hand down on the door lock—that little click of the car doors being secured the most comforting sound in the world. The car rumbles to life, and I pitch it into drive. I accelerate down the lane and only slow when we hit downtown.

We don’t speak the whole way home. Sam’s arms stay braced against the door and center console. His breathing is an erratic and harsh melody filling the cab. I’m sad and relieved for different reasons when I round my street corner and see Dad’s car still missing from the driveway. “Can you stay with me tonight?” I ask, turning into the driveway.

“What about your dad?” he asks.

I point to the digital clock reading 2:05 a.m. “If Dad works past midnight, he crashes in his office.”

Our second night together couldn’t be more different from our first. I help Sam into a pair of Dad’s sweats, bring him four Tylenol to ease the pain, and help him into my bed. He tells me three times that it’s not too bad before I stop asking if we should go to the emergency room. Before I can say I want to compare my time line from last night with what Griever told us, his breathing has evened out.

I pore over it myself. I confirm that the accidental tragedies with corresponding animal disappearances occurred forty or more years ago. Those sacrifices must have been made by the backwoods families Griever said are no longer alive or living in Savage. Griever said she and her family only sacrificed animals when it seemed like the Creeping had taken victims. In the last few decades, the animal disappearances correspond with hikers and campers vanishing, what was assumed to be a bear attack, and Jeanie Talcott’s kidnapping. Those recent sacrifices must have been the work of Griever and any relative of hers alive at the time.