The Creeping (30 page)

“His car is gone. Maybe you didn't close it all the way and the wind blew it open?”

“No.” I shake my head into the dark space between us. “I walked the girls out.”

“Maybe you left it unlocked?” he whispers.

“No way.” I put my lips to his ear. “I'm a hundred percent sure.”

I feel his eyes linger on mine for a half second before he breathes, “Follow me.” He takes my hand and leads me soundlessly through my bedroom door. Even in the jaundiced glow of the hallway I'm shaky walking close behind him. We move from my room to Dad's to the guest room, searching. As I peer into the far reaches of the linen closet, it occurs to me that I really hope whatever ghosted the front door open is long gone.

The balls of my feet ache from balancing on tiptoe as we angle downstairs. I twine my fingers in the hem of Sam's shirt and hold my breath as we check behind curtains, inside my nana's antique trunk, and under the dining room furniture. Nothing other than lint and a decaying legless gummy bear. No doubt discarded by Zoey and nibbled on by Moscow before he decided that Zoey's favorite food group isn't real food.

“There's nothing here,” I say, a trill in my voice. “Maybe I'm wrong about the door?” Sam doesn't
respond. I scoop the amputee gummy from the carpet. “Zoey always leaves her mark.” I look to see if Sam's cracked a smile, but he's staring hard at something behind me. I twist around to face the fireplace.

Mom had this thing about capturing moments, even ones she had to manufacture herself by ordering me to pose just so. That's why the mantel is crowded with photographs. But all those framed pictures are lying facedown. All except one: a photo taken during an elementary school picnic the spring before Jeanie vanished. Me, Sam, and Zoey, hand in hand, are lined up at the head of a wooden canoe, our mouths open wide, singing. Jeanie's blurry figure is off to the side, up to her ankles in Blackdog Lake, apart from the rest of us but still in the shot. I've never noticed her there before.

She isn't singing or grinning. Her face isn't exuding light. She's focused on what or who is to the right, beyond the scope of the lens. Panic makes her face resemble a three-hole light socket—her mouth and eyes gaping and dark at what she sees.

I
'm calling the cops,” Sam says from behind me. It takes almost a full minute for me to look away from the lonely photo and push Sam's phone from his ear. I can't get over the fact that suddenly I remember Jeanie sniffling and staring vacantly at the seat in front of her on the bus ride to the picnic. Zoey was bouncing next to me, the seat cushion jouncing me into the air each time she landed. We reached Blackdog, and Jeanie was still a husk of herself, refusing to do anything but gape and sniff. Zoey wouldn't stand for her ruining our fun and told Sam and me not to play with Jeanie.

Our silence was why Jeanie hovered on the outskirts of us, and it floods me with guilt and resolve in equal measure. I can't travel back to that day and invite Jeanie to sing with us or paddle in the same canoe or roast marshmallows sandwiched between Zoey and me or ask her why she was acting so strange. But I can be brave for her now.

“This is supposed to scare us,” I say.

Sam tries to hit the send button again. “Mission accomplished.”

“No, Sam.” I cover the screen of his phone. “I mean, that this was done by whoever doesn't want us uncovering more missing animals. More missing girls.”

He lets me take the cell from his hand but frowns. “That's why I'm trying to call the police, Stella.”

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.”

“Daniel isn't answering my texts,” Sam says. The parenthesis mark deepens on his brow, and I want to smooth it out with my finger.

“I'm not surprised. He was a zombie version of himself today. All dressed up and polite to the same cops who used to throw him out of town. And then he acted like I was crazy.” I pound my chest. “
Me.
You should have seen the way they looked at me.” I try to shrug it off. Truth is, I can't remember a time when people didn't look at me with a question in their eyes. What makes me popular with my peers unsettles adults. Two little girls go out to play and one comes back, well, it's hard not to look at the survivor like she's an exotic species of bee rumored to have wiped out an entire Amazonian village. But this was different. “They were looking at me like people used to look at Daniel. Like, why can't I just let Jeanie go? No one was asking
why now?
All this time Daniel has never acted like he thought his dad could be guilty. Why all of a sudden?”

Sam's hand rests on my knee. “I guess people do weird things when they're sad.” He sets his chin with a determined air. “We don't need his help to find Jeanie's killer.”

“You're right. We can do it. You and me,” I say, swinging my legs.

Sam's smile is slow, but it comes. He smooths my hair from my face. “I thought maybe after a whole day to think you might have changed your mind about
us
.” I know he means boyfriend-girlfriend us and not grave-digging us.

“Us,” I say, trying it out. It sends a little hum of panic down my spine. The good kind, though. Like what you feel with your hand up in class right as your name is called or in the instant you let go of the rope swing at the cove and you're momentarily airborne before gravity tugs you down. I think Zoey is right: It's always been Sam. And I was just too blind or stupid to see it.

I wrap my arms around his neck and slide until I'm against him. It's definitely mint shampoo. I inhale deeply. A tiny groan escapes his lips, and the microwave buzzer sounds.

“To be continued,” I sigh, a little nibble at my conscience. Isn't saying that always tempting fate? Tempting the monsters to come out of the shadows to bite the living shit out of you? You'd think I'd know better.

As we eat, I can tell Sam's as desperate as I am to pretend that nothing scary is going on. Each time there's a pause, he rushes to tell a joke. I guess the silence is too empty and he starts to think about all those missing little kids.

At ten forty-five p.m. I change into black leggings and a black hoodie—because you obviously wear black for grave digging. I climb into Sam's station wagon after standing all the frames upright on the mantel. At least with my police guard disbanded, we don't need to
worry about them following. Dad's working late again, although he takes the time to text about how relieved he is that I don't have to be afraid anymore, now that Jeanie's killer is behind bars. I stare, dismayed at the impersonal message, and reach across the car to hold Sam's hand. It's only hand holding, and yet a thrill shoots like a comet through me, leaving stardust and hope in its wake.
What a little fool I am.
For a moment I let myself forget that bad things happen, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

Jeanie's abandoned house is even more ominous at night. It's alive with the sounds of scratching rodents and creaking, rotten eaves. At least I hope that's what they are.

We sit huddled on the porch's front steps, waiting for Zoey. After a half hour I'm nearing nuclear with nerves. My phone rattles on the porch beside me, the sound ricocheting up into the cobwebby beams. I fumble for it.

Handling something. See u 2morrow. XO

“What does that mean?” I whisper way too loudly.

Sam's been drawing pictures in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. He blinks at the cell's screen. “Maybe she couldn't leave because her mom is home?”

I roll my eyes. “You don't remember Zoey's mom, do you? She'd probably supply Zoey with night-vision goggles and a shovel if Zo told her what we're up to.”

“Maybe she's helping Caleb with something?”

“Yeah, I guess that could be. Maybe she's holding him hostage until he tells her what he remembers from that summer?” I don't say it out loud, but I think her not being here is a message to me. She's not okay with Sam. I groan loudly. There's nothing I can do about it now. “Let's go without her.”

Sam knows better than to ask me anything else about it. He grabs a shovel from his backseat and a huge flashlight he bought at BigBox. We clasp hands and start down the lane.

“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.