The Creeping Read online

  I shake my head hard. “I don’t. I think that we’re looking for multiple psychos. Whoever is killing the little girls and whoever is killing the animals are different groups. More than one monster.” I lower my voice. “More than one devil.”

  “And you think it’s a clandestine group? Like some order of men and women trying to protect Savage from evil happening by sacrificing animals over generations?” I jerk my head yes. “How could something like that stay secret?”

  “I have no idea, but it has.” I run my hands from the roots of my hair to the ends. The hitch of my heart picks up. “And maybe it was going on way before the newspaper started reporting in 1910? Maybe the finger bone fits in somehow?” My words fall faster. “There have to be more records of Savage, ones that go back further in history, even before the town was founded in 1902.” Sam’s face is neutral, reflecting none of the frenzy I feel. “Before 1902 there were settlers here.”

  He shrugs. “A small group of fur traders came in the 1600s. Then Scandinavian settlers after that.” His feet shuffle restlessly. His brows pinch together as he opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Stella, whatever is going on, it’s bigger than Jeanie. I know there are bad people in the world, but this”—his eyes search the room for the right word—“this is more. It’s unnatural.” His hands flop at his sides, and he huffs with the admission.

  I get what Sam is saying; why the muscle in his jaw is clenching; why his shoulders round forward; why the web of blue veins on his neck is showing through pale skin. There’s a coldness in my bones telling me there’s something else to all of this too. Like a thin layer of dust coating a fresh body. Something that twists the mind. Defies sense. But unlike Sam, I have a name for it: fear. And unlike Sam, I believe there are people out there—people so bad their organs are as shriveled and rotten as the strawberries left on my front porch—who could have killed all those little girls. I don’t need to invent monsters.

  I rub the goose bumps from my arms. “All I know for sure is that I have to keep looking. If that means digging up Mrs. Griever’s yard to find tiny graves of the sacrificed, so be it. There’s nothing I won’t do,” I say recklessly.

  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.

  Sam drops the photo in the wastebasket to the right of the desk. “I want you,” he says, and moves on to my bookcase. A spasm passes through my chest. I want you. It’s as simple as that. The syllables come easy and sure, a quiet bravery at their core. I used to know what it felt like to be that certain. It’s how I felt about Sam at the cove when we were ten.

  Sam angles his head to read the titles of my books, his broad fingers running over the spine of each as he goes. His lips move ever so slightly, mouthing each one.

  He turns to me, and I’m caught staring at him, my own lips parted, a bit dazed.

  “I have a lot of the same books,” he says.

  “Oh?” is all I can think of to say back.

  A crooked smile from him. “Stella?” His tone swings up in question.

  He crosses the room and stops over me, running his hands through his hair, tugging on it. I stand quickly from the bed, light-headed and springy. The heat of him reaches me from a few inches away, prickling and tickling my skin. Truthfully, I’d say anything so he’d touch me; so I could feel certain and fearless again.

  “Be my boyfriend,” I say, so out of breath I can hard
ly get the words out. He moves lightning fast. We’re not touching, and then suddenly I’m reaching for him and his arms are encircling me. I gasp as he pulls me hard against him, and his lips press firmly to mine, the heat of his skin burning me everywhere. I sway into him, toes barely staying on the ground, caving to the buzzing thing inside me.

  It’s the most seamless kiss I’ve ever had. Not the fumbling make-out sessions I’m used to. Every move is natural. One of his hands slips into my hair, entangling itself until I think it’ll never be freed. The other keeps pressing on the small of my back like it means to break me in two. I can hear my own heartbeat pounding deep in my eardrums and his hammering into my chest. Their beats mingle. My skin is feverish. My face and chest are probably red and blotchy. I wouldn’t mind if I combusted completely, burning up like a toasting marshmallow or something more romantic, like a dying star. Sam’s mouth separates from mine, and he stares down at me.

  “I love you,” he exhales, like the words are something he’s been holding in with the kiss. I try to hide the shock from my face. Here we are, practically ripping our shirts off, and Sam stops to tell me how he feels. He loves me. What does that even mean? My head is full of an earsplitting call for more. But more of what? Okay, I want more of this heavy-breathing, wild-haired, clinging-to-each-other thing, but how do I feel? The only thing I know for sure is that even with all the danger and uncertainty around us, I want Sam to stay.

  “Will you stay with me tonight?” I ask.

  He smiles wide in answer. He moves away from me, flicks the light switch off, and closes the bedroom door. I hear the lock, its click loosening the muscles in my chest. A minute later the mattress whines under his weight. After a moment’s hesitation, paralyzed by nerves that for the first time ever postpuberty I am going to sleep beside a boy, I crawl beside him, resting my head in the crook of his arm. He pulls me in closer and presses his lips to my forehead.

  “Good night, Hella Stella,” he whispers in a hoarse voice.

  I half moan, half giggle as his mouth dots a trail of kisses from my forehead into my hair.

  “Good night.” I sigh, closing my eyes and saying a silent thank-you to whoever brought me back to Sam.

  Chapter Twenty

  Early-morning light seeps through the slats in my blinds. I’m burning up wrapped in Sam’s arms. My back is to his chest and we’re spooning. If Zoey were here, she’d make gagging noises. I stifle a laugh. Her reaction will be a hybrid of astonishment and horror. Kind of like when Janey Bear showed up with her belly button pierced the week after Zoey had hers done, and Zoey made Janey remove it at lunch in the bathroom. Like that, but worse.

  I wiggle onto my back and stare at the ceiling. Sam’s arm rests on my chest. He’s breathing softly, a faint whistle through his parted lips. Five days ago I was scoping out Taylor’s sun-kissed abs, and now I’m lying in bed with Sam Worth. The ceiling starts to spin, and I close my eyes to stop the roller-coaster stomach from taking hold. It’s not that I’m having second thoughts. I’m not. I want Sam here, in my bed. I want to stay wrapped in his arms until the next ice age, frozen in a glacier with our lips still locked. It’s a huge shift in my world, though. I tug the comforter to my chin and take deep breaths. My bunny lies discarded on the floor. He’s on his stomach, plush head facing me, a knowing twinkle in his black button eyes.

  “Hi,” Sam whispers. He starts to withdraw his arm. Instead he brushes the hair from my forehead. He blinks solemnly at me.

  “Hi.” I fight the impulse to duck under the covers and hide. Why do I suddenly feel naked in a T-shirt and leggings? “Did you sleep okay?”

  He nods. “What about you, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Better than that.”

  Sam’s whole face bursts into a grin. He presses his lips to mine. “That was the most incredible night of my life. I love you,” he says close to my ear. I shudder and bury my face in his chest. A few tears squeeze out, and I wipe them away hastily.

  We lie in bed kissing and giggling like little lovesick idiots for the next hour. A quiet knock on the bedroom door breaks the trance.

  “Stella, Pumpkin? Could I see you for a moment?” Dad calls softly from the hall. I jump from the bed like I’m on fire. Sam’s legs get tangled in the sheets, and he falls from the mattress, banging his head against the bedside table and landing with a thud on the carpet. I wildly pat my clothes smooth. I wave for Sam to hide in my bathroom, and he scurries across the room and slams the door behind him. There is no way Dad didn’t hear all that commotion. I take the sort of deep breath you’d take going in front of a firing squad, smooth my hair over my head one last time, and open the door a crack.

  “Could I have a word with you downstairs?” Dad asks, eyes glued to my toes. I nod and follow, closing the door behind me, hands trembling as I head down the stairs. Dad’s in a freshly pressed suit, with his briefcase in one hand and a muffin in the other. He stops at the front door and faces me. Again he speaks directly to the tops of my feet, like I’ve sprouted eyeballs there.

  “Pumpkin, if your mother were here, she’d be the one talking to you right now. This is extremely uncomfortable for us both.” His finger hooks and tugs on the inside of his collar like it’s slowly strangling him. “I realize that we haven’t had a frank discussion about male and female . . . relationships. You know if you have questions regarding intercourse”—he coughs out the word—“you can always ask me. Or maybe there’s a school counselor you could speak to?” His tone trails up hopefully. I’m struck completely silent and find myself staring at his shiny brown shoes as if they’re the most fascinating things ever.

  “If I hadn’t recognized the Worth boy’s station wagon in our driveway when I arrived home last night, I might not have been so discreet.” He waits for a response. I try not to look as guilty as a kid with her mouth stuffed with candy right before dinner or a girl hiding hickeys under a turtleneck. How could I have forgotten Sam’s car in the driveway?

  “Dad, I’m—I didn’t want to be alone with everything going on, and . . .” I move my lips soundlessly.

  He tips his head forward and holds up his hand for me to stop. “Sam is welcome to our couch in the future. Just . . . be safe, Pumpkin. Again, if you need to talk with someone about methods of—”

  “Dad,” I cut him off. “I got it.”

  He pats me on the shoulder and nods, satisfied. “Well, okay. Glad we talked.” He stops just over the threshold. “Please don’t leave home today, Pumpkin. It’s safer for you here.” I stand dumbstruck for a minute more after he leaves. That was literally the most awkward conversation I have ever had. Obviously, I’ll be too embarrassed to look Dad in the eyes ever again.

  I bound up the stairs, and by the time I reach Sam, my mood’s brightened and I’m jouncing with giggles.

  “You aren’t grounded, are you?” Sam says, perched at the foot of my bed. “I can talk to him. I’ll tell him it was my fault I stayed.”

  I leap onto the bed and hug him from behind. “My dad doesn’t know what grounding is, and no, I’m not in trouble. He says you’re welcome to the couch in the future.”

  Sam covers his face. “There goes my making a good impression on your dad.”

  “Dad sort of already knows you, Sam.”

  “Yeah, but it’s been years, and now I’m your boyfriend.”

  The roller-coaster stomach is back, and I get the sense that I’m free-falling as I hug him tighter.

  “I picked up a shift today, so I have to work in an hour.” He twists in my arms and turns to look at me. “Is that okay? I shouldn’t have, huh? Now I won’t get to see you the whole day.”

  I brush the hair from his eyes. “It’s fine, really. I should see the girls today anyway. Zoey was pretty messed up yesterday. And I miss Michaela and Cole.”

  “Tonight then? Do you think your dad will mind if I come to actually watch a movie?” he asks, the tip of his nose brushing mine.

  “Don’t forget that we’re digging up graves in Mrs. Griever�
�s yard tonight. Will you text Daniel the plan?” I’m undeterred by his reluctant grunt.

  Sam leans in for a kiss, and I get this perfect toe-tingling closed-eye moment where I realize I want a bazillion more kisses just like that from this one boy. “Thank you, Sam,” I whisper.

  He tilts his head quizzically at me, face still only an inch from mine. “For what?”

  “For the corsage.” I hop up from the bed and run to the bookcase. Between my Wildwood junior and sophomore yearbooks there’s a small leather-bound journal. I pluck it from its shelf and hand it to Sam. The book falls open. Pressed between its pages is a flattened gardenia corsage, wrapped in a blue satin ribbon, its stem impaled by a long pearl-capped pin.

  Sam blinks at it like it’s the last thing he ever expected to see again. “Is this . . . ?” he asks.

  “I saved it,” I say, more shy than I was about sleeping next to him. “I’m so sorry for the way I treated you . . . for not telling you how beautiful I thought the corsage was.”

  For once Sam is speechless. I peck him on the cheek and tow him downstairs. After an embarrassing amount of stalling, he leaves, one of Dad’s pumpkin muffins in hand, waving good-bye.

  Now the hard part. An hour later, having showered, called Zoey for a ride, and fed Moscow, I’m scaling the wood fence in my backyard. While Dad telling me to stay home on his way out the door didn’t exactly inspire me to listen, I do experience a pang of guilt at completely disregarding him. I’d call him and explain that I need to be with the girls today, but I worry he’ll tell Shane. I don’t want to contend with the uniformed minions tailing me. I have to confess to Zoey about Sam and me, I have to convince her to dig up graves at Griever’s, and I have to remember what happened the day Jeanie was taken.

  “Ouch,” I whimper, snagging my arm on the ridge of the pickets. I’m sure there’s a cluster of evil splinters sticking out of my flesh. I jump down into my neighbor’s yard—the Howards don’t have kids and they work, so their house is dark—and scramble to their side gate. I emerge onto the street that runs parallel to mine.