Bad Creek, page 13
When Iris used to watch this scene, she would marvel at the creature’s design. It was fish-like, yet mammalian. A big hulking beast, yet slim enough to slither around the well. Its silicone skin looked appropriately slimy, and the choice to leave the actor’s real teeth in was genius. It gave an unexpected human twist to the character. It deserved to be iconic just for that alone.
Iris used to smile when the protagonist’s necklace reflected the moonlight—a nod to her now-dead boyfriend who had given it to her in the first scene. In the original script, Aidan had told her, there was no final girl. The monster killed everyone in the end. But that wasn’t the version that had made it to theaters. Instead, the main character kicked the creature in the face and dropped a Molotov cocktail into its den.
Iris wasn’t done searching her designated rows of cars, but now she was standing in the center of the grassy parking lot, eyes fixed on the movie. The final girl’s BFF had just drowned, and though Iris saw it coming, there was no way the character did. She’d been looking forward to a fun getaway with her friends. It wasn’t fair.
Iris could feel hands around her throat, pushing her deeper, deeper, deeper—until there was no light. No sound, just the rush of water into her nose. Her mouth.
She had to escape the screen—escape the creature’s angry wails and the final girl triumphantly walking away from the explosion. That character eventually got her happy ending. Glory couldn’t be saved in a rewrite.
Iris ran. She flew past the food truck, past the welcome sign, until there was only the road and the pines and the dull sizzle of cicadas. Her backpack weighed a million pounds, even though all that was in there was a lighter, a candle, a twenty-dollar bill, and that stupid Ouija board. She’d waited in that abandoned house for two hours, hoping Helena would speak to her. And, nothing. The planchette hadn’t moved. The candles hadn’t gone out.
The boys hadn’t even asked her why she had been late.
Iris stopped only when her lungs gave out. The stitch in her side felt like she was being ripped in half. There were no wounds on her; physically, she was in perfect health. That was the problem. It didn’t matter that she could feel the hands around her throat or see a warped reflection in the mirror. Anyone who looked at Iris would see her as an unharmed sister. The alive sister. No one would believe her if she said she was a dead girl walking.
She assessed her surroundings. A Mustang convertible was parked in front of the only house on the street. It was hard to make out the color in the darkness, but, in the sunshine, it was an unsavory pink. She was at the intersection of Meller and Stern Road, not far from the drive-in.
For as long as she could remember, the owner of that cabin had accumulated junk—decorations from every holiday, life-sized wooden cutouts of local wildlife, birdbaths, weather vanes, empty flowerpots, and a clawfoot tub full of rainwater. The most iconic piece in the collection was the rusted pink Mustang convertible with a long-missing top, which managed to look both regal and pitiful at the same time. Iris figured this was as good a cry spot as any. When she sat on the hood of the Mustang, the tears started flowing.
Glory had all the ideas. If Iris was the dead sister, Glory would have already figured out what the symbol on the tree meant. Who the claws belonged to. And Glory would get the boys to listen to her. She could convince anyone to do anything. Iris eventually gave in to all of Glory’s plans, even when that tiny voice in her head was screaming.
It was screaming the first time they stepped into that pink convertible. Glory had led them away from the drive-in, promising a new spot to look at the stars.
Glory’s interests were constantly changing, and this was the summer she’d started caring about astronomy. Before that, she had considered careers in fashion, interior design, and professional wrestling. It wasn’t enough to win a medal at every art show or get every solo at her dance studio. There was always something out there she hadn’t mastered. That restlessness that drove Glory to do more made Iris freeze. Freeze or run or cry.
“Don’t be scared,” Glory had said.
Iris had felt personally attacked by this. When you’re eleven years old, thirteen feels centuries away. And Iris had wanted to prove she was as mature as her older sister.
“I’m not scared,” she insisted.
Glory took her hand. “I promise. It’s safe. I’m pretty sure no one lives here anymore.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“You have to trust me.”
That was how it was with Glory. She decided things, and they became true.
Glory was in the driver’s seat and Iris sat on the passenger side. The boys were in the back. Glory had pointed to a grouping of stars that looked as random and insignificant as the rest. “See that wide U? That’s the Northern Crown. Corona Borealis.”
“Crayola Boringlist?” Iris giggled.
Of course Gum joined in. “No, Iris, you weren’t listening. She totally said Coca-Cola Brachiosaurus.”
“Actually,” Glory chimed, “I said Koala Bear Nest.”
“Capybara Bomb Test?” Iris offered.
That would have gone on forever if Aidan hadn’t interrupted them with a whine. “Something just stung me.”
Iris looked back to spot the red welt on his arm and the flying bugs around him. Around all of them.
“Iris.” Glory said her name so slowly. “There’s a nest by your feet.”
It was only a few inches from her shoes. She had kicked it, and now five wasps buzzed around her exposed legs. The other Disasters evacuated the car, but Iris stayed frozen, watching more wasps emerge from the nest, land on her, then take flight.
What if she was allergic? She hadn’t ever considered herself at risk of dying. That was something that only happened to old people, something that happened in movies. It wasn’t until that moment that she had understood how vulnerable she was. That danger could appear with no warning.
Glory opened the passenger door for Iris. “Get up slowly,” she directed. Iris eased out of the car without the wasps attacking. Together, they ran away from the pink Mustang, returning to the drive-in, where Joanna had taken care of Aidan’s wasp sting without asking where he’d gotten it. This was back when she trusted her kids and trusted the universe to bring them home safely.
The following morning, Glory had climbed down from her top bunk and ridden her red bike back to the rusted convertible on Stern Road. Without an adult’s help or protection, she’d picked up the nest and chucked it into the creek. It hadn’t taken long for her to convince them all to go back.
A few days later, she’d bought glow-in-the-dark stars and spent the last rainy afternoon of vacation sticking them to the ceiling, with Corona Borealis right above their bunk beds.
Now Iris looked up at the stars, which were always so much brighter in Bad Creek. She searched for Corona Borealis but didn’t know where to look.
If Glory was here, she would know.
Maybe Glory was here. Maybe, like Helena Crawford, her soul was trapped. Maybe she would be willing to talk.
Iris pulled out the Ouija board from her backpack. It had been collecting dust in the game closet of Cabin 4, yet the plastic still glimmered like it had when she was a preteen. There were rainbows and butterflies in the corners, by the YES and the NO. April had bought it because she thought it was hilariously adorable. Aidan wouldn’t play with it because “science,” and Gum had refused because, “That’s how the Devil gets you.” So only Glory and Iris had used it, but Iris was pretty sure the “spirit” they’d contacted was just her sister controlling the planchette herself.
It hadn’t worked then, and it hadn’t worked in the house in the woods. Not in the living room. Not in the bathroom, not by the tree with the weird carving.
But it had to work now.
She lit the candle. It was hardly like the tall ritual candles they used in Dark Unknown, but Bath & Body Works had to do for now.
She placed the planchette at the center of the board and took a deep breath. “Glory, are you there?” Nothing. She closed her eyes, tried to focus on inhaling and exhaling. “If you can hear me, give a sign.”
Her lungs felt thick, like they were too full. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe. Then wait. Then hope, and repeat.
A chill went through her. She shut her eyes tighter. Faintly, she could make out a new sound—a buzzing. The wasps again. Iris opened her eyes and looked behind her, expecting to find a huge nest, but there was no sign of life.
No, the noise was a car heading toward her. She blew out the candle, grabbed the board, and shoved them both into her backpack. She yanked on the rusted door handle and melted into the backseat, realizing only then she’d never grabbed the heart-shaped planchette. Was it still on the hood? Had it slid off?
But it was too late; she’d been spotted. A white Escalade had parked in front of the pink Mustang. Hudson Clavey stepped out and walked right up to her.
Shit.
“Are you okay?” he asked. He had his hands on the top of the broken front window. Iris sat up and brushed a stray curl from her forehead.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” It was her first instinct. Act cool. Act confident. Not like she had dried tears on her face. Not like she had been talking to the wind.
“I saw you running,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine, thanks. You can go back to the movie.”
He still didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just stared at her with his pale eyes. Then, once she was appropriately creeped out, he said, “I was gonna leave anyway. I don’t get the appeal of horror movies.”
Could he tell she had been crying? Hudson Clavey’s opinion had never mattered to her, but the idea of him witnessing her fall apart sounded unbearably mortifying. Even worse than when she’d lost it in front of Gum yesterday. She crossed her arms and flicked her ponytail behind her shoulders.
Think. Say something clever.
“Horror movies are like roller coasters,” Iris said. “The cycle of fear and relief releases dopamine.” She’d heard that once on a podcast.
Hudson nodded, impressed. “I don’t care for roller coasters either. Maybe my brain works differently.”
She snorted.
Yes, Hudson. You’re not like all the other boys. She couldn’t believe she almost agreed with Aidan’s theory about Hudson. Whatever got Glory had to be bigger than him. Powerful. Something that couldn’t be contained in a vessel wearing Crocs and a hoodie boasting the logo of some bougie private school.
“What?” Hudson asked, smiling slightly.
She’d probably confused him, switching from meltdown mode into rolling her eyes.
“Plenty of people don’t like scary movies,” she explained. “That doesn’t make you unique. I mean, it makes sense you don’t like them.”
He hopped over the door and sat next to her. She tensed up, then forced herself to relax. She still had no idea why he had been in that house, or why he’d been talking to Glory at that party. She had let Aidan’s paranoia get to her during volleyball, but it wasn’t going to happen again. She had to conduct an unbiased investigation if she was going to find the truth.
Up close, Hudson looked a little like his cousin but in an uncanny way—like Gum had drunk a Ken doll potion. They had the same round, pale Clavey eyes and little upturned pointy noses that people ask their plastic surgeons for. But that was where the similarities ended. Hudson was tall, with wide shoulders that came from being a Varsity Swim God. His hair had been white-blond as a child and hadn’t darkened much since. She wondered if he got highlights. He probably did. She envisioned Hudson rolling up to a salon, asking for hair to make him look like a World War II recruitment poster.
“Why does it make sense?” he asked.
Because if you googled the word privilege, you would find a million guys that look exactly like you. Weird people liked horror, and there was nothing weird about Hudson Clavey. He had an image purposely crafted to be as inoffensively normal as possible.
“When you go through shit, frightening things become comforting,” she said. “If you don’t have any trauma, I’m sure horror is uncomfortable. It pops your innocent little bubble.”
“Could be the other way around, though? Don’t you think for some people it’s just re-traumatizing?”
“No,” Iris said flatly.
“Then why did you run?” he pressed.
She wasn’t crying anymore, but her face still felt hot. “Why do you care?”
Hudson blinked a few times, like a robot malfunctioning. He thought he was adorable for admitting his fear of PG-13 movies. Just because he was admittedly very good-looking didn’t mean Iris had to congratulate him whenever he managed to articulate a somewhat original thought.
“Like I said. I saw you run,” he said.
She scoffed. “Stalker.”
“I can only imagine how hard it’s been after what happened. I’m so sorry about Glory, Iris. I wanted to tell you that.”
She’d heard it nonstop for the past year. From friends, from strangers. From teachers and neighbors. Everyone was so sorry about Glory, but when Hudson Clavey said it, he sounded the most genuine.
She’d technically known him her whole life, but she’d barely spoken to the guy one-on-one like this. She’d known enough from his smirk and his pedigree.
Where was this coming from? Was it remorse? It had been a year, and no one had questioned Glory’s death but Iris. Saying something about it now only made him look suspicious. He would have to know that. He was an asshole, not an idiot.
And probably not a murderer either.
Hudson was still waiting for her answer. Iris had been staring at his too-perfect face, trying to see if there was a real human soul behind it. “Uh, thanks,” she said.
“Do you need a ride?”
Murderer or not, she wouldn’t be seen in a Clavey car with a Clavey boy. Her moms would never forgive her. “Nope, I’m fine right here.”
He jumped out of the Mustang without another word. He stopped in the middle of the road and turned to look at her. She noticed now that Hudson wasn’t standing with his shoulders back, walking around like his daddy owned the place. He looked weary. Tired and hunched, with his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He was Atlas holding up the world, and the world was heavy today.
Iris’s heart was beating too fast. She worried he could hear it all the way from there. He picked up something from the road and handed it to her. A little pink heart. The planchette.
Hudson added, “See ya around, Garren,” as he climbed into the Great White. But there was no bite in the way he’d said her last name. It was half-hearted teasing, trying to follow the old script.
It can’t be like it was before. Can we stop pretending?
She only thought of Aidan’s words as she returned to the drive-in. He was right; it couldn’t be the same, but she wasn’t the one who was trying to pretend. Everyone was hiding from her. Aidan. Gum. Her own mothers.
How had Hudson Clavey been the only one to really look at her?
Chapter 18 Gum
It was Iris’s idea to have their strategy meeting over a game of Sorry! and root beer floats, probably to assure them she was perfectly fine. She had disappeared for an hour and had a run-in with their only suspect, but she was fine. Just peachy.
Gum wasn’t convinced, and apparently Aidan wasn’t either. He kept giving Gum a series of not-so-subtle side glances on the drive to Aidan’s, as if Iris running off was proof she was insane. Nothing paranormal to see here.
On that same drive, Iris had warned her moms she’d be sleeping over. Gum hadn’t bothered checking in with his dad. He could do whatever he wanted on vacation as long as he showed up for mandatory Clavey duties.
Roy, Paul’s elderly bulldog, grunted excitedly when they walked inside. He followed them upstairs, all the way to the attic. He had been fat and gray forever. He had to be at least twelve years old, but he was still doing happy little hops, and once they broke out the popcorn, he begged for a kernel. They settled on the rug in Aidan’s room, and Gum threw the popcorn for Roy to catch while Aidan set up the board. He left the red pieces in the box, which he shoved under his bed, out of sight.
“I only talked to him for like five minutes,” Iris said as she shuffled the cards. “I asked him why he followed me, and he said he was already leaving ’cause he hates horror movies.”
That part sounded true. Hudson was always such a baby about hunting. Killing, he was okay with. But blood and guts? He couldn’t stomach it. Uncle Bruce teased him about it all the time.
Aidan drew the first card—a two. He pulled his yellow pawn out of the start and drew again. “He’s playing you, Iris.”
Iris pulled a one and also took her pawn out. “We really don’t have a lot to go on. What makes you so sure it’s him?”
Gum got nothing useful from his turn.
“He acted weird at the party. And he had been at the house,” Aidan reminded her. “He had been around her last summer, long enough for her to draw his eyes a million times.”
The answer was obvious, but Gum wasn’t going to point it out. Hudson and Glory didn’t make much sense, but you don’t have to be soulmates to hook up. Still, out of all of Glory’s faults, she was loyal above anything else. She always did exactly what she said she would, and she didn’t let anyone mess with her friends (except for her). But maybe Aidan had the wrong idea of their relationship. He thought it meant forever, and Glory had decided it was temporary.
“He’s trying to lure you in,” Aidan continued. “He tried to do the same with her, and when it didn’t work—”
“I think he was just being polite,” Iris said. “Gum?”
“Yeah,” Gum agreed. “I mean, he’s a dickhead, not Ted Bundy.”
Gum genuinely believed that, especially since the Glory he saw wasn’t desperate to cast the blame on Hudson. But then again, this was the second time she showed up right before Hudson did. First at Mass, then the drive-in. But what about at Grandpa’s house? Uncle Bruce was there. Bruce and Hudson had been fighting . . .
