Bad Creek, page 21
He knew it couldn’t be the rabbit from years ago, the one he’d pierced with the arrow and buried on the side of the road. Still, Gum’s veins crystallized at the sight of it. He wasn’t sure if God would be disappointed because he had taken a life or because he had been such a baby about it.
He picked up the taxidermy rabbit and shoved it in the closet, so he wouldn’t have its glassy false eyes staring at him.
The closet was empty save for a few bare hangers and a black duffel bag tucked into the corner. Gum resisted the urge to peek inside. It would be unwise to snoop. Grandpa was friendlier than ever. Gum had earned his trust and respect.
He shouldn’t mess that up.
Besides, there was nothing suspicious about the bag. It wasn’t his business.
Still, Gum was stuck in place, staring at it like the meaning of life was just behind the thin layer of canvas. His whole body shivered. Glory had never left him. She was just better at hiding inside of his bones. Her invisible, frozen fingers forced him to kneel. Forced his shaking hands to unzip the bag.
He didn’t want this. But it was getting harder to separate her desires from his.
He recognized the contents of the bag. After all, they had been stashed under his bed in Cabin 3. He tapped each one, counting them. Scrunchie. Golf ball. Magic 8 Ball. Nail polish.
And now: a broken green bracelet.
Chapter 29 Aidan
Movies were nothing like real life. They didn’t depict humanity; they depicted how humanity wants to seem. In real life, there was no clear plot. No purpose. And there wasn’t closure at the end. There were no satisfying answers. No lessons learned.
And no remakes.
It didn’t matter if Aidan knew Hudson had something to do with it. An anonymous tip to the police couldn’t work against a Clavey. If Iris wanted to walk into the lake, Aidan wasn’t going to stay. Gum could watch her drown to prove his loyalty.
Aidan was tired of trying to prove things.
It was three a.m.—the perfect time for a bonfire. Aidan prayed Iris’s demons were real, so they could snatch him up and drag him to a hell better than this one. He ransacked his room for things to sacrifice to the flame: board games, letters, bandannas, Polaroids, pressed flowers, and watercolor paintings. He didn’t need them anymore.
When they were all gone, he could start over. Aidan would be eighteen very soon. If his dad cared to see him, he could take a goddamn plane.
Because Aidan wasn’t ever stepping foot in Michigan again.
Once he finally collected everything, found the gasoline, the matches, and lit the fire, the sun was threatening to rise. Pink morning peeked from behind the pines.
He didn’t feel any remorse when the first board game burned. He wouldn’t have felt anything when Iris cut the bracelet off if she hadn’t taken a layer of skin with her. He hadn’t bothered to put a bandage on it. He wanted to watch the wound close, so he had proof that his body could heal. That all of this would just be scars someday.
As he threw in the cardboard packaging of Sorry! into the fire, the back door opened. A robed silhouette leaned against the kitchen doorway. Paul, taking Roy out one last time before going to sleep. Sunrise was his dad’s regular bedtime. But after Roy took a dump in the yard, Paul stomped through the grass in his fuzzy slippers.
He had his serious face on, and not the one he had when someone made a disparaging remark about Christopher Nolan films. It was the face.
Iris really did it, Aidan thought for a horrible second. She drowned herself to make her point.
Because Paul had only looked at Aidan like that once before.
Last summer, exactly a year ago, Aidan had woken up inside the Jeep. He had vomited onto the driveway three times. Though every step had felt like a blow to the head, he’d managed to collapse on the couch. He’d woken up again, dry-heaved, and crawled up the three flights of stairs back to his bed. He had only slept a few hours when his dad had banged on the door, which he’d opened before his son could sit up and adjust his eyes to the morning light.
“I have . . . news,” his dad had said, before awkwardly sitting on the bed’s edge.
Paul had shaken his head, then. He’d been crying. Before then, Aidan hadn’t seen his father shed a tear, besides when he watched movies. Aidan felt a tickle in his gut as if a million centipedes were hatching inside.
“There was an accident.”
Paul had given the details sparingly. Either he didn’t know too much or he thought it was better that way. She was found in the water, in the early hours of the morning. She was already gone when the rescue services had pulled her out.
Gone. Passed away. No longer with us.
There was a funeral, but Aidan skipped it. He’d been in a different time zone by then anyway. He had been flying to and from Michigan by himself since fourth grade, but this time he had a chaperone. His mom hadn’t wanted Aidan to be alone on the flight back. Maybe she’d expected him to be too much of an emotional wreck to navigate the airport. His dad was never an option to come with.
She’d bought two red-eye tickets so she could sit beside Aidan and give him reassuring pats on the hand, as if to tell him it was okay to cry. But he hadn’t cried. He’d vomited six times in the bathroom instead.
Now, as his father trudged forward in his slippers and bathrobe, Aidan braced himself for more bad news. He’d promised himself ahead of time that he wouldn’t let guilt overcome him. He had already burned all memory of Iris. He didn’t even care what happened to her now. He should have done the same with Glory; he should have burned away all feelings for her.
Not let them fester.
After the wound on his wrist healed, there would be no proof the Disasters had ever existed.
But Paul didn’t hesitate this time. He didn’t say anyone was gone.
He waved around a worn piece of paper.
“Who drew this?”
He held a coloring page from Todd’s Pizza. Under the glowing of the flames, the crayon-drawn symbol looked ominous. Apparently Aidan had missed an item for the pyre, probably because it had found its way into a trash can first, judging from the wrinkles and cheesy stains all over it.
“You need to tell me right now who drew this,” Paul said. There was something desperate about the way he spoke.
Aidan backed closer to the flame.
“Gum did.”
He didn’t think it mattered. Iris thought it was something spooky, ripped out of a Dark Unknown episode. And maybe it was, but that stuff wasn’t real. And even if his dad was into it, he didn’t believe in it. Paul’s interest in the occult was artistic. Fodder for his movies.
“We found it on a tree. By this old house,” Aidan added.
“What house?” Paul demanded. For the first time, Aidan felt like he was about to get in trouble, like his dad was actually mad at him.
And for the first time, the sloppy drawing didn’t feel as meaningless. Not when his father held it like it was a bomb.
“The Crawford house in the woods. And again at Savi Traxler’s.”
Paul inhaled, almost afraid of the answer.
“I don’t know what it is, though,” Aidan added.
Paul folded the paper. “It’s a sigil. A contract.”
“Whoa, what are you talking about?”
“A pentagram can summon anything, but it’s generic. It’s child’s play. The real stuff, you can’t find books on it. They’re gate-kept for a reason.” Paul used the same pretentious cadence as when he discussed movie lore, but his hands were shaking.
“So you think this is for real?” Aidan said.
“Did you know, in Wichita, every twenty years a girl is found dead in a tree?” Paul sometimes spoke in a scattered way, forgetting the connecting pieces. This all sounded like plot scraps from his projects, but he still had his serious face. A serious face for a serious . . . what?
For a serious curse.
“And this was carved on some tree in Wichita?” Aidan asked.
“Not this one. There are probably a million variants. There’s a reason movies just use pentagrams. Point is, don’t fuck with this stuff. Okay?”
“Or what? What’ll happen? How do you know what this is?”
“Research,” he answered. Voice flat. “Just to be safe, tell Gum to stop drawing it, and you try to forget you ever saw it, okay?”
Aidan nodded. But he wasn’t going to let himself forget. Never again.
Paul tossed the paper into the flames and trudged back inside. Aidan still had more to burn, but a few moments after the coloring page was thrown in, the raging fire collapsed on itself.
Iris was right.
The truth was about as comforting as being buried alive. Part of Aidan wished he hadn’t heard it. That he’d gone back to California after all—confused and lost and angry. Now he wasn’t confused. He wasn’t lost.
All that was left was anger.
He thought of Hudson leading Glory to the water, to her death. The trancelike state she’d been in. Aidan had figured it had been poison. Hypnotism, even. But he saw the truth now, how she’d been charmed by his spell. But in his imagination, Glory was Iris.
He couldn’t save Glory, but he could still save Iris.
The car keys were on the kitchen counter, as always. Aidan grabbed them without a second thought. It was a cold morning; he should have put on a jacket. Without the fire, his bare arms felt exposed, but his insides were ablaze.
He drove without blinking or loosening his knuckles from the steering wheel.
The Landings were busier than usual. There were more cars, more families carrying coolers, more kids running around in goggles and floaties. Oh right. It was the Fourth. Later tonight, everyone would gather at the beach for fireworks.
He parked in front of the marina and waited. It didn’t take long for Cabin 1’s door to open. There he was, the good old American boy who’d sold his soul to the Devil when he already had everything. Hudson walked out with his head down, hands in his pockets. Hoodie pulled over his blond hair. He thought he was incognito. He thought he was getting away with it.
He was dead wrong.
Aidan left the keys in the ignition and followed Hudson on foot until the boy disappeared behind the thick trees on the other side of Cabin 12.
Aidan gave it a few seconds before continuing. He ducked under branches to find Hudson in the shadows, facing the Disasters’ willow tree, its long spidery limbs hanging over the edge of the shallow water. His hands danced across bark, tracing the carved slashes of a sigil.
Aidan pushed him; not hard enough to knock him to the ground, but enough to get his attention. Hudson whirled and, once he had the proper look of shock on his face, Aidan punched him in the jaw.
Hudson went down immediately, but Aidan wasn’t finished. He had stupidly tucked his thumb in on that first blow. It felt broken. He had never thrown a punch before. He had never dreamed of starting a fight with anybody. But not even in his worst nightmares would Glory be dead.
All coherent thought washed away. Aidan didn’t stop; he couldn’t stop. The current inside of him was too strong. And, strangest of all, Hudson didn’t fight back. He only put his hands over his face, blocking the next hit.
Hudson pressed his back against the tree trunk. “Stop, let me explain!”
There was nothing to explain.
Another punch. Aidan’s fist made satisfying contact with Hudson’s cheek.
“It wasn’t me! Okay? Jesus Christ, can you listen for two seconds?”
Absolutely not. Hudson wasn’t getting away with it anymore. Aidan wouldn’t accept any excuses. He wasn’t done. Maybe he wouldn’t be done until Hudson was dead too.
A hand grabbed the back of Aidan’s shirt, trying to yank him away. He fought against it. No one was going to stop him. No one else called the shots here.
Now arms grabbed his torso, hoisted him up, and threw him to the ground. Two men had invaded the secret cove of trees: Bruce Clavey and the other one, his nearly identical-looking younger brother, Brian. Both were older clones of Hudson. Both were in league with the enemy.
Okay, this might be bad.
The Claveys weren’t only popular and powerful, they were literally in league with the Devil—or at least a demon. Paul hadn’t clarified exactly what. Clearly, though, the Claveys were the bad guys. If Aidan hadn’t bleeped on their radar before, he’d just put a huge target on his back. So far, it looked like they only sacrificed girls. But who was to say they hadn’t murdered other people?
Yet Bruce was barely concerned with Aidan. He scowled at his son, not bothering to help Hudson up to his feet.
“We’re leaving in ten. Clean yourself up,” he barked.
Hudson stood, wiping his bleeding mouth. While the Clavey men marched toward the cabins, Hudson remained, glaring at Aidan.
“I know what you did,” Aidan told him. “Everyone will know what you did.”
“I’m not the one you need to worry about.”
“Fuck you and your whole family.”
“Hudson!” Bruce called. He didn’t sound that far away.
Hudson leaned in close. Blood still dripped from his lips; his left eye was starting to look puffy. Aidan could get another hit in, if he was quick.
Then Hudson whispered, “If you care about Iris, don’t let my cousin get near her.”
Aidan almost laughed. Like Daniel Gum could ever be a threat to anyone other than himself. Hudson looked like he wanted to say more, but Bruce snapped his name again, so he turned and left.
Technically Gum was one of them. He was a Clavey by blood, but not by practice. He was too dedicated to the role of the black sheep to actually listen to these people. Save for his eyes, he hardly looked like any of them. His hair was too dark, too unkempt. He was too tiny, and too hyperactive, totally out of place with the Claveys’ calm composures, noses tilted up so they could look down on everyone else.
Yeah, Gum was the one who had drawn the symbol on the napkin. Paul thought there was significance to that, but Gum had found it with the other Disasters. He wanted answers just like the rest of them.
The heavy air sizzled with the promise of lightning. A lot of people would despair if it rained today, but Aidan prayed for the storm of the summer. For tornadoes and hurricanes. For Armageddon. Bad Creek didn’t deserve a peaceful Fourth of July.
He needed to find Iris, to apologize for last night. He needed to get to her before Hudson did.
Aidan waited until the cars from Cabins 1 and 2 speeded away, then sneaked around the side of Cabin 4, to Iris’s window. A phone with a lime-green case sat on the floor, connected to a charger. A patchwork quilt was balled up on the bed. There were stars on the ceiling. Muddy Converse and tie-dyed shirts on the floor.
But no Iris.
Chapter 30 Iris
For a second, Iris thought maybe she was in heaven. She caught glimpses of the pink sky and shiny white pillars. Of an angel, lifting her up, up, up. Then the angel shook her, and she realized she wasn’t in heaven at all.
She was in water up to her waist. Her toes sank into the sand. Minnows bumped against her calves.
Iris had sleepwalked into Hudson Clavey’s arms. He hadn’t let go of her yet, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to. They were alone, but the Clavey mansion on the north side was right behind them. Observing.
She couldn’t see any of the cars in the driveway or the archery range at this vantage point. The dock was out of sight too. There were too many trees blocking them in. This was the side of the property she had never seen.
Iris wished she could have woken up in her bed. She wished the only times Hudson touched her weren’t to save her from the lake. She wished she was sure she didn’t have to be saved.
“Iris, oh my God. I’m so sorry.” Sorry. Again. Hudson Clavey had spent this whole week apologizing to her, and he still wasn’t done. “You need to leave. You need to leave Bad Creek. Now.”
“No,” she said. It came out as easy as an exhale. Running wouldn’t help her find the truth. She would rather die than have another year without Glory and answers.
There was a weird shadow under Hudson’s eye. A bruise forming.
Iris shouldn’t let herself care. She shouldn’t let her heart clench at the idea of Hudson hurting. But her heart and her brain were always wrestling for the wheel—she had to let one of them drive, eventually.
“What happened to your face?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said. “You’re the one in danger. You need to leave.”
“No.” She pulled away from him. The shore was only a few yards away. This is where Glory wanted her to go. She wasn’t going to throw away her chance.
“It’s trying to get you to stay. But . . . it’s not in your favor, Iris. You can’t listen to it.”
“But I’m supposed to listen to you?”
Hudson, the boy who didn’t give a crap about her until Glory died. The boy with the endless apologies.
Her Disasters had failed her. They thought they were saving her by keeping secrets, and now Hudson hadn’t proved to be any different.
“Did you kill my sister?” she finally asked.
“No.”
She knew he’d say that because she’d known that was the truth. Part of her had known since he’d spoken to her in the convertible.
“But you know who did,” she added. “Don’t you?”
Hudson hesitated, listening to the whine of an engine getting closer and closer. A car was coming up the impossibly long driveway. They wouldn’t be alone for much longer.
“We can’t talk about this here. Please. They’re gonna be back soon.” He offered his hand to her, but she didn’t take it. Just because she believed him didn’t mean she could rely on him.
Iris felt the weight of her clothes as she trudged forward toward the shore. Now her socks were all wet and sandy. She inspected her legs. No leeches this time.
