Bad Creek, page 24
“You mean . . . your dad was supposed to kill my mom?”
There it was. That was why Joanna’s sleepwalking stopped when Beth had nearly drowned. That was why the original Disasters broke up.
“Yep. The Spirit got impatient, so it took his sister instead. Well, partially. It didn’t intervene when my dad tried to save her. It left Beth alive as a reminder of what would happen if we disobeyed. My grandpa—the Spirit—it’s hard to separate them now. But I think both of them really wanted another Garren this time around as revenge.”
If Joanna knew she’d been in danger, that her daughters were in danger, she wouldn’t have kept coming to Bad Creek. Unless the Spirit wasn’t only pulling on Iris. It was tugging at everyone who ever visited. Demanding, Stay, stay, stay.
She imagined it as a swirling, lifeless black hole of a creature, feeding on the Bad Creek regulars generation after generation, Disaster after Disaster. This town reared its residents as fruit to be devoured each harvest, bred over and over in the same convenient spot. They would forget their lost ancestors, they would ignore the rust and the rot, they would call the stench of death nostalgia.
She backed farther from the water, feeling stupid for smooshing her face in her sweatshirts and quilts, wishing every night when she went to bed she would wake up in Bad Creek among her trees and her dock and her summer boys.
“It’s trying to keep control, but it’s dying.” Hudson explained. “It’s losing power with every generation and it has nothing left to give. It only takes. My grandpa can’t see that, and my dad is so obsessed with regaining his favor, he doesn’t care what he becomes.”
“So you’re stuck serving this thing forever?” Iris wondered if there was ever any truth to the Spirit’s initial promise of prosperity, or if it was always a trick.
“Don’t worry about me,” Hudson said, shaking his head. “It’s after you.”
“I thought Glory was the offering? Why would it still want me?”
“To fuck with me, probably. Like my dad the first time, I disobeyed. The ritual needs to be committed by an heir from this generation. So Glory didn’t count. Or maybe it’s just greedy. I don’t know. It’s like the rules keep changing.”
“And now they’re trying to make you go through with it?”
“No. It gave up on me. I was its first choice, but I’m not the only possible male heir.”
Gum.
The carpeted walls were closing in on her. No. No way. It couldn’t be this bad.
“Gum wouldn’t hurt me,” Iris said. But Gum hadn’t been himself. He’d seemed quieter. His jokes rang hollow. And his hands were always moving, drawing. Cross, slash, two crescent moons. The last thing she’d said to him was that she didn’t want to be his friend anymore.
“Have you had anything go missing?” Hudson asked.
Yesterday she couldn’t find her nail polish. And when she’d changed in her cabin, she had expected to find her green scrunchie wrapped around her water bottle, but it wasn’t there. It could be a coincidence . . . but.
There were no coincidences in Bad Creek.
“My family can’t afford another fuckup,” Hudson told her. “They’ll find a way to make him go through with the ritual.”
And Iris would be dead, and Gum would be a killer. Just two more skeletons piled into this fucking town’s closet.
“What if we killed it?” Iris suggested slowly.
“It’s more of a whisper of a thing,” Hudson said. “It barely has a solid form. Only when it’s in water. And even then, it’s ancient. My family thinks it’s a god.”
“You said it was losing power, though, right? There has to be a way.”
“Maybe. It’s just, I don’t think anyone’s tried to kill it before.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s impossible,” Iris decided. The Spirit could be relying on their fear. But if Iris smashed its familiar cycle, could it survive?
She had to end this. For Glory. For Beth. For Helena. For all the girls before. She did not want to add her name to this legacy. She wouldn’t be another scratch on a post. A photo buried and forgotten. It wouldn’t feed on her.
It would never feed again.
Chapter 34 Gum
The Spirit wouldn’t let him set the house on fire, but at least it let him walk around in circles.
Pacing was how Gum made decisions. So far, he’d been able to skirt by without making any big ones because everything had been conveniently pre-decided for him. All he had to do was endure the choices others made on his behalf. This situation was no different. The path was laid out for him here, and there was no alternative.
Was he really going to risk his entire family for Iris, the girl who hated his guts now? Gum didn’t have the Disasters’ favor, but he could still have the Claveys’. He was an asshole either way, but at least serving this Spirit would leave him with a support system.
He stopped mid-circle. No. That was insane, right? He couldn’t be a killer. That was just the Spirit getting in his head. He couldn’t tell the difference between his thoughts and the Spirit’s. Demon. That was a better word for it. This wasn’t something holy.
This was a curse he had inherited.
Curses were afflictions that singed even deeper than bone and gray matter and neurons. There were no medications, no cures. Not even dying would end them, because curses weren’t bound by mortality. And the worst ones were transmittable.
The door unlocked again; the dark room was flooded with light. Though Uncle Bruce was technically his captor, Gum was relieved to see him. If the Claveys forced his hand, then whatever happened technically wouldn’t be his fault.
Bruce eyed the untouched plate on the shelf. “I see Jody left some pie.”
Gum had almost thrown the porcelain plate against the wall, but he hadn’t wanted to find out if the demon allowed that act of rebellion. He couldn’t stand the sensation of it—the lurch in his stomach when it took control. He would do anything to avoid it again.
“Somehow, she keeps getting worse,” Bruce added, smiling like they were having a normal chat. Like they ever had a relationship where they would crack jokes about their relatives. Bruce had brought clothes with him. Khakis and a white button-down shirt. He instructed Gum to change.
Family pictures were happening, after all.
Gum obeyed because, if he didn’t, the Spirit would probably make him.
Bruce grabbed the duffel bag of Iris’s things and guided his nephew by the shoulders, down the long hallway of photographs.
“I know this seems hard. I’m not going to lie to you. It was,” Bruce said. “After Beth, I was so angry at the Lord. But even the prophet Jeremiah questioned God’s love. Why is my pain unceasing, my wound incurable, refusing to be healed? Will you be to me like a deceitful brook, like waters that fail?”
Bruce squeezed Gum’s shoulder too hard. “But God hadn’t left Jeremiah, even during his crisis of faith. And he didn’t give up on me, when I failed to answer his call. The forgiving Spirit blessed us with a compromise. Beth lives. She lives through him. And he gave me another chance to prove my devotion.”
They were back in the dining room, where Bruce set the bag on the table, next to the bouquet of day lilies. When Bruce said another chance, was he talking about Glory? Gum didn’t ask for clarity. His words kept slipping away.
“True devotion is unpopular,” Bruce continued. “Look at the state of the culture nowadays. People get offended when you want to save children from predators poisoning their minds with the sin of pride. They get offended when you love your God. When you love your country.” He sounded just like Grandpa. He looked like him too. Could Gum turn into them? The thought sounded horrifying, but what if the peace Bruce spoke of wasn’t bullshit? What if he really felt free?
Gum was so tired.
They made it to the front yard, which was decked out with American flags. The aunts were fussing over the girls’ hair bows. Grandpa had his sand-colored suit jacket on now, hands behind his back as he watched over the photographer fiddling with a tripod.
“It’s a cloudy day,” the photographer said. “We got lucky.”
The Claveys were always lucky.
“Do you know Luke?” Bruce asked. “An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. What did the angel say?”
Gum did know this one. It was a Christmas classic. “Do not be afraid,” he answered.
“And also, peace to those on whom his favor rests,” Grandpa chimed in. Gum flinched. He hadn’t seen his grandfather move from his spot in front. “Not everyone,” Grandpa continued. “Only those who are worthy.”
“I did not have to be afraid,” Bruce whispered. “Of myself. Of the Spirit. I understand that now. You don’t have to feel alone, because you’re not alone. You feel it, don’t you? The call? Like electricity in your soul.”
Gum nodded. He did feel it, though it hardly felt like the innocent kind of electricity that powered light bulbs. No, it was the kind that accompanied thunder. The kind that started forest fires and racked up body counts.
“It feels like heaven when you let it in,” Bruce continued.
“And heaven is for the deserving,” Grandpa added.
Gum was on the precipice of deserving it. There was a tightrope ahead of him. If he fell, both sides offered a different type of damnation.
“I battled for a long time,” Bruce added, “but, honestly, it’s all worth it once you submit. You’ll find peace.”
The rest of the family shuffled into their positions. Hudson appeared out of nowhere, falling into his place on Gum’s right. His outfit was pristine now, but his face remained swollen and purple. He offered Gum a sympathetic look. Clearly Hudson had felt no peace since he’d killed Glory. He had submitted to the spirit, but not to the Claveys.
Gum wanted to ask him if he regretted it, but the photographer was already coaching them. “Ladies, cross your legs at the ankle.”
Clarice adjusted Beth’s legs, then wheeled her into position before scurrying out of the frame. Clarice had already learned the rules. Maybe they’d keep this nurse after all.
Beth is what happens when we do not keep our end of the bargain.
Grandpa’s words seared into him again. Maybe that wasn’t even Gum thinking about it, but the Spirit reminding him. If he failed, someone else would drown anyway. Or worse: they would be trapped, like his mom. Grandpa had promised that the whole family would suffer. If the Spirit could possess Gum, it probably had the power to strike down whomever it pleased too.
The photographer was careful to match their positions to the previous photos, and Gum smiled like the rest of them. It hurt to keep it going for the first few minutes, but eventually he couldn’t feel the muscles in his face straining. He didn’t feel anything at all.
If Iris was meant to be the sacrifice, who was he to go against fate? It was God’s will, and Gum’s will certainly wasn’t more powerful than his. So why stall any longer? There was no option C because there was no option A or B.
There was no option at all.
Bruce had promised it would be beautiful, after a while. He would submit eventually, so why pretend he could fight it? It would be easier to accept himself if his family accepted him, and the only way to do that was to accept the Spirit—holy or not.
When the photographer announced he’d gotten the shot, the family dispersed. The girls were free to ruin their dresses, and Hudson was free to sulk somewhere else. Instead, he grabbed Gum by the elbow, hard.
“They’ve told you, right?’ Hudson whispered. “What are you going to do?”
There was no time to answer. Gum was being whisked in another direction by another will, but this time he didn’t resist. Bruce had the duffel bag again. He threw it in the Great White’s trunk, next to a shovel.
Chapter 35 Aidan
What kind of people drive their boats in the rain?
Aidan had already passed two pontoon boats of regulars sipping beers, who had cheered as the Dirty Diana had zipped passed them.
He hoped his hunch was wrong. Each time he saw anything even remotely human-shaped, he felt sick. But each time, it was a rock or driftwood or an abandoned paddle. Never Iris. When he confirmed it wasn’t her, his heart surged with relief, but then fear would sink in again.
He had completed his loop around the lake’s perimeter but there was still no sign of Iris. He even stopped by the spooky abandoned house. He could see the decaying siding peeking out between the pine trees. Nope. Still no Iris. The Dirty Diana’s motor was begging for a break, but he wouldn’t allow it. Not until he was sure. He turned around. He’d check again.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably Paul, discovering the boat missing. Time for him to play concerned parent. Aidan whipped out his phone. It wasn’t his dad.
Iris’s name was on the caller ID. He stared at it in disbelief and then, before the last ring, he accepted the call. Iris’s breathless voice chimed in on the other end. “I was worried you wouldn’t answer,” she said, sounding very much un-drowned.
“Where the fuck are you?” It came out harsh, but it was a bit hard to steer and talk while rain was beating down on him. Thunder rumbled nearby. A kid zoomed by on his Jet Ski, unbothered.
“At your house,” Iris answered. “Where the fuck are you?”
“On the lake . . .”
“Oof. Bad idea. The lake is canceled. This whole town is canceled. Haven’t you heard?”
“Am I still canceled?”
“Depends on who you ask. I don’t think Hudson’s face is very pleased with your fist right now.”
Hudson. He had told Iris about the fight. Which meant . . .
“Are you with him?” Aidan asked. He pushed the speedboat to her limit. He could see Wahbee’s dock. “He’s not safe,” he added. Iris had called him, which was a good sign. It meant there was a chance she would listen.
“I’m perfectly safe . . . ish,” she said. “When are you coming back? We need to talk.”
“Docking in two minutes. I know you’re super-mad at me, and you were right about most of it, but please, please trust me. You need to get away from him.”
“I think I see you!”
He could see her too. Iris exited the back patio waving, with Roy on her heels—and someone else too. Someone blond and buff, whose pastimes included archery and drowning girls. Clearly Aidan hadn’t punched him hard enough.
The Dirty Diana slowed before crashing into the dock. Aidan tied the fastest knot in his life and ran up to them, preparing his sore knuckles and dislocated thumb for another round. But Iris jumped in between before he could get another swing in.
“I saw him carving it in the tree, Iris,” Aidan yelled.
She shook her head. It was fine if Iris didn’t forgive him; he didn’t need her forgiveness. He only needed her to believe him.
“I didn’t carve it. I was going to scratch it out before you beat the shit out of me,” Hudson said sardonically. “Look, I’m sorry for not saying anything sooner. I’m trying to make up for it now.”
Aidan wanted to say, Cold-blooded murderers don’t deserve redemption arcs, but thunder roared suddenly, loud and merciless. As Roy barked at the sky, Iris suggested they go in before anyone got struck by lightning.
Hudson sat in a corner of the living room, surrounded by a wall of famous movie masks. Most people were overwhelmed by Paul’s memorabilia. They either loved it or hated it, but they always gave their opinion. But Hudson looked unphased. He didn’t take his eyes off of Iris as she explained what had happened this morning. What Hudson had told her.
Aidan still wanted to hit him.
“But we’re gonna kill it,” Iris concluded. “Before it kills me.”
“You mean, before Gum kills you?” Aidan asked.
It sounded just as ridiculous as when Hudson had suggested it.
Hudson spoke for the first time in an hour, pulling out books from his expensive-looking brown leather bag. “I snagged these from the trophy room. My grandpa used to be big on journaling. I don’t know if the Spirit has any weaknesses, but it would probably be in here.”
“So, you’ve seen this thing?” Aidan asked. “What does it look like?”
“Like a monster.” Hudson didn’t elaborate. Monster was the vaguest term ever. It could be a red Devil with a forked tongue or Cthulhu or freaking Bigfoot. What it looked like wasn’t important, but Aidan needed something to visualize. He stared at the mask on the wall, the green, amphibious creature from It Runs Below.
“My dad knows about it. I think he has for a while,” Aidan said. Another thing Iris was right about. But she didn’t rub it in.
“Joanna knows something too,” Iris replied. “Do you think Paul will help us?”
Aidan shrugged. Last night Paul didn’t want to share, just gave vague ominous warnings. But Aidan wouldn’t accept non-answers now.
He headed to his dad’s office. He was supposed to knock before entering, but he pushed it open without hesitation. The room was dark, thanks to blackout curtains. He flicked on the lamp. No Paul. He peeked out the office window. The Jeep was in the driveway, but not the truck. Crap.
Aidan turned to leave, but the state of the room made him pause. It looked like the office of the most disorganized FBI agent ever. There were piles of empty take-out boxes. Open books stacked on top of each other, crinkled and stained from half-empty coffee mugs. Newspaper clippings tacked to the overflowing bulletin board. One had a photo of a smiling girl, a reprint of the one they found at the old mansion. Helena Crawford. Then another newspaper clipping, and another. Some with more faces. All with the same word highlighted over and over: drowned.
Paul Ross was a man of many talents. He was a writer, director, a part-time father, ex-husband, dog-lover. He was a collector of miniatures, of vinyl records, of Hawaiian shirts.
And in secret, apparently, Paul Ross dabbled in detective work.
Aidan called his dad. It only rang once.
“Ahoy, there,” Paul answered.
