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‘Greetings one and all,’ Yuki says, huddling next to a space heater. She’s traded her signature lab coat for a robe. She rubs her hands together. ‘Sorry for the cold. Energy bills have spiked as of late and we’re trying to cut corners where we can.’

The Assistant wanders up and hunkers down next to the glowing coils. ‘This is the most warmth we’ve had in the lab all day. Consider yourselves lucky not having to be for hours on end. We’ve resorted to opening all the curtains and blinds in the house during the day to heat the house.’

Yuki sighs. ‘If only we could move this equipment up there.’

The Assistant throws her a look. ‘Can we not?’

‘It’d take the entire season to haul everything up and get the cables safely to the surface. And aside from that, the limited space would have us overheating. We go from one extreme to another.

‘But that’s okay, we’re about to hop out into the summer months in Crowley’s Point, Virginia.

‘To catch everyone up: we’re looking in on Olivia and Damien, two cousins spending the summer with their grandfather. We’ve found out that Damien’s had a gap in his memory where he blacked out from some sort of sickness the previous year. He’s been having strange nightmares as of late that seem all too real to him. They encounter a group of teenagers that try to get too aggressive with them. Damien gets uncharacteristically violent with the boys and even dreams up multiple ways he can murder them.

‘All caught up!’ Yuki exclaims. ‘Now let’s get the hell out of here.’

***

XIV

Monica Chambers sighed as she shuffled the small heap of papers in front of her. Her mood, until a few seconds ago, had been relatively placid until she had gone through the folders of the bedroom filing cabinet. She was originally looking for the insurance forms and pricing breakdowns for the trailer (she was certain there had been an astronomical increase over the previous year, oh and would she raise hell if there was); when she thumbed through the folders she came across some paperwork that had come from Damien’s school over the course of the semester.

Outbursts, fighting, arguing. None of the incidents led to an expulsion or suspensions, thankfully, just detentions and the odd Saturday School. There were also notes from his teachers concerned over his slipping grades.

None of these had been issues prior to seventh grade. To Monica’s recollection, the only call of concern she ever got was from his fourth grade teacher. Damien’d never missed a day of class since kindergarten (out with a nasty stomach bug) and she called personally to make sure that he was okay.

What the hell happened to him?

It did occur to Monica that some of the other kids could have been picking on him. There was a reshuffling in the districts and some students from other elementary and middle schools. Maybe it was some little hick bastards from Visalia. Then again, he didn’t seem any different coming home from class. Nor did he have any apprehension about going in the morning . . . well, no more than normal . . . he was never a morning person during the school week.

Maybe it was just normal moody preteen stuff; after all, his first year of middle school had been terrific. She and Arthur managed to skip the dreaded ‘terrible twos’ that so many of her friends and relatives warned them about. They thought it was luck. Now, it seemed, that year was fashionably late. Still, that didn’t seem likely. In all the time receiving the notes or being called in, not once did he display those same behaviors to her or Arthur or anyone else in the family. When asked about what was going on, Damien was genuinely ashamed. Whatever it may be, she couldn’t help until he actually told her what was going on. For now, all that could be done was to wait it out.

Christmas vacation and spring break allowed some relief afterward for a couple weeks, perhaps the summer away would be good for him and none of this would happen in the eighth grade.

XV

“Heya, Damien!” Olivia yelled from Grandpa Roberts’ front porch, both arms flailing in wide waves that, to Damien, made her look like those guys that guide airplanes to the terminal gates. Boundless energy already.

Damien yawned; sleep had not come easy for him the night before. By the time he finally started dozing off, it felt like the alarm went only five minutes later. Somewhere near the Kentucky border he was out like a light . . . one that kept flickering on at the tiniest jostle.

He was glad to see her, truly, and didn’t want to ruin her excitement by having a nap first thing. Damien prayed that there was some RC or Mr. Pibb in the refrigerator. A minute sugar rush would do.

He was unbuckling himself from the backseat before the car was in park. It wasn’t evident to him until he stepped up to his cousin, but she definitely hit a growth spurt since the last time he saw her. She was taller than him now. His eyes darted to her shirt (hopefully discreetly) when she came in for a hug; not all of her growing went to height.

“How’s it been down here? Middle school start off okay?”

“Meh,” Olivia replied, releasing him from her death grip. “No real change; it’s the same building. The books they had us read for English were so boooring. I don’t give a crap about greasers or kids stuck on an island.”

“You’ll get some better ones. I have a feeling you’d like The Most Dangerous Game. It’s about a guy that hunts people for sport.”

“See!? That’s what they should’ve started us with!” Olivia helped Damien into the house with his bags. Once they were out of earshot of the adults, she added, “Why do they want us to read such old-ass stuff?”

“It was the same with my Home Ec class,” Damien said, rolling his eyes. “All these etiquette things that nobody goes by.”

“Like what?”

“Things like not wearing white after Labor Day.”

“What!?”

“Pretty much the whole class’ reaction.”

“Man, school is so lame. I can’t wait to get out.”

“I’ll let you know how it is on the outside,” Damien said smugly.

Olivia dropped his bag on the floor next to the bed and huffed. “Yeah, yeah . . . don’t remind me.”

Damien set his on the mattress, unzipped it, and started to unpack his clothes and offload them into his designated dresser drawer. “It’s only a year before you. And that’s not for, like, five years.”

“It’s not that,” she replied, suddenly downcast.

“Then what?”

She chewed on her lip. “After that, I won’t see you no more.”

“What are you talking about? Of course you will.”

“Not like this…”

Damien sighed. “Like I said, that’s so far off. And we have no idea what’s gonna happen. For all we know, you’ll move to Kentucky or I’ll move down here.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t see why not. We’ve got family no matter which way we go.” This still didn’t put Olivia any more at ease. She stood in place, awkwardly and strangely quiet, far removed from the enthusiastic girl outside. He thought about sweetening the pot with another hypothetical. “Maybe after you graduate we can do something. We can go on a road trip for the summer. Just the two of us. That’d be good, wouldn’t it?”

Her lips turned up into a smile. “It’d be fun . . . we’d need a car and some money.”

“No biggie. I can get a job when I’m sixteen. Save up there and try not to spend everything I make from Grandpa.”

And just like that, the normal Olivia was back. She hopped with excitement and gave her cousin a bear hug strong enough to crack his ribs.

Damien tried to get a breath out and when he finally did he asked, “When the hell’d you get so serious?”

“School’s trying to beat it into us.”

XVI

The days progressed without issue. Unbeknownst to Damien, Monica and Arthur ran through the difficulties their son had been having over the course of the school year. The three discussed the matter at length while the kiddos slept one evening. A promise was made that Damien’s behavior would be under a microscope for the next several weeks and they’d be called if there were any signs of aggression (outside the norm for two kids constantly in a shared space).

By the time the fourth week rolled around, Grandpa Roberts was convinced that Damien’s teachers were nuttier than squirrel turds. In all his years as a grandparent (and far more under his belt as a parent), never did he observe a more well-balanced child—even if you took into account of the so-called fights he had with Olivia. He wasn’t didn’t withdrawn—didn’t keep holed up in the room away from his cousin or himself (trying to beat the next level on a video game aside); there were no mood swings; not even so much as back-talk. Monica, at thirteen, showed those signs and then some in a shorter time span…and she turned out a-okay.

The kid had a better head on his shoulders than his own friends when he was a teenager and—further down the line—the kids in Crowley’s point when he was still a fledgling parent. Neither his farther nor his maternal grandfather served in the armed forces in the big wars, and for that, John Roberts was eternally grateful. Many of the men that returned from those wars became the strictest of disciplinarians, abusive alcoholics, or a hellish combination of the two. He witnessed first-hand how his friends lashed out or sought escape after suffering for years at the hands of their fathers. Some descended into alcoholism themselves or became junkies, others abused their own families in turn—succumbing to the spiral of violent tendencies they so loathed years before. The most tragic by far was Francine Gaspard, whom he’d known since kindergarten; not even out of high school and she was convinced she’d never escape Crowley’s Point—away from the beatings and berating. She shot herself with dear ol’ dad’s service pistol in the middle of his bedroom, leaving brain matter and all her dreams and aspirations soaking in the carpet.

John himself had been born in a fortunate year. By the time he turned eighteen the Korean war had ended; when conscription started for Vietnam he was twenty-seven—one year beyond eligibility for the draft. Were that not the case, absconding to Canada was at the forefront of his mind as the conflict continued to escalate in the early ‘60s. He wasn’t going to risk fucking up his own growing family.

He watched Damien and Olivia walk back from the cemetery, damp patches on their clothes, talking and laughing. Not a chance in hell was he the violent and erratic type. Nothing in his upbringing would have allowed that crazy shit to incubate. As far as John Roberts was concerned, those teachers were projecting their unhappy childhoods onto him. If there were zero signs of adverse behavior over the remainder of the summer and the teachers were still laying in to him, perhaps Monica and Arthur should seriously consider switching schools for Damien to at least let the kid have a decent eighth grade. And he’d have no problem telling them so.

Shaking his head, John lit a cigarillo and continued with the lunch prep.

***

“What do you wanna do after we eat?” Olivia asked at the halfway point between the graveyard and the house.

He didn’t have to think before answering, “Grandpa’s out of popcorn and we’re running low on soda. Wanna run to the mini-mart with me?”

“Is that all?”

Damien slowed his pace and gave her a knowing grin. Both kept true to their word on saving as much of the hard-earned money as possible. Neither went apeshit on snacks and toys; weekly video game and movie rentals went down to every other weekend (steering clear from the more pricey ‘new release’ sections). VHS tape rentals would be down regardless since Grandpa Roberts caved and got The Movie Channel hooked up with the cable box in the living room. The two could do movie marathons practically any time during the week outside of the cemetery work hours. Premium channels—the wave of the future.

***

Plans started to change about the point when Damien was halfway through his plate. Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling so hot. He started to feel warm . . . and full already. More and more saliva was starting to build up in his mouth. The fork in his had was starting to tremble slightly.

Grandpa Roberts noticed his eating come to a crawl. “You alright there, bud?”

Damien shook his head.

“You wanna lie down?”

Damien nodded.

“Alright.” He got up from his spot and went to the slim hanging cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Tylenol and one of Pepto Bismol. “You need these?”

Again, Damien shook his head and scooted his chair back from the table and got slowly to his feet. He staggered in the direction of his bed.

***

An hour after her cousin’s sudden illness sparked in the dining room, Olivia decided to take it upon herself to grab the popcorn and drinks from the convenience store. It was against the plan, but she already had the mind to get him an additional treat—nothing too extravagant: a king size bag of m&m’s.

On her way out, she grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it halfway with cold tap water and carried it, along with the bottles of medicine, to the bedroom. Damien was huddled under a heap of blankets snoring softly. At least he sounded comfortable. Olivia crept across the room, trying to step around the creaky floorboards and left the items on the table near the bunk bed. Now the meds wouldn’t be far from him, just in case.

With no further delay, Olivia stepped out in the early afternoon sun and bounded off to town.

***

Finally! She was free from the confines of that human’s body. Able to move her arms and legs of her own free will. Two years on, no matter how much effort she put forth into losing the anchor that weighed her down: nothing. Not even while the boy slept could she so much as move his little finger. Now, inexplicably, she was on her own two feet.

She looked around, making sure this wasn’t some weird fever dream. The boy sat at the table with the older human and his cousin. He looked unwell, but she couldn’t feel it and wasn’t seeing the world from his eyes any longer. They really were separate entities once more.

Wait, she thought, they cannot see me? She ran around the table, curiously stepping in full view of the three humans. She waved her arms to catch their attention: no reaction. She dared not attempting any contact with them, lest she get caught in the fleshy prison again. Instead, she raised her hand to bring it down on the table—

—and it went straight through. No resistance whatsoever. Strange. Very strange.

And then she felt it too: weakness. Not in the normal way either. She felt no cold nor heat. Her head did not throb. Her stomach did not churn to void its contents. She felt nothing, but her limbs started to slow. Soundlessly, she collapsed to the floor; her legs suddenly dumb.

This is a problem…

For an hour (twenty, it felt like—and could have been), she lay helplessly on the dining room floor. First she watched the boy get up and leave. The old man and little girl finished what they had left of their meals and went about their business. The girl left her line of sight while the old man picked up the dishes and gave them a good scrubbing. He eventually went outside and there she was, all by her lonesome.

Around the time she was able to get back onto her feet, the girl popped into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and the two bottles the old man had left. There wasn’t anything better to, so she decided to follow her around.

Energy seemingly renewed, she gave chase to the girl as she bounded out the door. She sprinted at full pace and closed her eyes, bracing for contact, half knowing that wouldn’t happen. And it didn’t. Her whole body went through the heavy wood and she hopped out onto the front porch. She ran toward the edge of the cement slab and jumped . . . and went up . . . and up . . . and up.

Oh shit! Oh shit!

Her arms and legs flailed as her body kept climbing into the sky, surely heading out towards space. But she stopped at the treetops and hovered in place.

Huh . . . well, that’s new.

She struggled in place, trying to get the hang of the new-found ability. Moving forward required heavy concentration at first, with several stop-starts and bouts of dipping and rising. It wasn’t until reaching her destination that she had any semblance of control without much effort.

At least no one could see me, she thought, touching down on the sidewalk in front of the store the girl had entered.

Behind her, a beat-up van coasted into a parking spot. It stayed idling and the driver did not exit, just rolled the window down.

***

The cashier flipped around the snacks to better get a view of the price stickers and punched in the numbers on the register. When quoted the cost, Olivia counted the bills and coins; she handed over the exact change and took the bag of goodies.

For a moment, she had the urge to visit the other shops, ultimately deciding against it, the temptation to spend more money was too great. That and she didn’t count on the thin plastic bag to not tear on an extended trip. Another time—there’d always be more trips to Crowley’s Point. Olivia stepped off the sidewalk and started to walk through the parking lot.

“Olivia! Hi!” a familiar voice called to her.

The preteen looked around, not paying attention to the large van at first, and then recognized the face behind its steering wheel. It was Cameron.

“Oh! Heya, how’s it going?” Olivia felt herself growing warm. “Not working today?”

“I’m already out. Did a half day to get the next two days off. I’m going camping.”

“That’s cool!” And weird, Olivia didn’t say aloud. Not in a bad way, it was just that she’d never seen him outside of Community Video and in normal clothing. “You going up that way now?”

Cameron leaned against the wheel and nodded. “You need a lift? I’m, uh, going . . .” He gathered his bearings in the van and pointed in the vague direction of her grandpa’s home. “Up thataway.”

Olivia took a second to think about that. It’d be a much faster trip up and she wouldn’t have to worry about carrying the snacks the whole way. Plus, she’d known him for, like, half her life, back when Grandpa still drove she and Damien to rent movies (and had a crush on him most of that time to the present). “Yeah, that’d be great! I’ll point the house out to you.”

“No problemo,” Cameron replied and leaned over to unlock the passenger door.

***

The day was proving to be most interesting . . . and somewhat unnerving. Sure, the man behind the wheel was known from the video store—had checked out Damien and Olivia probably half the times of their many visits. Other than that, he was of no other significance to the kids’ lives (save for the fact that Damien teased Olivia endlessly over her crush on the employee).

She watched helplessly as the young girl stepped into the van and buckled in. The van reversed out of its parking spot. There was no personal stake for what was happening—she was free after all, loosed to the world . . . not hers though. Now that she had the opportunity she could leave, find her way home. But some paradoxical force compelled her to follow Olivia now, much as it led her out the door and down to Crowley’s Point. The van lurched forward and she jumped through the back doors—no contact with the metal or glass.

Cameron drove up the winding road out of town, back the way they came. So far, so good. She hunkered down in the storage area, between the driver and passenger seats, and stared out the windshield, watching the scenery roll by. At the same time she alternated her attention between Cameron and Olivia.

The young girl inched her torso forward and brought her hand up, pointing at her grandfather’s house on the left. “It’s that one there.”

She watched as the cemetery and house fast approached. Cameron didn’t flip the indicator; the van never slowed. Grandpa Roberts’ house wooshed by.

Olivia’s eyebrows furrowed, at first in confusion and then slowly contorted to anxiety.

Cameron pivoted his head a few degrees. His eyes darted to Olivia and back to the road. He smiled. “Don’t worry. My camping spot’s up ahead here. I just wanted to show it to you. It’s already set up.”

Olivia kept her eyes on Cameron. “If it’s already set up…why were you in town?”

No reply came—not immediately, anyway. Cameron checked his mirrors and squinted ahead. He pulled off the road when the ground leveled out, where a section of the grass wasn’t too tall and trees littered the landscape, casting shadows dark enough to obscure anything beneath. “I needed to get some candy bars and marshmallows for s’mores. Can’t have a real camping trip without ‘em. And I just happened to see you there is all.”

“But you didn’t go inside . . . you got there after I did.”

Cameron didn’t say a word.

“I’d like to go back to my Grandpa’s now.”

Cameron grinned. “After I show you. C’mon now, nothing wrong with that.”

Olivia’s chest heaved. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Take me back, now!” she shouted, her voice quivering.

“I seen how you look at me,” Cameron said calm and even, “at the store, I mean. I wanna show you a good time.” He placed his hand on her thigh. “Real quick and we’ll go home. I promise.”

Olivia shrank away from him and started to go for the door lock. Cameron’s fingers dug hard into her leg; his muscles tensed as he squeezed. The girl cried out in pain, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

“Shut up!” Cameron growled. He released his grip from her leg and tore her hand back from the door. “Shut the fuck up and stay here!”

Having seen enough from the back, she swiped her hand through Olivia’s body. No contact. She tried jumping into her, tried to get into her body. No deal with that either.

What do I do? Shit. Shit. Shit.

She tried jumping into Cameron; not a damn thing happened. She didn’t want to leave Olivia alone with this creep, not now. But there wasn’t another option. Without looking back, she tore out the back of the van and took flight as fast as possible. She followed the road, zipping in a straight line to the house, paying no mind to the doors and walls, and set down next to Olivia and Damien’s bunk bed. He was still curled up under the blankets, sleeping soundly as ever. There were no second thoughts: she jumped back into his body.

Damien woke with a start. His stomach churned and his head still ached like almighty hell. But that didn’t matter to him now. Olivia was in trouble—he felt it, saw it. He hobbled out of bed and ran out the front door. As he picked up speed, his balance evened out. He ran barefoot down the asphalt, paying little attention to the heat prickling at his flesh. He didn’t care if any cars were to pass him by, seeing him run in just a shirt and tighty whities. None of that mattered except for Olivia . . . and Cameron. His legs started to burn now. They carried him faster than he’d ever gone in his life—faster than the runners he saw on the Olympics.

Then he saw the spot from that place between his dreams and the real world: the shaded area…and two taillights flickering in the darkness. Damien grit his teeth and somehow quickened his pace. The van grew closer and closer. In the seconds before he reached it he wondered if he’d make in time. What would he do if he did . . . if he didn’t? Then he thought about Olivia: the look on her face, how frightened she was. That was the point he blacked out.

XVII

“Come on! Let’s go,” Olivia cried. Her fingers grasped at his wrist. Damien stumbled across the field letting his cousin lead the way. He looked around and behind, trying to figure out what was going on. “Damien, please!” She was sobbing now, struggling to keep her own footing.

“Whas happenin’?” he slurred. The world around him was moving in slow motion. “Where we goin’?” As the words came out Damien noticed he was breathing heavily and the surging pain in his knees and elbows; they burned like red-hot charcoal briquettes and flames filled his lungs with the flickering tips scratching his throat. Then he saw the red speckled down his arm. His hands were coated from the wrists in the same viscous substance—much darker though.

Blood. It was the only word that registered in his mind. Damien looked at Olivia: her hands and arms were smeared in it too.

“Wait!” he exclaimed. His head started to clear. “Stop! Just a minute!” Damien said harsher. He planted his foot in the ground, stopping Olivia in her tracks. “What happened?”

“I wanna go home!” she rasped. Her arms desperately tugged at him. Whatever occurred it frightened the living daylights out of her, so much so she wasn’t about to head back alone.

“Livia,” he gasped, “seriously, what’s going on?”

“You killed him!” she croaked.

“Who?”

“Cameron!” Olivia’s face was turning purple. A thick vein popped up across her forehead. Her face had a sheen of sweat and tears and snot.

Damien’s fingers encircled her wrist, tight but not forceful. “Are you alright?” He made sure his words were softer, more soothing.

Olivia shook her head.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, locking his eyes with hers.

Her hair whipped about as she shook her head again. She hung her head low. The sparkles of her tears dripped to the grass. Damien pulled in for a hug. Conscious of the mess on his hands, he kept his forearms straight out and held her waist with his elbows. Olivia buried her face in his shoulder. The younger girl’s body convulsed each time she sobbed. He felt the warmth of the fresh tears soak into his shirt. Damien kept her close, rocking lightly, shooshing Olivia every now then. After awhile the girl settled down and the tears dried up.

“As long as you’re okay we’ll be fine,” Damien whispered. He kissed her softly above her ear. “You don’t have to say anything, but we can’t go back to Grandpa’s—not looking like this. We gotta wash up.”

“Mhmm,” Olivia replied, nodding into his shoulder.

“C’mon then,” he said, slowly rising. “Stay back from the road, we’ll cross when we get past his place. Only when there’s no cars.”

“Not at the cemetery?”

Damien shook his head. “Someone might come up to visit. We’ll go to the woods, get clean as much as we can, and go home. Sound good?”

Again she nodded.

***

The trip to the woods was largely uneventful. They got a bit of a scare when a car travelling in the opposite direction skidded to a stop not far past them. A chill ran down Damien’s spine, he’d thought they’d been seen for sure. Two bloody kids walking out in the middle of nowhere—no, no red flags at all. He gulped and slowly faced the Chevy Something-or-Other. Black skid marks lined up perfectly with the back tires; the hazard lights were blinking. And yet no one got out of the vehicle. Then Damien noticed some movement from in front of the hood. A baby deer ambled across the street as if nothing had happened and bounced out of view.

At the creek’s edge, downstream of where the two normally swam, Damien rubbed his palms together under the cold water until an acceptable amount of the blood washed off. Afterwards he scrubbed like hell to get the stubborn splotches off. The dried fluids under and around his fingernails were the worst offenders.

When he was sure he could touch his clothes without transferring any visible evidence he discarded his shirt and underwear and stepped into the shin-deep water. Damien started to shiver in the shade and wiped away what he could see along his arms.

Olivia stared at nothing sitting on a patch of dirt, not attempting to wash away the red stains on her skin. Damien carefully walked along the slippery rocks and approached her. “Livia?” he said, still in a quiet voice. “Come on. You gotta get washed up if you want to go back.” He held his hands out; she still didn’t move. He got down on his knee and tenderly grabbed her fingers, hoping she wouldn’t yank them away or scream or something. She didn’t, to his relief. Olivia’s fingertips curled around his. He guided her down and submerged them and watched the clear water cloud up. She helped Damien clean them off after he got her started. “That’s it. There you go,” he said, tone raised slightly like he was talking to a puppy. “Just a little bit…and there you go. All better.” He took her hands once more and held on as she climbed to her feet. She did the same as he and unbuckled her overalls and tossed them and everything else in the grass next to Damien’s clothes. “You got some on your arms, too.” He cupped some creek water and poured it over the offending marks and scrubbed away. Goosebumps formed all up and down her skin.

Damien had her turn around to investigate the rest of her body. So focused on the task at hand was he, he didn’t reflect at all on the swell of her chest or the little dark sprouts further down. The only thing he lamented on was that this was the first time either of them had been in the creek thus far for the season. The constant rain and unseasonably cool temperatures kept them from heading down after the shifts in the cemetery. The only upside was that they had constant work for Grandpa to keep pouring money out for the roadtrip fund. “Okay,” he said, flashing her a thumbs up, “you’re good.”

“Your turn,” Olivia practically whispered.

“She speaks!” Damien exclaimed with his first smile since before lunch.

A smile threatened to show on her face. “You missed some,” Olivia stated. She dipped her hand in the trickling flow and wiped at his neck and cheek.

He spun around for her to check him over. Olivia let out a sharp gasp.

“What is it?” Damien asked.

“You’re hurt!”

The teen reached around his back, trying without success to find the wound. “Where? Is it bad?”

“I . . . I’m not sure. It doesn’t look like it.”

“Am I bleeding?”

“No, not like that.” Damien felt her cold, damp fingers trace over his back, particularly around his shoulder blades. “You’ve got a couple bruises. Here.” She touched his left side. “And here.” She touched the right.

“That’s weird. I don’t feel a thing . . . Nothing else?”

A few seconds passed. “Nope.”

Damien nodded. He faced her again. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Olivia shook her head. She was quiet once more.

His eyes suddenly burned. Damien bit the inside of his lip to keep it from quivering. In one fluid motion, he swept his arms around his cousin and held her close, resting his chin over her shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner . . . and that I didn’t go with you to the store.” Damien blinked the tears out and sniffled. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

The cousins remained embraced in silence until a cold breeze caused them both to shudder. Damien swiped the remaining tears with the back of his fist and withdrew from Olivia. “Let’s go back.” Damien entwined his fingers in hers. “And can you run in and grab some pants for me?”

***

“Oh, you’re up,” Grandpa Roberts said from the back door. Damien was at the refrigerator, pouring a cup of iced tea. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” He took a sip and closed the fridge. “Livia’s turn; she’s got a headache now.”

“Geez. I hope there’s not a bug going around.” He held up his fingers in a cross up to Damien.

Damien smiled lightly. “She took some Tylenol before she got in bed.”

“You take any?”

“Only one. I might have another and go back to bed.”

Grandpa Roberts nodded. “I’ll make us some stew tonight. Nice n’ easy on the stomach. It’ll be later than normal.” He crossed the kitchen to check the pantry and sighed. “Damn. We’ll you two be okay while I go to the grocery?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Be back in about twenty. You two rest up. The both of you will have the day off tomorrow.”

“You sure that’ll be okay?”

Grandpa Roberts raised his ear. “I don’t hear anyone up there complaining. The radio said this area’s going to get a break with all the rain. There won’t be much to clear up—if anything. Besides, if you and Livia are getting sick it’s best to take it easy.”

“Alright, Grandpa.”

“Atta boy. All work and no play, right? If Olivia wakes up before you fall asleep, let her know I won’t be gone long.”

“‘kay.”

Grandpa Roberts made the cross again and backed out the door smiling.

Damien waved and finished off the glass of tea in three gulps and set it in the sink. The soft snores from Olivia met him at the bedroom door. He moved swiftly and soundlessly to his bunk, stripped down to his underwear and downed a Tylenol for his aching limbs. He crawled back under his covers and closed his eyes.

Now that he had some time to himself, he tried to think of all that happened. It was so surreal: one minute he’s laying in bed, sick as all hell, feeling like he wanted to puke his guts out at the slightest movement; then he’s having nightmares about Livia; and the next minute he’s covered in blood. Damien’s heart pounded in his chest. Was any of this real? It couldn’t be. What happened was like a plot right out of a horror movie.

***

Trying to sleep was a fruitless endeavor, Damien told himself—not in so many eloquent words, but to that extent. The medicine would have the same effect if he was on the couch watching TV. At least he wouldn’t be wasting his day.

He opened his eyes . . . and he wasn’t in his bed . . . not in his grandpa’s house. His eyes were still adjusting to the light, but he could tell that much. The place smelled new; it didn’t have that old timber scent that his grandpa’s house had. Movie posters haphazardly lined the four surrounding walls.

Damien rose from the bed. Not of his own free will, mind you. He couldn’t control what he was looking at or what he was focusing on. Wood panelling passed by as the legs carried him down the narrow hall to a second, smaller room. In it sat a rolled up projector screen, shelving filled with VHS tapes and a heavy-duty metal canister at its side (like one Damien remembered seeing up in Grandpa Roberts’ attic). The single window was curiously sealed up with aluminum foil held in place by duct tape. Damien watched on as he moved to the opposite side of the room and took a seat at a table littered with pens, paper, and other odds-and-ends. He opened a file cabinet off to the right and retrieved a handful of pictures: 4x6s and Polaroids.

All the pictures were of children—little girls engaged in different activities, none of them remotely aware they were being photographed. The Polaroids were a different story altogether. Closer, more intimate. The girls here were in various states of undress, striking poses. All of these were taken out in a forest somewhere; no houses or cars or any indicators of an exact location.

Damien wanted to close his eyes or look away at the very least, but physically couldn’t. The body that wasn’t his body pulled his penis out and started playing with it (Damien really wanted to look away now). He only paused long enough to thumb through a few more pictures and stopped upon a girl walking alone up an empty street—

***

—and he was laying on his side, startled awake by a faint orange glow from behind the window shade. There was something weighing down the mattress behind him. Damien (thankfully) was able to toss his body around. Olivia was sitting on her knees next to him.

“Livia? Issit time for dinner?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “You were dreaming; making weird sounds.”

“Yeah, I was. I’m okay. It wasn’t a nightmare…not really.”

“That’s good,” Olivia said quietly.

“How are you?”

“…Better.”

“Good…”

“Thank you . . . for getting me away from Cameron—”

“—He was gonna hurt you.”

“I know. I never asked you earlier: how did you know where we were?”

Damien sighed. “I don’t know. I just woke up and started running. It had to be a dream…”

“What?”

Damien told Olivia all he could remember: flying, following her to the convenience store, following them inside Cameron’s van. That was all that came to him.

“Do you remember what you dreamed of just now?”

He shook his head. “No,” he lied.

“Are you psychic?”

Damien scoffed and chuckled. “I don’t think so,” he answered truthfully. He had no clue how he saw what he did. No way to explain it—not outside of horror movie logic anyway. And there was a fraction of truth he did glean from them: “We can’t tell anyone what happened.” he continued before Olivia could protest: “I can’t remember what happened before I got there ‘til after you were dragging me away. If they ask me how I knew what was going on how I knew where you were at and I tell ‘em . . . they’d think I was crazy and lock me up in a nuthouse.”

Olivia was quiet after that. She moved in and hugged Damien tight.

“He can’t hurt you. It probably wasn’t his first time trying that either,” Damien said. “So, we keep this a secret?”

Olivia released her cousin and held out her pinky. Damien extended his and they hooked them together. The promise was made, one both would take to the grave.

XVIII

To Damien’s relief, his cousin was still fast asleep in the pre-dawn hours the next morning. What he saw in his dreams had to be connected somehow. The whole thing with Olivia being taken into a secluded forest area and the lewd photos of girls in the woods. He had to know.

Grandpa Roberts was expecting he and Olivia to sleep in, so if all went well, he could be out the door and back again without notice. Damien took one of his pillows and clumped the sheets in a slight mound on the mattress and covered it with his blanket. He minded his steps and crept to the kitchen to retrieve the flashlight and the spare set of dishwashing gloves from under the sink and set out into the morning fog.

After retracing his steps, there was a moment of confusion for Damien. There was no van. Did he go back into the trees too soon? Too late? Panic set in next. Had the police found it and taken it away? He collected his thoughts and pushed that notion away. The area hadn’t been roped off at all. He focused the beam of the flashlight on the ground and swept it around, looking for any clue to the van’s whereabouts. A small patch of dirt made him shout a-ha! in his head: a tire tread imprint led Damien straight ahead. So he walked forward slowly.

A few minutes further from the road he came upon a hill, which he was at the top of. It was steep as shit, too. Again, he let the flashlight do its job and search the area below. The light glinted on the twisted metal of some wreckage.

Oh fuck…

Roughly halfway down, as told by large divots in the ground and scattered chunks of the van, it had gone off-course and rolled to the bottom.

No way I actually did this.

Damien kept away from patches of dirt on the slow trek down; he’d seen enough cop shows to know that the size of and the patterns on the bottom of his shoes could be used to narrow down the suspect list. Granted, he didn’t expect them to be going door-to-door inspecting everyone’s footwear or that an eagle-eyed detective would happen to notice the bottom of his Reeboks by chance. But the thirteen-year-old’s imagination couldn’t be helped.

Upon reaching the upended remains of the van, Damien took the rubber gloves from the waistband of his pants and put them on. He crouched at the driver’s side door and peered in the busted window, shining the light in the wreckage. The interior was caked in blood, crackling and rusty-black. Cameron was sprawled face-down across the roof, limbs tossed around in odd angles. Part of Damien wanted to throw up; part of him was rather proud that he did this to the cocksucker. He found the car key dangling from the ignition on a ring filled with others. Careful not to kneel on any of the pieces of glass or the blood, he managed to get it free. The one for the van he removed from the ring and placed it back in its proper place and pocketed the rest. Then he put the light back on the body; Cameron’s back pocket bulged with his wallet. He fished it out and eyed the details of his driver’s license: apartment 6 at 104 Treeview Place in Crowley’s Point. Damien slid the card back in and tossed the cheap leather wallet back in the mess.

To the best of Damien’s knowledge, Cameron moved from his parents’ house five years ago. He mentioned sometime last year that one of the reasons he’d probably never leave the area; where else could he make a living working at video rental store? Damien hoped to hell that meant he didn’t need to depend on a roommate to help supplement the cost of an apartment. He’d have to make another trip, but not now; he was pushing it close as-is to when his grandpa would normally rise.

Damien fought the urge to spit on the corpse in front of him and hightailed it back home.

***

Neither Olivia nor Grandpa Roberts were awake when Damien slunk back into bed. No mention of his early morning escapade came at any point during the day. Twilight descended on the town.

The evening progressed as normal and when he and Olivia went to bed, it became clear that she wasn’t going to sleep after waking at eleven o’clock that morning. Mildly perturbed that he wouldn’t be sneaking off to Cameron’s apartment that night, Damien knew that tomorrow would be a different story. Olivia would be up late, get minimal sleep before they rose for graveyard duty, and be passed the fuck out before the hot pink fizzled out of the sky.

That wouldn’t be a problem to wait another night, right? Even if Cameron lied about having today and tomorrow off, him not showing up for work wouldn’t merit a call to the police to check up on him. It was possible, but highly improbable, Damien ultimately decided.

***

Bundled in a thin hoodie and sweatpants, Damien turned from Valley Road to Rosamund Avenue. At that hour, the only places left open were the convenience store and a couple bars; traffic would be practically non-existent. Still, he adjusted the hood to keep as much of his face concealed. A little heat and humidity was a small price to pay in lieu of being recognized. No one, as far as he could see, was hanging outside their homes. All the better when he arrived at Cameron’s building.

Damien let the sleeve of the hoodie cover his fingers and pulled at the front door; it didn’t budge. He cycled through the keys until he found the correct one and let himself in. The halls were vacant and eerily silent. If anyone was home behind any of the wooden doors and brick walls, he heard no evidence of it. The teen kept his footsteps light going up the steps and stopped in front of Cameron’s room. He repeated the same method as before and opened the door with a covered hand.

The living area was somewhat tidy. Not a complete wreck, but the TV stand and the coffee table were piled with cassette tapes and (presumably) empty Mountain Dew and Coca-Cola cans. An ashtray sat on the couch end table with a heap of crushed cigarette butts. Over to his right, the kitchen table had a mostly empty glass of milk and cereal bowl. The sink was filled with a pile of unwashed dishes.

Dinner from last night; quick and easy breakfast before work, Damien thought. Maybe he wasn’t totally full of shit about the video store.

Between the living room and the kitchen-slash-dining area, a narrow hallway led to the back of the apartment. Damien walked apprehensively to it, knowing full-well what he was going to see before his eyes confirmed it: wood panelling on both sides with the bedroom door at the end and the spare room nearest to him. The window was still covered tight with the aluminum foil and the projector screen was rolled up on its stand. And there on the table: the photos of the girls.

That confirmed it for Damien. I was seeing through his eyes. How!? What the fuck is going on?

He inched closer to the table, conscious not to touch anything with his bare hands. The topmost picture was the last one he saw in his dream: a girl walking along the road alone . . . it was Olivia.

A fury built within Damien; he so desperately wanted to lash out at something or someone. He wanted to trash the place and destroy Cameron’s trophies. If not for the fact that this was an apartment complex filled with dozens of people, he wouldn’t have thought twice about burning the bitch right to the ground.

It was time to leave now. Damien got the confirmation he wanted and if he had the tiniest ounce of remorse for killing the video store clerk, he had none now. The sick fuck was dead and that was the end of that. On his way out the door, Damien caught sight of a Bic lighter next to the television. He slid the hoodie over his fingers and picked it up and stared at it. He gave it a couple flicks until it ignited and the tiny flame danced for him. The harder he stared at it, the more he wanted to set something alight.

And then he snapped out of it.

Damien released the pressure of his thumb on the fork of the Bic and the fire snuffed out. He dropped the lighter, readjusted his hood, and stepped back out into the night. On the way back to his grandpa’s house, he contemplated coming back with his trusty pair of dishwashing gloves and rummage around Cameron’s apartment without fear of leaving stray prints somewhere in the dwelling. Wiping sweat from his brow, breathing in the thick summer air, he told himself no. Nothing he did now would have any consequence. The police could sort the rest out.

XIX

Word travels fast in a small town. After two consecutive no-call, no-shows for work, Cameron’s manager dialed up his parents (his emergency contacts), who in turn rang up the sheriff’s department. Customers in Community Video who overheard the telephone conversation from the front desk started the gossip train before the first deputy showed up at Treeview Place.

The arriving officer rapped loudly at the door three times and came to find the door to Cameron’s apartment was unlocked. He declared his presence and stepped inside. Twenty minutes later, every squad car in town (all five), including Sheriff Randy Ederman, rolled up to the scene.

Gawkers stood outside and peeked through their curtains at the flurry of police activity, talking amongst themselves and ran play-by-play of the ongoing event over the phone. The crowds started to peter out after an hour of no real development. No ambulance arrived to cart off a lumpy sheet. No chaos ensued with wrestling the tenant out the door. No interest was merited by the neighbors. A few people already inside stayed glued to their windows, as if the minute they walked away all hell would break loose; it never did.

***

Grandpa Roberts was standing by with breakfast when Olivia and Damien woke up the next day. An unfolded copy of The Crowley’s Point Examiner sitting on the table; the headline read: MISSING VIDEO STORE EMPLOYEE WANTED FOR QUESTIONING. Olivia’s face went deathly pale.

“No going into town by yourselves,” Grandpa Roberts said, tapping the newspaper, “not ‘til this is sorted out. Same with the cemetery. I’ll help out and keep an eye on you two.”

Damien played dumb. “What happened?”

Grandpa Roberts shook his head and shrugged. “Cops haven’t said squat. But they don’t pull everyone, on- and off-duty, because it’s a slow day. No details have been put out by the police, but they’re saying to keep your distance if Cameron’s seen and to report sighting ASAP. It’s gotta be bad.”

Olivia’s voice quavered, “But we know Cameron.”

“I know, darlin’.” Grandpa Roberts sighed. “Not as much as we thought.”

Ain’t that the truth, Damien told himself.

Grandpa Roberts laid comforting hands on his grandkids’ shoulders and gave them a squeeze.

***

Another dream came to Damien later that night. Nothing creepy as shit like with the apartment; this one was in Grandpa Robert’s house in the early morning hours. Again, he was along for the ride: sitting in the living room poring over the newspaper. A knock came at the door; Grandpa Roberts set the paper aside and answered.

Sheriff Ederman stood on the front porch, looking both tired and disturbed. He did his best to cover this up in his greeting: “Mornin’ John. How y’all doing today?”

“Doing fine, Randy. Was just reading about you,” Grandpa Roberts replied, shaking his head slightly. “Nasty business happening down in town.”

“Yeah . . . it’s pretty awful. How about the kids, they doing alright?”

“As far as I know. They’re sleeping right now. What’s this visit about?” Grandpa Roberts looked over his shoulder and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him.

I don’t like where this is going, Damien thought, running back to his covert activities over the last two days. He was in a full-blown panic, trying to remember if he’d touched something with his bare hands or left some tracks in the mud—anything that could have potentially led the cops here. No. I used my sleeves and gloves for everything. I even wiped my feet on the doormat outside the apartments.

Sheriff Ederman nodded. “That’s good to hear. I haven’t had the chance to read the story myself. How much is in it?”

“Not a lot: commotion at the apartments, police everywhere, and your statement about Cameron.”

A subtle look of relief eased onto the sheriff’s face. “No one from the station leaked the details of what we found.”

Grandpa Roberts’ voice was quieter, more grave, “What did you find?”

The sheriff presented a plastic bag that his grandpa hadn’t seen him holding before that moment. In it were four 4×6 photos—all taken from a distance. One of them was the last one Damien had seen as the apartment dream ended; the other three were very clearly of Olivia.

“Oh my god…”

The sheriff uneasily adjusted his weight from one leg to the other. “Yeah…”

“Are there any more?”

“No.” Ederman shook his head. “There were worse pictures—much worse. She wasn’t in any of those. But with Cameron missing still, I wanted to warn you. I can have a deputy up this way to keep an eye out.”

“That’d be good; thank you.”

“In the meantime keep the kiddos close by and keep the doors locked, even during the day.”

“Do you think we should stay inside for now?”

Sheriff Ederman thought on this with a sigh. “We didn’t find any evidence of violence in his apartment. As far as we know, he’s on the run; we don’t know why, but it’s possible something…awful happened. I don’t want to scare you into barricading yourselves in here day and night and shutting off from the world; just be extra vigilant until we can find him. I’ll personally keep in touch with you on any updates.”

“What about the other pictures? Other kids, too?”

“Yeah.”

“Will those parents be updated as well?”

“If we can figure out who they are, yes. No one at the station recognized the others. And there weren’t always clear pictures of the faces to identify. It’s possible he didn’t stay local for his hobby.”

XX

A total of eleven people worked at the sheriff’s department, so it wasn’t a surprise when a local farmer made the discovery of Cameron’s wrecked van three days later. The deputies found most of their time dedicated to the station, courthouse, and jail; regular patrols normally weren’t necessary with the exception of the real partying holidays. A grand total of four days a year all eleven were on duty at some point. Given the nature of the findings, they were pulling in the overtime hours. At most, five were out searching the wooded areas surrounding the park lands, lake, and hiking trails closest to town. All turned up nothing to that point.

When Carter Donovan’s tractor broke down near the back of his farm (the damned thing was clunking along for the better part of two weeks), he reckoned it’d be faster to cut through the unclaimed land to grab the replacement parts than to sit and wait for his wife to come home. The local farming business was in a downward slope and a second used car was a luxury the pair couldn’t afford; the kids’ school clothes for the upcoming year were bought at Goodwill for Chrissake. There wasn’t enough in the bank account to cover the impending expenditure, so he’d have to dust off the emergency-only credit card and hoped to hell he could pay it off in full before the interest started to mount.

He reached the crest of the dried up basin that separated him from Valley Road and spotted the twisted metal down below. Shopping trip forgotten, Carter raced to the bottom, almost losing his footing more than once.

“Hey!” Carter shouted. “Hello? Anyone in there?” Carter scrambled around to the busted windows, not taking in the amount of dried blood at first. “Mister? Hey, mister, can you hear me?” The man didn’t move. His back wasn’t moving up and down the way a breathing person would. It was the moment he noticed how the arms and legs were sticking out in all the wrong directions and the stench of the interior that Carter knew he was looking at a dead body. Still, it didn’t stop him from calling back as he ran back to the homestead, “Jesus! Hang on, I’m gonna get help!”

***

Janie Donovan heard the screen door whip open and slam against the wood siding of the house, causing her to jump with a start. Heavy boots clomped across the floor below and soon she heard the panicked voice of her father rambling to someone. She rose from her bed, where she’d spent most of her time for the better part of a week. The girl’s stomach roared at her, demanding sustenance she knew she couldn’t keep down. She stood next to her bedroom door and put her ear up to it, waiting for the frenzied shouts of help to end.

At the clang of the receiver, Janie opened her door and padded down the steps.

Janie’s father sat at the kitchen table, visibly shaken and sweating. Between his index and middle finger, an already half-burnt cigarette emitted swirls of blue-gray smoke. His right knee bounced nervously.

“Daddy?”

Carter looked at his daughter and said nothing.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’ to worry about, baby girl. There’s been an accident down the way.”

“You’re smoking…” It had to be bad. Janie’s father had been trying to kick the habit since she was in second grade. Only when big bills hit the family or he and her mother had shouting matches (usually about money) did Carter scrape out a crinkled pack stowed away in the house or barn. She’d never seen him go through a single one so fast.

Carter nodded once. “It was a bad one. Big ol’ van rolled over—”

“A van!?”

“Mmm.” He took another drag of the Marlboro. And when he looked at her, he noticed the expression on Janie’s face. Carter scooted around on his chair. “Oh, no, baby. It’s not anyone you know from school. No kids ‘r nothin’ like that.”

Janie bit her lip and tears slipped down her face.

Her father was across the room and had her in his arms in an instant. “Shh, shh. It’s okay babydoll.”

Janie cried into her father’s shoulder, knowing—for that moment, anyway—that it would be.

***

Carter held his daughter in the kitchen until he heard the sirens approaching. He picked up her slight frame and carried her up to her room. Gently, he set Janie on her bed and whispered that he’d be right back, that he’d have to show the paramedics where the crash was.

Outside, he was surprised as anything to see not only an ambulance and a firetruck, but three cop cars and the damned sheriff pulling up the rear. The men in the ambulance came up to him empty-handed; the deputies followed with their guns drawn.

Carter stopped dead mid-stride seeing the brandished firearms. “Woah! What’s this about?”

“Nothing to worry about, Carter. A precaution is all,” the sheriff said, getting out of his Plymouth Gran Fury.

“For what?”

“That wreck you called in, a van was it?”

“What’s left of it.”

“Happen to get a make or model?” Ederman asked, putting on his hat and sunglasses.

“Think it was a Dodge.”

Sheriff Ederman put his hands on his hips and grimaced. “Ain’t you been paying attention to the news? We’ve been on the lookout for Cameron; drives a ‘76 Dodge Tradesman.”

“Shit, must’ve missed it,” Carter grumbled, “by y’know, workin’ my ass off to keep the farm afloat and whatnot. Now, y’all want me to take you to the spot or not?”

“Lead the way.” Ederman insisted.

“It’s a fair walk, might want to drive on out.”

Sheriff Ederman leaned over and opened the passenger door for Carter. He climbed inside and led the group to the edge of his land and pointed out the vehicle at the bottom of the hill.

The deputies and the sheriff carefully made the trek to the overturned van and gave the all clear for the paramedics and firefighters to descend. The medics took all of a few seconds to assess the occupant and declare the man was dead on arrival. They stood down as the deputies established a crime scene and blew through several rolls of film; the sheriff took an official statement from Carter while the encounter was still fresh in his mind. The firemen stayed off to the side, ready to use the jaws of life and peel the door like a sardine can.

Sheriff Ederman slapped his hand over Carter’s shoulder and led him back toward the hill. “Okay, partner, we’ve officially got a crime scene on our hands here, so you’ll have to clear the area. I’ll give you a lift back to the house. Keep the young ones wrangled up in the house for now.”

“How long you figure you’ll be down here?” Carter asked.

“The ambulance will cart off the body soon. But given the severity of the crash and all the circumstances around the situation, could take days or weeks probably.”

“Jesus…”

“Don’t worry, we won’t be going in and out through your property. The other side of the ditch has a shallower incline; we’ll be using the public lands after today.”

“I’d greatly appreciate that. Shit. My day’s gone all to hell. All I needed was to get into fucking town.”

The sheriff looked over his shoulder briefly. “My boys got the situation handled for now. At the very least I can give you a ride to town. You okay to walk back?”

Carter breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah. Thank you sheriff. I’ll have Janie keep an eye out for my boy and the wife; let ‘em know to keep clear.”

“Much obliged.”

The two got back into the Plymouth and drove down to Crowley’s Point.

“So, Sheriff, what’s all that about?”

“I’ll be making a statement soon enough,” Ederman said simply. No need to burden the farmer with the gritty details. Of the dozens and dozens of photos, it’s not like Janie was a part of any of this mess. Thankfully. Ederman relented a little bit, “That boy down there had possession of certain materials we needed to question him on. We’ve known each other long enough. I can trust you with that much.”

“If you say so.”

“I mean it, Carter. Keep an eye on the news tomorrow and you’ll be glad I didn’t hit you with the details.”

***

The news broke at noon the next day. Sheriff Ederman stood in front of the Crowley’s Point courthouse flanked with local reporters from all the small town rags, all anxious to know what all the commotion was about four days prior. He noticed at least one of them was based out of Roanoke and cringed. All that was about to come out was not going to stay confined to their little part of the world for long.

Ederman nodded to the deputy accompanying him and the mayor. He exhaled deeply and stepped forward. “Thank you all for coming out here today.”

***

Carter and his wife, Daisy, sat stunned and bug-eyed and held on to the sheriff’s every word. They sat in their respective chairs, fingers intertwined over the side table between them. Both were thankful that their son was out playing baseball with his friends in the vacant lot down the road (away from town) and daughter was holed up in her room. No way in hell did they need to know such a deviant was part of their town . . . and found dead no more than a stone’s throw from their homestead. Oh, they were sure as hell going to keep tabs on where they were going from now on, that was for sure, and who they were hanging out with. The world was going to hell in a handbasket, what with Satanism and all those other cults popping up everywhere you went. Their eyes found each other, silently agreeing that while they’d remain protective of their kids, they’d at least let them keep their remaining childhood years intact and care-free. Best let them have that time before they saw the world for what it really was; let them ease into it gradually and not toss them in head first and hope they could tread water.

Upstairs, Janie stood at the top of the stairs, listening to the words of Sheriff Ederman echo through the otherwise quiet house. Her heart thudded in her chest and a few times found herself forgetting to breathe. She listened intently to Ederman’s timeline of events and findings followed by questions from the reporters. People in small towns liked to talk. Being at the low-end of the totem pole in high school, she knew this all too well. The preppy girls especially liked to gossip. Hell, her own mother helped rumors spread like cancer while having items rung up at the supermarket. And with some of the reporters being from Lynchburg and Roanoke, all the people would soon be talking.

All hell was going to break loose in Crowley’s Point.

***

“Janie,” her mama said with a sigh, “you’re gonna need to start eating some more.” She scooped another helping of mashed potatoes to her own plate. “Lookit you. You’re getting so thin and you have bags under your eyes.”

Janie’s eyes never left the tablecloth in front of her. “I’m sorry . . . I haven’t been hungry lately.”

Carter settled back in his chair and grunted. “We can’t be affording to let all this good food go to waste little girl. Money’s tight. There’s not enough to go around to buy extra when you do feel like eating.”

Janie didn’t say anything. She didn’t dare look at her parents.

Her mama finally spoke, “I’ll put some cling wrap over yours. If you get hungry later, throw it in the microwave.” She tried to put her hand atop her daughter’s, but Janie recoiled. “If that plate’s still in the fridge when I get home tomorrow, I’m takin’ you to see the doctor.”

Carter scoffed. “With what money?”

“She’s sick, Carter,” Daisy shot back at her husband. “I’m not gonna watch her waste away while you count goddamn pennies!”

Carter scooted his chair back hard and fast and shot to his feet. His wife and children flinched, expecting a holy tirade. Instead, he stomped away from the table and walked out the back door, most likely in search of a hidden pack of smokes out in the barn.

When her daddy was out of sight, Janie stood up and ran upstairs, slamming the door behind her.

***

The sweet tobacco smoke filled Carter’s lungs. He held it in and counted back from ten and exhaled through his nose and mouth. The middle-aged farmer felt the temperature on his face cool substantially, but still felt the veins across his temple throbbing. He paced around the dirt and hay, wanting so much to kick or punch something. His fingers clenched into fists and he kept his eyes clenched shut. All the anger from the day simmered and steamed over the hours and was so close to boiling over.

Fuck this farm. Fuck this family. Fuck this life. Fuck meeting that stupid bitch. Fuck pumping her full of kids…

***

Janie sat at the edge of her bed. Her mind raced back over the press conference earlier in the day. Cameron was dead. He wasn’t going to be saying anything to anyone except maybe pleading his case to God or the Devil. But the cops had his notebooks—the ones he wrote in every day. And the pictures. They had all of them. Every last one. Even the rolls of film that had yet to be developed . . . well, they probably were by now.

Her fingers worked automatically at the bed sheet in her lap, twisting it and tying it as she played out all the possible scenarios in her head. Those would come out eventually. The cops would tell her mama…and her daddy—no telling how he’d react (though she still shuddered at the thought of him finding out). The girls at school would know. They always did. The deputies would talk amongst themselves . . . to their families . . . to their friends. They always did. People in small towns liked to talk.

Janie crossed the room and picked up her small wooden chair from the foot of her desk and placed it atop her mattress. It wobbled as she carefully stood on it and reached up to the beam that ran across her ceiling. She tied one end of the sheet around it and slipped the other around her neck. Tears streamed down her freckled face as she whispered a little prayer to herself and stepped forward.

***

‘Poor girl,’ Yuki states and bundles up immediately into her robe and ties the sash, ‘all that weight on her shoulders . . . Cameron got off way to easily, if you ask me.’

‘We don’t know how long it took him to go,’ the Assistant offers. ‘For all we know he’d have been in agony for hours.’

‘Still too easy.’

‘What about Damien? I’m sure we’re gonna go back to look in on him and Olivia.’

‘That’s the plan. There’s an energy present that must be investigated further. But that’s for next time. We’ll see you all in September for the next excursion!’ Yuki turns to her assistant. ‘Now let’s get up into the warmth of the house.’ She pauses. ‘You did remember to go upstairs before dusk and close up all the curtains?’

The Assistant’s eyes widen. He says nothing.

Yuki’s shoulders slump. ‘Get out the extra blankets from the linen closet. We’re gonna need them.’

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