Creep

by Eireann Corrigan

  “Even more so when Dr. Langsom was a boy. You know we used to value different forms of expertise. We wanted children to feel prepared for the world. I don’t see those same skills—mostly you all navigate screens. Not forests.” She stopped herself from speaking. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” Janie smiled and I did too. “I’ve never even been camping,” Janie confided.

  “Well, back then the township youth camped right in your own backyard! I kid you not, girls. They pitched tents and built fires. Mostly boys.”

  “Anyone you remember in particular?” Janie pressed. I held my breath, waiting.

  “Why would I remember anyone in particular?”

  “Oh, it was a long shot. I just thought … We’ve already said what a wonderful family the Langsoms are—for generations. My dad says that the easiest explanation for the letters is that they wrote them, but I don’t believe that. Thatcher has been so kind to us. I just thought maybe if you remember other people who spent a lot of time at the house …”

  “Well, they were scouts of some kind. I remember one year they did some yard work for me, to earn merit badges and such. Frankly they made a mess of my garden and I had to hire a man to come fix it, so I didn’t allow them to come back. But I appreciated the spirit.”

  “Wow. I wonder if there are photos somewhere. Or a troop roster.” Janie leaned forward. “I’d love to show that stuff to my brother, Ben; maybe it would inspire him to camp or learn other life skills like that. He’s actually very good at yard work.”

  Across the street, Ben probably watched the yellow house, completely unaware that his sister was dangling him as a bribe in front of Miss Abbot and her geraniums.

  Miss Abbot pondered the possibilities for a moment. “There must be photos. So many boys joined at some point or the other—it was a real source of town pride. Maybe the library?” She crossed her legs at the ankles and sat up straighter. “I would check there. Perhaps he will rekindle some interest in those endeavors. That would be lovely for the town—much more productive than video games and coffee. The amount of teenagers I see lining up at that coffee shop weekday afternoons … It will stunt your growth.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” we answered automatically.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help more,” Miss Abbot said as she stood up. “But I always appreciate a good mystery. Do stop by with updates. And you know, even if you’re not raising funds, I am quite fond of chocolate.”

  “Of course,” Janie answered, beaming. As we stepped outside, the door thudded shut behind us. Had Miss Abbot not said goodbye so sweetly, I might have thought she had slammed it.

  “We should have brought M&M’s,” Janie muttered.

  “You don’t think that went well.”

  “She was holding back. She’s protecting someone.”

  “Well, we know there was a troop and that they camped in the yard. We know about a link between Margaret Langsom and the VonHolt family.”

  “Do you think that’s relevant?” Janie asked as we crossed the street.

  “Maybe not relevant, but interesting. I think we got some good information.” It wasn’t that I didn’t care about the letters. I just needed a break. “Why don’t we go to Slave to the Grind?” I asked, almost afraid of how Janie would react. I tried joking, “We don’t have to tell Miss Abbot.”

  “You want to question Thatcher? I don’t think we should try that at his place of work.”

  “I don’t think we should question Thatcher at all. Maybe we could just go grab some coffee, you know, remind people …” I searched for the right words.

  “That I’m human? That I’m not some monster just because my parents aren’t totally cool with imagining the blood of their children running down the walls? That this isn’t our fault and, in any other town, people would probably be dropping off casseroles or organizing night watches?” Janie’s voice kept rising.

  “It’s easy for people to blame you because you’re new. If they have the chance to know you as a person, then they might feel differently.”

  “Well, that’s messed up. Of course I’m a person. I’m not going to go sit in a coffee shop so that these idiots can discover that I am a person.”

  “It’s just how small towns work,” I said. But that sounded hollow even to me. I tried again. “It will only last until they move on to the next mystery.”

  “They won’t move on to the next mystery until we solve this one.” Janie reached out and grabbed my arm. “Also, you know what, Livvie? It’s scary. It’s scary to try to fall asleep there and remember those creepy notes. And no one has been able to stop them. Not my parents. Not the police. So actually I don’t really want people to move on.”

  Her father would never let that happen anyway. I almost said it out loud. Glennon Heights might very well move on, but not until Mr. Donahue stopped calling news crews.

  But then I thought about Margaret Langsom. She must have felt like the world went dark the morning they found her friend’s body. All those bodies. Janie and I stood outside 16 Olcott and it looked more menacing now, with its secret passages and weapons cupboard and escape hatch.

  “Okay,” I said. “Then we should go to the library.”

  “Saturday night at the library,” Ben announced. “And I thought spending the morning with the ghostbuster might negatively affect my social credentials.”

  The Glennon Heights library looked larger than a town our size could possibly need. It functioned as a community hub, though. Only about a quarter of the square brick building held the books you’d expect to find. Otherwise, there was a computer center, where mostly old people browsed the internet and often loudly asked anyone nearby for help operating the mouse. You could take out DVDs and CDs. They even had a section of cookie cutters; you could sign out a particular shape you needed.

  The library housed a couple of meeting rooms and a children’s play area. In the very front, before the checkout desk, they’d set up a little café and the women’s auxiliary sold drinks and snacks.

  “You come in a building like this and you think, This is adorable. We’re so fortunate that our parents moved us to such a sweet little town. And then some nut job writes a note claiming to have buried bones in your basement.” Ben approached the reception desk and raised his voice slightly. “Excuse me, is there a special section for township history?”

  “Glennon Heights history?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s so lovely that you want to learn more about your new hometown. Welcome to Glennon Heights.”

  “Wow.” Ben looked surprised. Already this wasn’t going the way we had expected. “Thanks. I know it’s a small town, but I didn’t realize we were such obvious transplants.”

  “Well, I’ve seen you on the local news.”

  “Right. That was crazy. I don’t understand a lot of what’s going on because I’m just a kid.” Ben spoke first, trying and failing to sound casual. “I’m actually a special kid because I am an Eagle Scout. I am an Eagle Scout who is doing research on other scouts. Other scouts who live or have lived in Glennon Heights. My scout leader in my old town asked me to do this research. So here I am.”

  Janie and I just looked wide-eyed at the librarian. I couldn’t think of any way to make his terrible lying any better so I just echoed Ben. “Right. Here we are.”

  Janie added, “Helping.”

  “Okay, you three,” the librarian said cheerfully, “you’ve come to the right place!” She didn’t sound as if she found the request all that odd, but I guessed if she helped the elderly surf the web all day not much surprised her anymore.

  “We actually have a local lore room—that’s an ideal place to start.” She came out from behind the desk. “Follow me.” The librarian spoke softly as she walked briskly through the computer center. She passed under an arched doorway, into a cozy room with framed photos on the walls and a town flag on display in the corner. “You might be surprised that we have such a rich collection in a town this tiny, but we
have several history buffs in Glennon Heights who have curated memorabilia from all corners of our community.

  “Along those shelves are dozens of scrapbooks, with clippings from the Glennon Heights Gazette. Top shelf and to the right are yearbooks dating from last year all the way back to the 1950s. We also have VHS tapes of all school concerts and drama productions.” The librarian lowered her voice even more, so that she barely whispered, “And in the back corner, we do have several scrapbooks devoted to the VonHolt murders. People often come to research those. It’s perfectly natural to feel curious about such a dark chapter in our town’s history.”

  “Oh no!” Janie’s voice sounded so loud in the hushed room. “He really needs to know about other Boy Scouts.”

  The librarian smiled widely, clearly relieved. “Great. Your best bet is probably those volumes labeled Youth Programs. If you need to make copies, we charge ten cents apiece. But you can also take photos with your phone.”

  “Right,” Ben said. “Thank you so much. I felt nervous asking for help but I’m glad I did.”

  “Of course! We love when kids spend their Saturday nights at the library!” She was so kind and helpful—she probably didn’t fully understand that she had just twisted a dagger in Ben’s hipster heart. The librarian backed her way out of the room and pointed back to reception. “I’m right out here if you need further assistance.”

  “Jackpot, right?” Ben burst out as soon as she’d left his field of vision. “We must have everything we need. What time does the library close?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? You’ve lived here your whole life.”

  “I don’t usually come on Saturday nights,” I deadpanned.

  “Oh. That surprises me,” he answered, waiting a beat for the blow to land.

  “Okay, you win that round.”

  “You’re both losers,” Janie muttered. “Let’s each take a volume.” We spread out—Janie and I on either side of a large reading table and Ben sitting in a wine-red armchair. “We’re looking for anything involving scouts or camping or the house.”

  “Or the Langsoms?” Ben asked.

  “Did you find something?” Janie got excited.

  “No. I just wanted to contribute to the list.”

  “We need to work fast.”

  We flipped pages silently and carefully, painstakingly studying each blurry photograph and caption. Every once in a while someone sighed. At one point Ben took out his phone and snapped a picture.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he answered without offering explanation.

  It was another fifteen minutes before I interrupted the silence.

  “Guys, I’ve got tents here, I think.” I tapped the pages excitedly.

  “You think?” Janie said.

  “Well, it’s smudged but it looks like your yard,” I said. Janie and Ben crowded around me. I read the type below the image. “ ‘Troop three-one-one welcomes summer with their annual jubilee.’ ”

  “Well, there you go! Good job, Liv!” Ben said.

  But Janie pointed out, “It doesn’t really tell us much, though. Other than what Miss Abbot already said.”

  “Yeah, but now we know we can trust Miss Abbot. At least a little.” That earned a grudging nod from Janie. As I studied the photograph of the tents beneath the trees, a strange rush rippled through me. It may have been blurry, but it illustrated exactly what Miss Abbot had described. I felt like I held her memory in my hands. “Let’s keep looking.”

  For a while longer, the room was quiet except for the turning of pages. And then Janie gasped. “This is it!” Even the figures in the framed photos on the walls seemed to lean in to look. I practically dove across the table and Ben rushed over too. “It’s a group shot! Same troop number! And there’s a Langsom!”

  The boys had sat for the picture in a gymnasium. You could see a basketball hoop in the corner. They wore uniform shirts with the little kerchiefs tied around their necks. Shorts and sneakers, with striped socks pulled up to their knees. They looked about eleven years old. Some of them wore their hair shaggy. A few sported crew cuts. In the right upper corner of the page, a careful hand had written: July 1983. Below that was a yellowed slip of paper with a list of names: Robbie Franzmann, Elijah Kaufman, Vernon Loria, Kirk Gibbons, Nick Geltner. And then a second row: Steven Rizk, Billy Merrell, Hunter Langsom, Teddy McGovern.

  “Dr. Langsom!” Janie breathed. “And right next to him—that must be our TM. Teddy McGovern.”

  “Maybe he’s related to Ned McGovern,” I said.

  “The real estate guy?” Ben asked, looking troubled.

  “Otherwise known as the guy who was obsessed with our mom.”

  “They’re sitting close to each other—seems like they’re friends.” Hunter Langsom’s dark hair feathered around his face. I could barely glimpse Dr. Langsom’s features there, but the kid looked like a younger version of Thatcher. I studied the boy next to him with the shaved head and the slightly crooked kerchief. “Why so many hiding spots, Teddy?” I whispered.

  “We should keep looking,” Janie said. We returned to our respective stations with renewed energy. “Set aside anything that links the McGoverns to the Langsoms.”

  “Could they be family friends?” I asked. “Or cousins? Maybe look for engagement announcements.” Ben nodded and reached for the volume labeled Births and Weddings.

  Janie looked up. “Can’t you just ask Thatcher? You guys are friends. He has to know Dad’s gone crazy with this lawsuit. It doesn’t involve you.”

  “I don’t think he sees it that way.”

  “No one sees it that way. And it’s not fair for the whole town to blame us for Dad’s faults.”

  “Yeah. You think Thatcher Langsom doesn’t realize that? After the year he’s had? It just doesn’t matter, Janie. He’s not going to talk to me. I’m sorry. But we’ll stick together. We’ll be okay.”

  Janie sighed and picked up the last volume of Youth Programs. Ben was still studying announcements. I browsed through the rest of the stacks and stopped in front of the row of crimson yearbooks. Pulled out a few: 1987, 1988, 1989. I found the memorial page for Caroline VonHolt in 1988. I knew right away that was the year because the red leather was a little faded, probably from all the hands reaching for it to turn to that particular page. It was an eight-by-ten black-and-white portrait above the quote “There is a light that never goes out.”

  In the picture, Caroline smiled confidently and gazed somewhere beyond the camera. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as if she was about to break into laughter. She wore her hair long and straight and parted way over to the side, a little bit veiling the side of her face. I imagined that she usually hid a bit behind her hair, and eyed the world slyly from behind the curtain. But that day, maybe the photographer asked to see her whole face. And that was why she was almost laughing.

  Caroline VonHolt didn’t look like a girl who worried a lot. Who would feel nervous unlocking her front door one afternoon and calling out to see if anyone else was home. She looked like a girl like Janie. Someone who might sneak out to the baseball field and sit talking with us in the dugout.

  “Olivia, what have you got there?”

  Just as Janie asked, the overhead lights blinked on and off and my heart slammed into my chest at full speed. Mr. Leonardo would call that the spirit world stretching to communicate. But the librarian circulating through the building stopped in to tell us that it actually meant the library would close soon.

  “I hope you found what you needed.” She sounded like she meant it. But then her eyes skimmed over the yearbook open in front of me and settled on the familiar image of Caroline VonHolt’s senior portrait. The librarian’s smile faltered, as if she had expected more from me.

  Ben said, “I think so—thank you. We might need to come back but we have a good start, right?” Janie and I nodded obediently. I slammed shut the yearbook and had clasped my hands on top of the whole pile.

/>   “That’s terrific. When you come back, bring an updated driver’s license or your school ID so we can sign you up for library cards. And please put everything back where you found it.” I fought the urge to announce that I had a library card, I hadn’t just moved to Glennon Heights—and because of that, Caroline VonHolt was as much mine as anyone else’s.

  Instead I helped reshelve the scrapbooks, thinking about those earnest Boy Scouts who were all grown up now. And Caroline, who wasn’t. I asked Ben, “Nothing interesting in the wedding announcements?”

  “Nah,” he answered. “That stuff’s probably easier to find online anyway. It’s not classified information.”

  The overhead lights blinked again, so we scuttled off, along with some elderly folks and a bunch of middle-aged people who might have made up a support group. No one made eye contact with us on the way out.

  We were just outside the door when Ben stopped short. My phone was out to text my mom that I was coming home.

  “What?” Janie asked. “Did you leave something back there?”

  “On your phone, Olivia. Look up nicknames for Theodore. For the name Theodore.”

  “Okay.” I typed it in. “Nickname for Theodore: Theo, Ted, Teddy.”

  Ben shook his head. “Try nicknames for Edward.”

  “All right, sure.” My fingers felt slow and clumsy. My phone’s battery was at 9 percent. “Nicknames for Edward: Ed, Eddie, Ned, Neddie, Ted, Teddy.” I looked up at Ben. “Oh God.”

  Ben nodded.

  “What?” Janie looked from Ben to me and back to Ben again.

  “It’s not that Ned McGovern is related to Teddy. He is Teddy. He’s that sad little kid all grown up.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean he is the Sentry.” Janie spoke in a breathless rush. “He has camping experience, that’s all we know for sure. Our real estate agent, the guy who sold us our strange, sort of haunted house, used to be a Boy Scout. Right now, that’s really all we know.”

  “We have to call Mom and Dad,” Ben ordered.