The Devils You Know

by M. C. Atwood

  Copyright © 2017 by M.C. Atwood

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Soho Teen

  an imprint of

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The devils you know / M.C. Atwood.

  ISBN 978-1-61695-788-9

  eISBN 978-1-61695-789-6

  1. Haunted houses—Fiction. 2. Supernatural—Fiction. 3. School

  field trips—Fiction. 4. Secrets—Fiction. 5. Interpersonal

  relations—Fiction. 6. Horror stories.

  PZ7.1.A89 Dev 2017 DDC [Fic]—dc23 2017021386

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Mom (I miss you) and Dad, always.

  I love you more than you love me.

  (I win.)

  Part I

  The legend goes like this:

  At the tender age of 17, Maxwell Cartwright Jr. lost his mind and turned to evil. His father had struggled for years to make the family farm viable, to squeeze life from the land. Neighbors all around him did this well, coaxing crop after crop from the rich Wisconsin soil. But Maxwell Cartwright Jr.’s father could not do the same, no matter how hard he tried. He resented their success. So much so that he refused to talk to them.

  Then one hot, humid day Maxwell Cartwright Jr.’s father set down his plow in the middle of the field. He walked by his son, who was feeding the few scraggly chickens. He walked past his house and his wife, who was sweeping the porch. He walked to the barn, slow and steady, never turning his head. Unaware of the murder of crows in the trees, hundreds of hunched black birds, sitting in branches, looking on silently. He took out his shotgun.

  And blew his brains out.

  And that’s when, they say, Maxwell Cartwright Jr. turned to evil.

  He blamed his neighbors. He blamed the land. He turned, they say, like how meat rots in the sun. He packed his bags, left his mother to the bankrupt farmhouse and the withering acres with the boulder that overlooked the hills of Wisconsin, and disappeared. No one knows where he went.

  But they knew when he came back. They say he appeared like smoke one day, right on top of the boulder. Pure white hair, though he was still young, eyes pure black. They say no birds sang that day, that the sky turned dark, that twisters funneled up north, south, east, and west of him. That lightning struck all around him. With his mother long buried and the old farmhouse long succumbed to ruin, they say Maxwell Cartwright Jr. climbed atop a boulder and surveyed the land and cursed it. He made a promise: he would build a House.

  A House upon this very spot.

  The House would be his vengeance. A price the world would pay for abandoning him. A great and terrible House, crouching in the shadows, collecting souls, exacting revenge for the abuse he believed his family endured.

  A House, the legend says, that would always win.

  Excerpt from pp. 21-23, The Collections of Maxwell Cartwright Jr.

  VIOLET

  I’m alone in the hallway, which is good because holy crap he’s texting again. And I just saw him. I roll my eyes at no one. I wish my eyeballs could make a groaning sound, too. I wish I could laugh about this with someone else.

  I should absolutely break up with him. But that would mean I’d have to hurt his feelings . . . Or make a decision. My mom or dad would say something psychological about this—autonomy, agency, etc.

  The thought of my mom and dad knowing makes blood rush to my face, and I actually get a little dizzy. The thought of ANYONE knowing . . .

  Holy cow.

  The bell rings and students stream out of classrooms in twos and threes. I turn to my locker and spin the combination like I just got here.

  Ashley Garrett bumps into me and I say, “Sorry?” She looks at me, her face a blank, and then keeps walking.

  I’m pretty sure I’m here.

  I’m here, right?

  My pocket vibrates and I check the screen. Thinking of u. Ugh. Please stop thinking of me. And spell words correctly. I almost find the courage to write that, but then Laurie sidles up to me. “Violet. You will not believe what You-know-who did to me today.”

  She thinks she’s clever and wants me to acknowledge it.

  I fake-laugh. I guess I can laugh if it makes her feel good. I swallow down my conscience and choke only a little on my inability to handle any sort of conflict.

  Laurie’s smile is a bird of prey. “You know. Instead of Stacey Bagley?” She flips her dirty blonde hair behind her shoulders and takes a big breath in.

  “Anyway, You-know-who tells me IN FRONT OF JACOB that I have something in my nose.” She snorts and sticks her hands on her hips. “IN FRONT OF JACOB.”

  Oh, Laurie. I heard you.

  What I say is, “No way!”

  She nods up and down, eyes wide and glinting with the sparkle of indignation. Or maybe it’s new eyeliner.

  I lean in close. “That is sooo horrible!” I put on a look suitable for “horrible.”

  And then Stacey is there. “Hey guys!” Stacey has brunette hair to Laurie’s blonde, but other than that, their hair is exactly the same. Bangs, length, everything. Eerie.

  I’ve never once talked about myself with them. Not once. They’ve never noticed.

  Laurie’s eyes narrow. “Hey, Stacey.”

  I am getting that nervous tickle in my stomach that things are going south. So I do what I always do. I divert. Divert before disaster. Happy happy happy happy. Before either of them can say anything, I say, “Holy schmolies, did you see Gretchen’s outfit today?”

  They both lean in. That’s right, Vultures, come taste this road kill. I lay it out for them, the pièce de résistance being these frankly awesome faux-fur boots that somehow make her look even more hardcore cool than she already is.

  What I don’t tell them: I love the outfit. I wish I could wear it. I look down at my black A-line skirt and pink sweater. Both from Forever 21. Both boring.

  Stacey rolls her eyes. “What a complete freak.”

  And then the bell rings for lunch and we start walking.

  Gretchen passes. Laurie and Stacey snicker, and I laugh, too. That irritating acid poke of conscience wells up again, but I tell myself that Gretchen probably wants to be talked about anyway, so no harm done right? Probably.

  My pocket vibrates again, and I sneak the phone out and look at the screen. Ur not thinking of me?

  I sigh. “I’ll meet you at the table,” I say to Laurie and Stacey.

  I wonder if they’ll save me a seat.

  Ducking into the bathroom, I text back quick, Always thinking of you ☺ I’m not lying. I am always thinking about how to get rid of him.

  Vibrate. Text: Meet tonite?

  My parents are out of town and he knows it. I tap the phone against my leg and then try, Lots of homework.

  Text: U be schoolgirl then.

  Honestly, he can’t type out “you”? I should break up with him for that. In the bathroom mirror, I see my brown hair, brown eyes. I’m pretty, I think. Except for my chubby stomach. My wobbly arms. And my nose. And my entire face. And body.

  I text back: Should I wear a u
niform skirt?

  My heart sinks even as I write it. What am I doing? Why, Violet, why? I should be excited. I used to be. I think.

  He did choose me, after all. But I can only think about what a mess this is and how gross I feel.

  I practically run out of the bathroom and then smack right into Paul.

  Paul.

  If Paul came with a soundtrack, the songs would be sung by angels. Angels who recognize how hot he is, much like themselves. If Paul were a car, it would be made of clouds; it would run on sparkles. If Paul would have me, I would have his babies. Eventually, you know, not right now.

  Oh, Paul. Beautiful, beautiful Paul.

  Paul says, “Sorry.”

  I say, “I know,” and then inhale quickly because what am I saying? I try to bite back the words and my throat does something funny. I cough. Which makes me laugh. So now I am cough-laughing and I can’t catch my breath.

  It turns out that Paul’s brown eyes crinkle at the corners when he is confronted with a lunatic. He pats me on the back, and I keep coughing and laughing, feeling hysteria well up through my whole body and shoot out of my eyes.

  I choke out, “I’m okay,” and then move to run the eff away from this. But I run into him again because he’s changed trajectory.

  Please kill me now.

  Something falls to the floor, and Paul bends down quicker than I thought was humanly possible to pick it up. It’s book-shaped, and therefore probably a book (I am a straight-A student and can recognize these things). I am desperately interested to know what this book is so I can read it and then run into him again. And then quote it. While wearing glasses. If he likes glasses.

  Paul gives my shoulder one last awkward pat and then turns on a heel and walks away.

  There you go, Paul, in your cloudmobile made of angels. I so wish you were coming over tonight instead of . . . sigh.

  I shake my head and look around. No one is there, and the hallway feels super empty and hollow, so I hurry to lunch.

  After lunch is civics, during which I sign up for a field trip to Boulder House, even though I’ve been there before. The school says seniors who go on the trip don’t have to take finals. I like tests, really, but school feels way too complicated lately. So a sanctioned reason to skip? Yes, please.

  Later, in math, I daydream, pretending the class isn’t torture.

  Scene: Paul runs into me and drops his book. I bend down to pick it up. It’s a journal about me! Every page has flattering pictures of me . . . drawings, pressed flowers, newspaper clippings of my goings-on. I can see the blush work its way up his cheeks, but I put my hand under his chin and I move in to press his beautiful mouth against mine . . .

  “Violet.” Mr. Rhinehart stands over me now, hands on hips. “Care to share with the class?”

  My own blush starts from my toes. I shake my head. No, I do not care to share with the class. He really is a jerk. And he’s wearing a sweater vest again. No one with a sweater vest is allowed to be mean. No one.

  “Come back to Earth, Bullock. This isn’t your movie.” His lips curl and he walks back to the board. People in the class snicker even though his movie reference is a thousand years old. I die just a little and stare at the clock, wishing I could go back to dreaming. But there’s no going back.

  When the bell rings, I walk to my car as slowly as I can. I guess I have to get ready for tonight. I guess I have to find a school skirt. I guess I have no backbone.

  I get home and throw my books on the floor by the door. I wonder if my mom—a psychology professor—ever wore a Catholic schoolgirl outfit for my dad, a practicing psychologist. They’d probably say psychological things the whole time: “Betsy, would you care to speak in a loud voice to evince cheering? Please only do so if you feel empowered.” “Yes, Matthew, I would. I am a sexual being and I shall begin cheering to satisfy my id craving in a healthy, consensual way.”

  I am grossing myself out.

  After an hour, I still can’t find a skirt like the one I’m supposed to wear and probably more importantly, I don’t want to.

  A thought rises in my head like the sun, like power . . . I will break up with him tonight. Is that the straightening of my backbone?

  I will do it. Yes. I will break up with him tonight.

  Later. When the doorbell rings, monkeys dance in my stomach. I will do it. Stay strong, Violet, stay strong. He’s creepy anyway, right? My skin crawls when I think of him. Really, it has from the beginning. I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to be. It’s not that way when I think of Paul.

  I open the door.

  He says, “You’ve been a naughty schoolgirl, haven’t you?”

  I sigh and my heart sinks. Bye-bye, backbone.

  PAUL

  “Hey, Paul,” Trent says.

  He smacks my shoulder, like we’re friends. I mean we are, I guess. At least here. I hike the book up higher under my armpit.

  Trent and I walk down the hall. I nod at the rest of our team when we pass. I remember to add swagger. I almost forget. I’m preoccupied because of the book.

  Trent carries a basketball around with him everywhere. This is as stupid as it sounds. He thinks it makes him cool, but he’s pretty much the only one who thinks so. Mostly he’s a big asshole. It’s sad because he has something to prove. I don’t even like basketball that much. I even considered not playing because, believe me, it’s not like I haven’t heard the stereotype. Out loud. Near my face. But I am probably the best on the team, and I’ll take my cultural cachet where I can get it. You have to survive, you know?

  The book slips a little so I squeeze my bicep closer to my chest. This sucker’s going to fall, and my arm is already getting tired. Trent will never stop making fun of me if he sees it. Because, you know, asshole.

  We get to his locker and he hands me the basketball so he can put his own books away. “So, tonight, bonfire, right?”

  He spins his combination. The book under my arm slips a little more.

  “Hot chicks,” he says and moves his eyebrows up and down like an idiot.

  I try not to laugh. The same girls we see every day. And guess what? I’ll still be the only black person there.

  I stall. “I gotta ask my mom.” The book slides to my waist and I’m squeezing everything now, even random muscles that won’t help. I think about dropping the basketball. Then I could slide the book back up while Trent chases it. It makes me smile to think of him scrambling around like a rhesus monkey.

  Trent’s laugh interrupts my reverie. It’s more of a bark—short but like way loud. “You have to ask Mommy?”

  Whoops. I swallow. I mean, it’s true, I have to ask my mom. She and I have plans. But I know better than to say that. The book is tipping backward now, so time for a fast exit. I shove the basketball into Trent’s stomach and at the same time, spin and use my other hand to jam the book back into my armpit.

  “Check you later,” I say to him, sweat starting at my temples.

  I hurry down the hall before Trent can catch me in any more stupidity.

  Must put book in locker. It was a risk to bring it today, but I couldn’t resist, even though I would have to full-on torch someone if they saw it. It’s a weird little thrill, carrying it around. Makes me feel a little brave. And this book isn’t even a fourth of it.

  I turn the corner and run straight into Violet.

  Pretty Violet. I swear, flowers and birds stick out of my eyes when I see her. She’s, like, really pretty. Like from-a-different-time pretty.

  I say, “Sorry,” but I’m not at all because I felt her boob on my chest. She’s so freaking soft . . . I will myself not to get a boner. That would be rude.

  Violet says, “I know,” and I think she may be talking to someone else because we’re standing near the bathrooms, and I feel like a fool.

  Stupid, Paul. Stupid, stupid. Feeling br
ave now, dork?

  Then I notice Violet’s face is turning red. She’s having a coughing fit. I pat her on the back and try to step away. She chokes, “I’m okay,” but then smacks into me again.

  Maybe she’s on drugs. It might explain her eyes, darting around everywhere. Funny, I thought she was a goody two-shoes. I never see her at bonfires, which is pretty much the only thing anyone does around here for fun. You know those films about Midwestern small towns? They aren’t playing. Bonfires are, like, a thing. Anyway, Violet is most likely not on drugs. She’s wicked smart—which is insanely hot, though I’d never admit as much to anyone. Not while I have to get through high school anyway.

  She also smells good . . . I lean into her to smell her more but then, holy god, I remember that I just felt her boob (accidentally!) and need to stop myself from doing yet another thing that is totally creepy.

  But then I see Violet looking at the floor and my throat closes up.

  The book.

  Shiiiiiiiit.

  I scoop it up in one hand and give her one final pat on the back with my other.

  My kingdom for a horse.

  I turn and walk away as fast as I can without actually running. Flipping open my locker door, I shove The Sonnets of Shakespeare at the bottom of my pile of books as fast as I can. And then I breathe for the first time since I got to school. This book isn’t even the one we’re supposed to be reading for English class. I grab my actual English book and try to stop sweating.

  I feel another boob on my shoulder.

  A tingle shoots through me, I admit. Fie on all boobs, for Chrissakes. Boobs should be outlawed in this school.

  It’s Ashley. Way-hot Ashley. She bats her eyelashes at me. “Coming to the bonfire tonight, sexy?”

  I wouldn’t ever really go for her. I’m more of a Violet girl. But like I said, you have to survive, right? And Ashley? Dumb as it is, stupid and stereotypical as her M.O. is: She can make your life hell or keep you right in this school. I pegged it when I first moved. You find and friend the most ruthless; you keep your head down; you get through.