by Potter, Ryan
The damn thing just bit me. That’s my thought as I manage to pull my aching hand free from what I assume is its mouth.
The beast screeches louder now, surely thrilled with drawing blood from me. My only hope is the knife. Using the knife is risky, but I’m seconds away from dying in my bedroom. Whatever this thing is, it’s probably not expecting my wounded hand to make another move, so that’s exactly what I do, reaching up with my bloody left hand and making a desperate grab for the fleshy horn thing.
I get a great hold on it this time too—so good that the creature can’t bite me. I feel it trying, but my hand is too high up, confirming my hunch that I’m definitely holding some sort of horn protruding from its small head.
I’ve distracted it enough for it to ease up on the pressure its short limbs are applying to my face and head, giving me enough time to bring the knife up and strike quickly but carefully with a waving motion a few inches in front of my face.
I feel the blade slice cleanly through something. I hope it’s not my own flesh. The beast emits an awful high-pitched wail and removes itself from my face with a nasty suction-like sound. I gasp loudly, sucking in the night air and wiping my face free of what turns out to be more of the same thick yellow ooze the Brawler introduced me to.
Demon snot.
“What the hell!” I yell, opening my eyes and sensing the Heater still in the room, hopefully dead or at least badly injured.
That’s when I realize I’m holding something in my left hand.
It’s the horn. I cut off a Heater horn! There it is, a pink, membranous horn several inches long and ending in a dangerous, knifelike tip. Yellow tendons and fresh demon ooze dangle from the severed end.
“Yeah!” I yell, dropping the horn, adrenaline pumping and all senses on high alert as I stand and scan the room for the creature. “Come on out, you little wimp! Is that all you have?”
I see no sign of the beast.
Blade has calmed down in my right hand, barely moving now. I check the window screen and see an opening the size of a dinner plate. Maybe the Heater retreated back to Oval City or wherever it came from.
Using the streetlight glow as a light source, I scan the room again, every wall and every inch of floor. Nothing. I even grab my phone and use the flashlight app to check under the desk and bed. Again, nothing.
“It’s gone, Blade,” I say. “Nice work, buddy.”
My left fingers sting. I inspect them with the phone light. The bite doesn’t look anywhere near as bad as it feels, just a small red mark on two of my fingertips. Still, I’ll need two Band-Aids, which means I’ll have to lie when Dad asks me what happened.
Blade vibrates in my hand.
“What?” I say. “I told you. It’s gone.”
Blade doesn’t believe me and continues to move.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “One last look.”
I aim the phone around the room again. Floors. Walls. Bed. Desk. I even check the ceiling this time, waving the phone in a wide arc, the yellow light sweeping across and illuminating nothing but drywall and plaster.
Until I see something in the upper corner of the room to the far left of the window, where the two walls meet the ceiling.
“Gross,” I say, finding it hard to believe what I’m seeing.
It’s some type of miniature goat-beast. That’s why I had the vision of the goat. It has a small but hellish face about the size of a beverage coaster and gray skin full of sickly wrinkles. A pair of marble-sized red eyes pulsate brightly like a heartbeat. The large, open mouth is terrifying and way out of proportion with the small head. Dozens of yellow, dagger-like teeth, moist with demon ooze, line the perimeter of its mouth. One pink horn remains, protruding inches from one side of the Heater’s forehead before curling up into the knifelike tip. There’s a gaping hole where the other horn should be, which probably explains why the Heater isn’t moving.
I’ve seriously injured this disgusting creature.
Despite the horrifying face and head, it’s what I see attached to the Heater that scares me most. It has no body or neck that I can detect, but it does have what look like five muscular goat legs with hooves attached to the back of its head, the minilegs arranged in a perfect circle the size of a Frisbee.
“Gross,” I repeat, squinting and stepping closer for a better look.
Blade starts moving faster now.
“Relax,” I say. “I think it’s about ready to fireball.”
I’m wrong. The red eyes suddenly flare as the Heater creeps slowly along the top of the wall like a giant spider, the five legs all working together in a way that makes it clear the beast can move in any and all directions. I grip Blade tightly and keep my distance from the window. If the wounded Heater wants out, I’ll gladly allow it to leave.
The creature stops when it’s above the window frame and watches me with those disturbing, pulsating red eyes as its five legs begin rotating slowly in a clockwise direction. The vision of the spinning starfish suddenly makes sense. That’s what the rotating legs remind me of: a spinning starfish.
Something tells me not to stare directly into its eyes, so I look away and gaze at the opening in the window screen instead. I think back to how quickly the beast came out of nowhere and shot through the screen.
Which means it can somehow fly. The legs. They must work as a type of propeller.
As if the Heater is reading my mind, it starts rotating its legs so quickly they become a blur, and the goat-beast rockets off of the wall, red eyes throbbing with delight, open mouth closing in on my face.
Again, my body seems programmed to react. I use my own surprising speed and complete a half turn and backbend that allow me to swing the knife up and over my body with great force. There’s a sickening sound that reminds me of a shovel hitting fresh dirt.
The Heater has impaled itself on the knife, the silver blade plunging like a barbeque skewer through the Heater’s eye. I stand and stare at the shrieking, shaking beast, holding it at arm’s length as hot yellow ooze squirts like a geyser from its fading red eye.
“Sorry,” I say, “but you deserved it.”
Increased heat emanates from the Heater. I know what’s coming, so I shield my face and turn sideways just as it fireballs into a basketball-sized explosion of red, orange, and blue.
I just scored my second Fire.
What worries me is that this one was kind of fun. Hmm … maybe I was born to slay demons.
The room falls silent, just the breeze slapping my back. Blade stops moving, the knife looking cleaner than ever as I sheathe it in my back pocket. I scan the room for any hint of the Heater fight. There’s nothing. No demon snot. No sign of the severed horn. No hole in the window screen. No stinging bite marks on my fingers. It’s as if it never happened.
But I know it did. So does Blade.
Then the front door suddenly opens and slams downstairs. Footsteps in the living room.
Seconds later, footfalls on the stairs. Now, footsteps in the hallway leading to my room.
I reach behind me and lay a hand on Blade’s handle. Somebody or something stops outside my closed bedroom door.
I’m breathing dangerously fast. The doorknob turns quickly.
“Alix?” Dad says, opening the door and flicking on the bedroom light.
“Dad?” I say, letting go of Blade and knowing how bad this looks, me standing in the middle of my bedroom at midnight. In the dark. Fully clothed.
What bothers me is how angry he looks. This is rare. This is full-fledged pissed-off Clint Keener, Dad glaring at me in a way that scares me.
“Let me ask you two questions,” he says, pointing at me. “And I’ll know if you’re lying, so be honest.”
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Shut up, Alix.”
What he asks sends my head spinning for answers.
“What the hell were you doing in Oval City tonight?” He pauses. “And why are you dressed like that?”
I gaze down at my dirty Chuck Tay
lors and realize he’s referring to the skinny jeans. All I can do is tell the best lie I can muster and hope he doesn’t notice the silver demon-slaying knife in my back pocket.
Episode 5
Chapter 21
“Dad, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, forcing myself to look him in the eyes. “But I promise you I was nowhere near Oval City tonight. Why would I even think of going to a place like that?”
“Don’t lie, Alix.” He turns and punches the door. The hinges don’t break, but the door slams against the bedroom wall with a jarring crash. I take a step back. “I saw you in a pickup truck in Oval City,” he says, turning toward me and shaking the sting out of his hand. “You were in the passenger seat, and you were ducking down so nobody could see you. I saw you, Alix. Who was the boy driving the truck?”
He steps further into the room. I’ve seen my father angry plenty of times, but I’ve never seen him this mad. I might be able to slay demons, but I’m no match for an enraged Clint Keener. It’s killing me to lie to him, but sometimes you have to lie in order to protect the people you love.
“I’m not lying!” I throw my hands in the air. “I went to the library after school, stayed there until eight, and I’ve been home since. I’m telling you the truth, Dad.”
He’s biting his lower lip, Dad trying to calm himself as he rubs his red fist with his opposite hand.
“Alix, it’s midnight on a school night. If you weren’t out with a boy tonight, explain to me why you’re wearing jeans like that.”
“Okay,” I say, rubbing my temples with my fingertips. “You’re right. There is a boy I like, but I’m telling you the truth about not being in Oval City. I swear to God, Dad. You must have confused me with somebody else.” I stare at my jeans and then back at him. “Mom bought me these right before she died. I’ve never worn them. I was thinking of wearing them to school tomorrow, and I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to get up and try them on.” I pause. “I just want to look good for somebody I like, okay?” He doesn’t say anything, which means he might be buying it. “Is that too much to ask? You always joke that I should stay away from boys, but I think you might actually be serious. I’m a senior in high school, Dad. I’m almost eighteen years old. I’ve never even had a boyfriend, so do you really think I would jump into some guy’s truck for a trip down to Perennial ground zero?”
I realize my mistake as soon as I say the word. “Perennial.”
“Perennial?” he says, jaw clenched and looking like a man I don’t know. “Alix, what do you know about Perennial?”
“Nothing really.” I close my eyes and shake my head. “I heard about it at school, something about a drug that’s a purple powder. People can only buy it in Oval City. There was a rumor that Mr. Watkins’s murder had something to do with Perennial.” I shrug. “Crazy, I know. But that’s what I heard.”
“Jesus.” Dad puts his hands on his thighs and exhales loudly. “I’m beginning to think we should have stayed in Wayne.” He straightens and continues rubbing his punching hand. “Okay, it was dark, and the truck was going fast, but the passenger looked a lot like you, so is there anything you want to tell me?”
“It wasn’t me,” I say. “You’re really stressed out with everything, Dad. I’m not a drug addict, and I’m not one of those thrill-seeking Detroit hipsters you talk about.” His face relaxes. It’s as if I can see the anger melting away. “I’m a girl, and I’m not stupid, so let me do the things girls like to do.”
“I know you’re not stupid.”
“Then please just trust me,” I say. “So I know what Perennial is. Big deal. Everybody at Beaconsfield High knows what it is, but it doesn’t mean we’re all on it, and big deal if I like a guy and might want to go on a date. It doesn’t mean I plan on getting pregnant and skipping college.”
“Whoa,” he says, raising his hands. “Easy, Alix. Easy.”
“Sorry.” I force a laugh. “You know what I mean.”
Dad manages to laugh too. Good.
“It’s the Watkins case,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “It’s driving us all nuts.”
“Is there anything you can tell me?”
“Not really, but you know how it works. The longer it takes for something to turn up, the greater the likelihood the case goes cold and somebody gets away with murder.”
“It’s that bad?”
“It’s that bad,” he says. “Whoever did it planned it well.” He pauses. “That stays between you and me, okay?”
“I understand.”
“So, what’s his name?” Dad asks. “This boy you like.”
“Lewis.” I’m relieved to say something that’s actually true. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“Last name?”
“Dad.” I put my hands on my hips and cock my head. “What, will you go all NSA on him and track everything he does?”
“I’m considering it,” he says. “That’s a joke.”
“Wilde. His name is Lewis Wilde.”
“You like a boy whose last name is Wilde?” He shakes his head and stares at the ceiling. “I don’t know about this.”
“Very funny.”
Dad surveys the room. I watch his eyes come to rest on my desk and realize he’s looking at the Niagara Falls picture. The sadness that crosses his face is hard to look at. Behind the long beard and tough-guy exterior is a sensitive man who has been lost for the past year.
“It’s my favorite picture of us,” I say. “Sometimes I use it to talk to her.”
He nods and walks to my desk for a closer view of the picture. As he does so, I position myself so that I’m facing him and effectively screening the silver knife from his view.
“I was thinking of going to see her Saturday morning,” he says, still staring at the picture. “Would you like to come with me?” He glances my way. “Maybe we could hit Eastern Market afterwards. How does that sound?”
“Really?” I say, loving the sound of it. “Yes. I’m totally in.”
He takes another look around the room. I can tell he’s trying not to cry.
“I’m sorry I was so angry.” He walks back toward the hallway. “Sorry about the door too. You know what I’m going through.”
“You scared me. I’ve never seen you that mad. I thought you might actually hit me.”
“I would never do that,” he says. “Even if that was you in Oval City, I would never hit you. I never have and never will.”
There’s a long silence.
“Let me ask you a question,” I finally say. “The man who killed Mom. Do you think he’s evil?”
“That’s a strange question.”
“I know. Maybe I’m just overtired, but do you think he is? Evil, I mean?”
“No,” Dad says. “He’s a disgusting alcoholic who’s paying the price for making a horrible mistake.”
“That’s kind of how I look at it too.” I pause. “Do you believe in evil, Dad?”
“You are overtired,” he says, smiling. “What’s bringing this on?”
“Mr. Watkins, I guess,” I say, although I’m thinking more about William’s murder than the death of Marc Watkins. “I’m just wondering what makes people commit horrible acts like premeditated murder.”
Dad stands there, thinking. Then he says, “I’ve been a cop for more than twenty years. Before that I fought a war in a desert. When it comes to violence, I’ve seen it all. Nothing surprises me anymore. Most people are good, but to answer your question, yes, I do believe in evil, but I’m not saying all murderers are evil. I’ve worked plenty of murder cases where, deep down, I felt the victim deserved to die.” He pauses, Dad surely wondering how much detail I can handle. “But I’ve met way too many murderers who are evil. They kill because they enjoy it. I don’t know how their minds work. I’ve never understood how one human being can derive pleasure from killing one of their own for no reason.”
“What do you think makes somebody that evil?” I say, thinking back to Vagabond’s demonic possession theory. �
�For example, are serial killers born or made?”
“That’s the billion-dollar question, isn’t it?” Dad shrugs. “I don’t think there’s one single cause of evil, Alix. I think evil emerges in a person through a combination of societal, environmental, and emotional factors.” He rubs his eyes, Dad looking exhausted. “But imagine if there was a single cause of evil. If we knew what caused evil, we could probably figure out a way to eliminate evil.”
“And then you’d be out of a job.”
“I would have no problem with that.” He winks. “It’s late, Alix. Get some sleep.”
“I’m almost there,” I say. “But, Dad?”
“What is it, honey?”
“How come you never told me about the boy who died in this house? William Weed. It’s still a story at school, especially with kids who know where we live.”
Dad stares at me from the open doorway, focused thought going on behind those eyes.
“I figured you’d find out about him sooner or later,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “I guess … I don’t know. I should have told you, but I didn’t want your mind distracted with another death, especially a teenager’s suicide.”
Oh, Dad, if you only knew what I was dealing with right now.
“It happened in this room,” I say. “I think you should’ve told me that.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Look, I don’t know anything about the kid. All I know is that his parents moved out of state after it happened, and this house sat on the market for almost two years.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t pass up the deal, Alix.”
“My history teacher was murdered and some kid died in my own bedroom,” I say. “Welcome to Beaconsfield, Michigan. Why are rich suburbs so strange?”
“I agree with you on that. Look, you can switch bedrooms if it bothers you that much. We have three empty ones to choose from.”
“No.” I wave a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a weird thing, knowing somebody my age died in this room.”