The Delusion

by Laura Gallier

  Ray Anne lowered her chin.

  It felt mean, but I didn’t know what else to do—I ignored Jess, got in my car, and drove off with Ray Anne.

  What were the odds? We were only there five minutes.

  I’d had such a great night with Ray Anne. I hated for it to end like this. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “Did you lie to her about going out with me tonight?”

  I reached up to loosen my collar, but it was barely touching my neck.

  “I did stretch the truth a little, but only to keep from starting a lot of drama. That obviously blew up in my face. I should have been up front with her. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  There wasn’t time to say much else. We pulled into her driveway, and I walked her to the door. She stopped and looked up at me, and I thought maybe she was going to kiss me. No such luck.

  “Owen, I need you to make me a promise. Right now.”

  “Okay.” Where was this going?

  “Don’t ever lie to me. I can overlook a lot, and I know no one’s perfect, but please, don’t ever, ever lie to me. Got it?”

  Like I said, I did lie on occasion. Maybe more than occasionally. But I could stick to the truth if I really wanted to.

  “I won’t lie to you, Ray Anne. I promise.”

  She hugged me—one of those annoying side hugs—then went inside. Before closing the door, she gave me an adorable smile.

  I practically skipped to the car, unable to wipe the grin off my face. She had to be the sweetest girl I’d ever met.

  I really meant what I said about not lying to her.

  Too bad I’d soon have no choice but to break my promise.

  SEVENTEEN

  I TOOK THE EASY WAY OUT and apologized to Jess in a text message. She didn’t reply.

  I would have liked to hang out with Ray Anne again on Saturday, but I didn’t want to come off as desperate. We texted back and forth that afternoon, then I called her to explain what had happened with the Creepers in the store. She fired questions at me, and I answered the best I could.

  I asked her a lot of questions too, but her answers all struck me as unreliable. Sincere but misguided. If she was glowing, she said, it had to be because of Jesus Christ. He’d saved her.

  Christ—a religious zealot who had been dead for twenty centuries.

  I’d been an eyewitness to the paranormal for nearly two weeks at that point, and I had yet to see a guy in sandals pry a person out of a shackle. Or show up at all.

  She said her beliefs, including her theories about Satan and his demons, were all based on the Bible, and she asked if I owned one. I told her my mom didn’t want me bringing one in the house. Not that I’d ever tried.

  “Promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”

  “Always.”

  And we left it at that.

  I hoped Sunday afternoon would be uneventful. I’d just washed my motorcycle—a chore I actually liked—when my buddy Walt and another track team guy named Marshall showed up at my house.

  “Hey,” Walt said from the passenger seat of Marshall’s beat-up truck. “You wanna go shoot some hoops, white boy?”

  I wasn’t sure how I’d run up and down the court with my opponents lugging metal, but I really, really wanted to go. I threw on my favorite Nike shoes and jumped in the truck.

  We went to Franklin Park. It was a hot, gorgeous day. It felt amazing to hold a basketball. I’d forgotten what a stress reliever it was.

  We didn’t keep score, but we knew who was winning. I barely came out on top, but I cut myself some slack. The word rebel was plastered on the basketball goal, and it distracted me, along with everything else.

  We walked back to the truck, and Marshall pulled some sports drinks out of a cooler. I’d gulped mine down when Walt asked a loaded question.

  “What’s this we hear about you seeing freaky stuff?”

  I crushed my plastic bottle with one hand. Lance and his big mouth. Some friend he was turning out to be.

  “We heard you’ve been seeing chains and stuff on people,” Walt said, “and big alien creatures.” He and Marshall looked at each other and busted out laughing.

  I leaned against the truck and crossed my arms tight, not amused. At all.

  “Behind you!” Marshall pointed and ducked, cracking up.

  It’s not like I’d never been mocked before, but never about something so serious. I popped my knuckles. Concentrated on breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth.

  “So, we’re being hunted?” Walt put his hands up like he actually knew karate.

  “Yes.” I wasn’t going to cower. “You are.” I threw my crumpled plastic bottle in the bed of the truck, but it bounced out and landed in the grass.

  “It was something you found in the woods, right?” Marshall said. “You drank it, and bam! Spidey powers. Can you leap over tall buildings?” He did an obnoxious, girly jump over a row of flower-bed rocks.

  I rolled my eyes.

  Walt made a sad face. “Is it true you’re leaving our school?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “To go to Sky High.” They could hardly catch their breath.

  “Laugh all you want. You girls don’t have the guts to drink it.”

  “Are you for real?” Marshall wiped his watery eyes. “We’re not scared. Give us some. We’ll show you.”

  He and Walt did a chest bump.

  I admit I wanted to punch them in the face—bad—but I’d have to have been heartless to serve them a cup of the living hell I’d been suffering. I told them both to shut up and that it was time to call it a day.

  We piled into Marshall’s truck. I wish I could say they drove me straight home and that was the end of it.

  “These creatures,” Walt said, refusing to drop it. “They’ve invaded our school?”

  I nodded, thinking maybe I should walk the rest of the way.

  “And they wrote you a note?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “That’s what Dan Bradford said.”

  Dan? How did he know . . .

  Oh.

  I felt my teeth grinding, the muscles in my neck straining. It was Jess who’d run her mouth, not Lance. She’d blabbed to her loser boyfriend, and now he was having a field day with it. I was livid, but I kept my cool. For a minute.

  “Why won’t you give us a sip?” Walt said. “Then we’ll see too, right?” He and Marshall snickered like toddlers.

  “Trust me, you don’t want it.” I should have stopped there. “So, what else did Dan tell you?”

  Walt got a half grin on his face. “That Jess is glad to be back with him instead of you.”

  I seriously doubted she’d said that. I popped my knuckles again.

  “And that you’re making all this stuff up for attention.”

  I shook my head. “Why would I need attention?”

  Walt cut his eyes at Marshall, hesitated, then . . .

  “Dan says it’s ’cause your mom’s a sleazy drunk, and you don’t know who your daddy is.”

  No. He. Didn’t.

  “Stop the truck!”

  Marshall nearly swerved into a ditch.

  “Dude.” Walt reached out like he was about to touch my shoulder but stopped. “I’m sorry. I was just—”

  “I said stop!”

  Marshall slowed, then pulled over. I grabbed the door handle. I was panting, sweating harder now than when we were outside playing ball.

  “Don’t get out,” Marshall said. “Please. Let me take you home. He shouldn’t have said that.”

  I sat there. Fuming.

  Thinking.

  Plotting.

  Walt tried to right the wrong. “I’m an idiot. Forget what I just said, okay?”

  Impossible. You can’t just unsay things.

  I also knew two wrongs don’t make a right, but that didn’t stop me. I had to settle this. Now. “Make a U-turn.”

  “Okay.” Marshall turned the wheel. “Where we going?”
r />   Walt smiled. “I think I know.”

  There’s a voice in your head that nags at you when you’re about to do something wrong. I totally ignored it. All I could think about was sweet vindication. Walt and Marshall were about to regret every stupid thing they’d said—and so was everyone else who had doubted me.

  My concern for these guys was bound in a headlock by my pride. I led them through the woods to the clearing, totally aware I was being 100 percent self-centered.

  It was dusk when we got to the well. I hoisted the bucket. Neither of the guys paid attention to how it mysteriously filled. Had the old man shown up and caught me in the act, I’m sure I would have come to my senses. But he didn’t.

  Walt stared at his feet. “There’s something moving under us.”

  “The dragon in his lair.” Marshall smirked.

  A fist bump this time.

  I scooped water from the bucket into their drink bottles, then handed them over.

  “Ready?”

  “First, a toast.” Walt held up his bottle and stared me down. “May this moment haunt you every day, for the rest of your life.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “The time you made your friends get diarrhea,” Walt finished.

  He and Marshall smiled and bumped bottles.

  “You go first,” Marshall said.

  “Go for it,” Walt said.

  They kept that up until I forced a solution. “How about you both drink on my count of three?” They were fine with that.

  I stepped between them.

  “One . . .”

  Deep breaths.

  “Two . . .”

  Bottles up.

  “Three.”

  Consumed.

  A still, silent pause, then Walt erupted. “I see the light! I see the light!” His sarcasm was as thick as the shackle around his neck.

  Marshall cracked up and threw his empty bottle at my head. “You’re a liar, bro.” He turned to Walt. “Told you I’d drink it.”

  Walt puffed up his chest. “You wouldn’t have if I hadn’t.”

  They kept it up the whole walk back to the truck—until Walt stopped midsentence and grabbed his gut. “My stomach hurts.”

  “Mine, too.” Marshall grimaced. “And my head.”

  “That’s just the beginning.” The seriousness of what I’d done was only starting to sink in. Guilt mixed with elation. I was about to have not one but two people to back up my claims.

  “What do you mean?” Marshall looked pale.

  “You won’t start seeing things right away. First comes the miserable stomach chill. The sightings follow later.”

  “Shut up.” Walt hunched over. “That’s not funny.”

  “I know. That block of ice in your gut, it never goes away completely. I can still feel the cold, even now.”

  “I thought the diarrhea thing was a joke.” Marshall groaned.

  Walt turned on me. “I can’t believe this, Owen! You knew we were gonna get sick, but you let us drink anyway?”

  I felt a tinge of remorse but mostly relief. Everyone was about to have to take me seriously. Including Dan.

  “What have you done to us?” Walt stumbled to the truck behind Marshall, both clutching their stomachs.

  Misery loves company, and I had two new houseguests. It was inexcusable. And irreversible.

  “Look, you asked for this,” I said. “It happened. Now we have to focus on what’s next.” I felt no need to coddle them. “You might as well learn what a Creeper is, before you see one in a few hours.”

  “A what?” Walt crouched low to the ground, wincing, massaging his head.

  “Pretty soon you’ll see the most horrific things you’ve ever laid eyes on, and you’ll smell them too. But don’t freak out. As long as you don’t say whatever word is chiseled or burned into their face, they probably won’t pay attention to you.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?” Marshall’s bottom lip curled down.

  “Hey, I went through this all by myself. At least you guys have me and each other.”

  Walt scowled. I deserved it.

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” I said. “You guys come to my house and stay the night—”

  “No,” Marshall interrupted. “I’m going home.”

  “But you’ll need me to—”

  “We’re going home, Owen!” Even Walt’s dark skin looked pale now.

  “Fine,” I said. “But you have to come to my house first thing in the morning—like at six o’clock. You can’t talk to anyone or even look at them. And don’t try to go to your parents. You won’t like what you see.”

  I was seriously starting to feel the weight of what I’d done now. “We’ll figure this out, guys. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

  Walt bent over, hands on his knees, and breathed deeply, like he hoped to barf. “Tomorrow’s Monday. I can’t miss school. I have to get exempt from finals.”

  “Walt.” I made him stand and look at me. “By tomorrow, you won’t care about finals. Or school. Or anything except helping me figure out how to stop the Creepers.”

  They both looked pitiful, holding their stomachs, knees bent, trembling.

  “I know how you feel right now, but it’s gonna be okay.” Another one of my mini-lies.

  I offered to drive, but Marshall refused to give me the keys. We drove past a Creeper, and I cringed. At least they won’t be blind to it anymore. Maybe they’ll thank me.

  Not likely.

  Marshall got half of his truck into my driveway.

  “Remember, guys.” I got out, then spoke through the open window. “Get to my house at 6:00 a.m. Don’t talk to anyone. Or look at anyone.” I started to walk away, then turned back. “And whatever you do, do not look in the mirror.”

  I didn’t have to deal with a metal reflection like they would. It might be enough to drive them insane.

  By the time I got to my front door, regret covered me from head to toe, squeezing me like an extra layer of skin.

  All I could do was wait.

  At 6:04 a.m., I sent Walt and Marshall a text. You coming? You okay?

  No response. I paced the living room. Had they gone to the emergency room? Called the police? Convinced an angry mob to march to my house, led by their outraged parents?

  By 6:45 a.m., I was freaking out, contemplating whether to try and find Walt’s house or stay put in case they showed up. I flipped on the TV, a nervous habit. The news was on, the reporter broadcasting from my school parking lot. The sun was barely up, and already the protesters were there, acting moronic in the background.

  “It appears that two more Masonville High School students have taken their lives,” the reporter said.

  “What?” I stood inches from the screen, hands cupped over my mouth. “Who?”

  “Both of the students were discovered by their parents early this morning at their individual homes. Although the cause of death has yet to be determined, authorities fear it was a double suicide.”

  “For crying out loud, who?”

  “According to their classmates, high school seniors Walt Davis and Marshall Roshkey were fellow athletes and close friends. Although many details are not being disclosed at this time, we do know that one of the boys was found deceased in his bed while the other is said to have been discovered on his bedroom floor.”

  “No!” I paced.

  “No! No! No! No! No!” I collapsed to the floor. The room was spinning. Surely I’d heard wrong. Not Walt. Not Marshall.

  I ripped my shirt off. Punched the floor. Knocked a vase off a table.

  What happened? Had they killed themselves? Or . . .

  I curled up in a ball, withering in self-hatred. “Did that water . . . did I . . . ?” I grabbed my shirt off the floor and wiped my snot with it. “I did this! I can’t believe I did this!”

  My mother found me on the floor. “What happened, Son?”

  I grabbed her ankles and sobbed. She bent down and rubbed my shoulders. “Tell me.�
��

  “Walt and this guy Marshall. They’re dead, Mom.”

  She hugged me harder than she had in forever. “Oh, Owen, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry. Their poor parents.”

  She eventually let go. I didn’t lift my head off the floor for a while—just lay there like a filthy clump of dog crap while my mother tried to coax me onto the sofa.

  I heard my phone swoosh, an incoming text. Unreasonable as it was, I actually thought it might be Walt.

  It was Ray Anne. Did you hear? Two more.

  There was no way either of those guys took their own lives. It had to have been the water. I felt like their blood was smeared across my face, dripping from my hands. I wanted to run away. Hide in a dark hole until I suffocated.

  I had to leave. I picked myself up off the floor and searched frantically for my keys in illogical places.

  “Where are you going, Owen?”

  I didn’t have a clue.

  I finally spotted my keys on the coffee table and ran to the front door. I was shirtless but didn’t care. I flung the door open.

  Then froze.

  “Owen Edmonds?”

  Two police officers. On my doorstep.

  EIGHTEEN

  I WOULD HAVE DENIED my own name had my mother not spoken up.

  “Yes, this is my son, Owen.”

  One of the officers looked to be in his midthirties. The other, an older man in street clothes, was holding a badge. “I’m Detective Benny,” he said, “and this is Officer McFarland. We need to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”

  My mother opened the door for them, then scurried around the living room, picking up empty wine glasses, like the police had come to arrest her for being an alcoholic parent.

  Detective Benny motioned for me to sit on the sofa, then stared down at me, his protruding gut jostling over my head. “I take it you heard about Walter Davis and Marshall Roshkey.”

  Guess my bloodshot eyes gave it away.

  “Yes. Just now, on the news. Really hard to believe.” Most murderers have to pretend like they’re grieving, but not me. The officers didn’t seem concerned with how I was feeling, though.

  “When did you last see Walt and Marshall?”

  Think, Owen. Think.