“I don’t know what Lance has told you about me lately, or what anyone else has said, but I just want to talk to you. Will you come outside?”
She peeked over my shoulder.
“It’s just me.”
She stepped onto the porch barefoot, her toenails painted fluorescent purple. Her suicide-obsessed companion followed. It seemed taller than the others, and the smell reminded me of the time a rat had died behind the refrigerator in my garage. I stepped back and tried to ignore it—the dip in temperature, too.
“I’m not dressed.” She had on baggy shorts and a faded T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a sloppy knot.
“I don’t care. I’m here to tell you something.”
Her eyes grew wide. “What?”
I didn’t know her all that well, but I swear, I would have done anything to help her, to get that Creeper off her back. “I have no idea what’s going on in your life, Meagan. But I want you to know that you matter.”
She pressed her lips together and blinked fast, fanning the moisture building in her eyes. “What makes you say that?”
“It’s true. You’re important, Meagan. The universe knows your name and needs you.”
You would have thought I’d addressed the Creeper by name. It snarled, pressing its head down at a steep, impossible angle toward me. Did that thing even have a spine? I worked hard to keep my eyes on Meagan.
“You may not understand this,” I said, “but you have incredible, indescribable value.”
Suicide moaned, a low, monotone shriek that rattled my eardrums. A tear fell from Meagan’s cheek to her shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“I do. You’re being attacked.”
And with that, Suicide drew its hands to its chin, gurgling and hacking until it puked up a slimy, brownish-green mucus, mouth stretched wide so that it oozed onto its palms. It was as disgusting as it sounds.
I grabbed my gut. Covered my nose.
It rubbed its vomit-covered hands together, and I heard something, a chorus of cursing and wailing. Whispering howls that made my skin crawl. It was getting louder.
“Owen, what do you mean?”
“Meagan, don’t believe the voices.” I grabbed her shoulders. “The lies in your head. You are meant to live. You have a destiny. Do you believe me?”
She nodded. “Yes.” Another tear.
Suicide opened its palms, fingers spread, and the ghoulish groans became so loud I doubted I’d be able to hear my own voice. There was a deep gash in each of its hands, a horizontal slice that began to stretch and tear open. Then a tongue jutted out of each palm, black and long and twisting.
Suicide lowered its hands, the newly formed mouths slurping inches from Meagan’s head. I couldn’t help but let go of her, but I didn’t stop pleading.
“Don’t let anyone—anything—talk you into giving up.”
“I won’t,” I heard her say.
“Promise me!”
“I . . .”
The Creeper slammed its grimy, licking hands over Meagan’s ears, fingers interlocked on top of her head. Instant quiet for me, but who knows what was echoing in Meagan’s mind now. The hands were sucking, tongues plunged into her ear canals even though they were way too big. Dark drool spilled down either side of her neck like tainted syrup.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” She smirked like I was a moron.
“You were about to make me a promise.”
“Huh?” A blank stare, all emotion stripped away.
“That you won’t give up, no matter what.”
She shrugged. Total disconnect. “Are you going to Stella Murphy’s party?”
“What? No, I—Meagan, there’s something blocking . . . You have this . . .”
She pulled out her cell and started scrolling, tapping the screen fast.
“Meagan, you have to be strong. Fight for your life.”
She held her phone up to my face. “Look.” A blurry picture of Lance walking into a jewelry store. “Do you know if he’s been looking at engagement rings?”
I moved the phone away and focused on her face. “I know he cares about you.” There had to be a way to get through to her.
“Um, I need to go, okay?”
It wasn’t okay.
I asked her not to, but she went inside anyway. Suicide’s hands still squeezed her head, spewing some kind of white noise that drowned out my voice.
Probably any voice of hope.
I drove home, my gut churning. In my room, I sank into bed and worried myself sick. Would the press be at my school in the morning? I’d tried to stop number fifteen, but had I?
TWENTY-FIVE
I CAUGHT UP WITH Ray Anne before first period. No camera crews outside. Major relief.
“Thanks for the dress.” She looked up at me. No smile. “Very thoughtful. But I’m not sure that we should go to prom together.”
“Yesterday was a stupid misunderstanding.” I stepped close. She arched a brow. I explained the situation—how what looked like a big hug was really me trying to shield Jess from an attack. Even though I couldn’t.
“We’re not a couple, Owen. I know that. This isn’t about me being jealous.”
Oh. Well . . . that was too bad. I mean, I wouldn’t want to see her wrapped around some guy.
“It’s that you broke your promise. You didn’t outright lie to me, but you kept something from me. The fact that you’re seeing Jess again.”
“But I’m not seeing her. I swear. And I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you.” Not that, anyway. My promise to Ray Anne had actually died with Walt and Marshall.
“If you’re going to prom, Ray Anne, I want to be your date.”
“Oh, I’m going.” She gave a playful huff. “My mom is determined.” She stopped her overloaded backpack from sliding off her shoulder. “Let me think about it, okay?”
What choice did I have?
“Call you later. Hope you have a good day.” She turned to go, but I stopped her.
“Can I ask you something? Why do you let Jess intimidate you so much? You’re an incredible, brave person. A lot more secure than she is, really.”
She stared down at her turquoise Converse. Shrugged. Then finally: “Maybe ’cause girls like her never listen to girls like me.”
All I could do was nod. Jess didn’t exactly listen to me, either.
She turned again, and I watched her walk the entire way down the hall, lighting our school.
When I got home, Frank’s blue extended-cab truck was taking up nearly my entire driveway. Great.
As expected, there they were—on the sofa, giggling like middle schoolers, my mom sitting on his lap. Disgusting.
She didn’t seem to notice I was home three hours early.
“Hey, Owen!” As if we had a thriving mother-son relationship. “Do me a favor, sweetie. Run to Walmart and pick up the cake I ordered. It’s Frank’s birthday.”
Yeah. That’s what I wanted to do, celebrate her shackled boyfriend’s birth.
I looked him over. Snakeskin boots, skintight jeans, a button-down shirt that needed to be buttoned higher. I mean, who needed to see his chest hair?
One tacky cowboy.
“And grab some candles.”
She and Frank started laughing again. Whatever. At least an errand would get me out of the house.
I blared my music and drove fast. How long would it take for Ray Anne to call me?
I also worried about Jess. I held out hope that she’d dump Dan. For good this time.
Then there was Meagan . . .
My mind was on overload.
I stopped at a light and glanced to my left. There were two shackled homeless people under the overpass, but that’s not what got under my skin. It was the horde of Creepers—about eight of them—swarming the hoboes.
The man and woman covered their heads while the invisible bullies jabbed and slapped them, striking high and low with
swift blows. The man reared back and threw a weary punch in the direction of one of his attackers, but his fist passed right through its dingy garments. The woman shouted nonsense. At least, I assumed it was nonsense.
A honk. I hadn’t noticed the light change. I drove forward, still looking to the side.
Deranged and strung out or not, those people were under attack. And they knew it. They could see the Creepers—or at the very least, feel their presence. It made sense, I guess. Homeless people walking around swatting and mumbling into thin air. Maybe the Creepers had actually driven them out of their functional lives into panhandling and street-corner babbling.
I’ll probably end up under a bridge with them someday, suffering and swinging away.
I wasn’t surprised Walmart was crowded, but I didn’t expect that many Creepers. Who knew?
On my way to the bakery, I strolled through the book section, just in case there was something that might shed some light on my nightmarish life. I spied a hardcover book about demonology that, according to the back cover, was written by some well-known theologian. I thumbed through it, stopping in the glossary.
demon: A wicked spirit sent from the devil. Sometimes demons lived in people, but Christ could force them to come out.
I’d never seen a Creeper press completely inside a person’s body. Man, I hoped that wasn’t possible. Attached was bad enough.
I scanned down, landing on
devil: Satan; formerly Lucifer; a spirit being; ruler of demons; the enemy of God and human beings
Ruler of demons. A month ago, I would have laughed.
I dropped the book in my cart, then headed to the bakery. The cake turned out to be ginormous—enough for twenty-five people. Go figure.
I kept my head down and covered my nose as best I could on the way to grab some candles. I turned down an aisle, and a lady slammed her shopping cart into mine, distracted by a menacing mob—a baby slobbering in the child seat and two more little people bouncing around her.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine.”
Her tiny daughter in a polka-dot dress started crying, stomping her four-inch foot. “I want a toy!”
“I told you no,” the mom said while we both worked to realign our carts. Then her son took off running. She called his name, then followed after him. Little Miss Polka-Dot stared up at me, still sniffling.
“You better do what your mother says,” I told her.
“I don’t have to.”
I bent down and spoke into her pouty mini face. “Oh yes, you do. ’Cause if you don’t, an evil monster will charge at you and rip the light right out of your little chest and crush it into a million disgusting pieces, then plaster it around your peewee neck, where it will stay. Forever.”
She dropped her head back and wailed like a police siren. Hey, I never claimed to be great with kids, and at least I told her the truth.
Her mom returned, and I grabbed a pack of candles and pushed my cart like nothing had happened.
I got into the shortest checkout line I could find and scanned the gum selection, still waiting on Ray Anne’s call. It was almost my turn to check out when a heavyset lady stepped in front of me, grabbing the hand of the large man who must have been holding her place in line. Lucky me, she was linked to a Creeper.
Never fails. The cashier called for a manager, bringing our line to a standstill. I stood there, gagging, looking for a shorter line. There wasn’t one.
“Man, it stinks.” I thought I’d spoken under my breath.
“Excuse me?” The woman in front of me spun around like a tornado and faced off with me. “Did you jus’ say that I stank?”
Oh, boy. “No, I was talking about—” Like an idiot, I pointed to the Creeper, but to everyone else it looked like I pointed at her boyfriend.
“Oh no you didn’t!” Her lower jaw jutted out.
For the first time in my life, I thought a woman was going to kick my butt. She turned to her man, whose swollen bicep boasted a tattoo of a fractured skull. “Did you hear what that fool jus’ said ’bout you?”
He nodded, looking me over from head to toe, straightening the gold nugget ring on his middle finger. The cashier stared at me too. Along with the other people in line.
“That’s not what I meant.” I shook my head. “You guys don’t stink at all.”
“Yes, they do.” The little boy behind me seemed to think that was funny.
Tattoo-man pointed his finger a centimeter from my nose. “You better shut your son up!”
Really? “He’s not my son.”
“Hey!” The boy’s mother was offended. “Who are you telling to shut up?”
“Okay, this needs to stop!” I raised my voice. “This is crazy.”
That’s when the turban-clad cashier intervened, his accent so thick I had to focus to understand him. “Sir, please refrain from calling our customers crazy. No one is crazy here.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.” The little instigator was at it again.
“Son,” his mother said. “Leave the young man alone.”
“But he’s a meanie.”
“Hey, I’m not mean.” Never mind that I had a demonology book in my cart.
“Yes, you kind of are, sir,” the cashier said.
“Okay, you know what?” I threw cash on the counter. “I’m out of here.” I pushed my squeaky shopping cart out the door.
Errands were no longer the mindless break from life that they used to be.
That night, my phone finally rang. But it wasn’t Ray Anne.
“Can you come see me? I need to talk.”
“I’m not your therapist, Jess. And you never take my advice anyway.”
“Please. I don’t want to be alone right now.”
I wasn’t any good at rescuing people. I already knew that. “Where are you?”
“Franklin Park.”
Where I’d played ball with Walt and Marshall. On that afternoon.
“Please, Owen?”
By now, I should have known better.
TWENTY-SIX
I PULLED INTO THE parking spot next to Jess’s convertible, but she wasn’t in her car. The only lit area was the basketball courts, and she wasn’t there, either. She called to me, and I followed her voice, moving in the faint moonlight past a merry-go-round and slides until I came to a swing set.
It stank.
“Thanks for coming.” Jess rocked herself back and forth in a swing, sniffling.
“You okay?”
No answer.
My eyes adjusted better to the dark, well enough to see a hulking black silhouette behind her. I shined my cell. Jess’s makeup was smeared again. The Creeper was familiar too. Regret. So it had gotten its disgusting hands on her after all.
“Get that light out of my face.” Never mind that light was the one thing she needed. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know who else to call.”
“Are you and Dan still together?”
“I guess. I don’t know how committed he is.”
“Why don’t you end it?”
“Because. I’m scared I’ll have more . . .”
“Regret?”
I wasn’t surprised when the Creeper bent down and snarled at me. Then it stayed hunched over, mouthing something in Jess’s ear, a garbled whisper.
She slumped, no longer rocking. “I mess everything up.”
“No you don’t, Jess.”
Regret whispered in her ear again.
“My life is one big mistake.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true, Owen. The ugly, miserable truth.”
I couldn’t hug her, not while she was tethered to a Creeper, so I fought for her from an arm’s length away.
“Jess, it’s like you talked about in the woods, those feelings that follow you. I know what you mean now. They’re real, and they’re attacking you, tricking you into thinking you’re worthless and—”
That was all the time I had.
Regret was reaching down, hands moving toward Jess’s ears. I shut up and stepped back, hoping to spare her the added brainwashing.
The Creeper froze. Finally, it put its arms down.
She took a deep breath, a long exhale. “Ashlyn. She’s the one to worry about.”
I knew Ashlyn was in danger—I saw my first-ever Creeper swoop in on the girl—but I wasn’t sure what Jess’s angle was. “What’s going on with her?”
“She’s popping antidepressants. Way too many. And . . . hurting herself.”
“Hurting herself how?”
Jess sighed but said nothing, protecting her friend’s privacy, I guess. I thought about the Creeper that had closed in on Ashlyn. The slices all over its face and skin . . .
“Is she cutting?”
Jess looked up fast. “How’d you know?”
“I . . . saw it.”
She dropped her chin again, blinking hard. “She tries to hide it, but yeah, I’ve seen her scabs too. She’s been talking to a counselor, but she’s still struggling. I don’t know what to do. I want to help her.”
“I understand.” I really did.
“It’s not fair to put this on you.” She turned her weepy eyes on me. “You can’t fix this.”
“You have no idea how much I wish I could.”
We sat there awhile, then she stood and pulled out her keys, leaned forward, and kissed me on the cheek.
We went our separate ways.
Another failed mission.
I stayed up all night researching demons. I flipped through my new book, then pulled up online interviews, articles, and video documentaries—trying to learn about everything, from accounts of subtle demonic activity to full-blown possessions.
Even with as much wickedness as I’d already seen, this stuff was scary on a different level. People completely overtaken by evil, their bodies ransacked like flimsy tents—growling in inhuman voices, foaming at the mouth, contorting in backbreaking fits.
I’d have dismissed it as theatrics if it weren’t for the eyes. After coming face-to-face with Creepers, I recognized that people in demonic spells have the same dark, dead eyes—something some people without visionary powers claimed they could see. An unmistakable depravity. Venomous aggression.
You can’t fake that.
The Delusion Page 17