Then snapped.
“You said this would happen—did you talk her into it? Put dark thoughts in her head?”
“What? I . . . no!”
“Did you want her dead?”
Several nurses stopped. Meagan’s distraught brother looked over his shoulder.
“People around you keep dying, Owen!”
“I cared about her.” I backed up.
He closed the gap between us and shouted in my face. “Get out of here! Now!”
“I came because you—”
“I said leave!”
A police officer looked our way. I turned my back on Lance and made my way down the hall, the effects of trauma so severe that I honestly couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or not.
I was nearing some exit doors when a nurse called to me.
“Excuse me, sir?” It shouldn’t have scared me, but it did. “Are you a relative or friend of Ms. Ida Knowles?”
Who? I couldn’t think. I didn’t need this.
“I saw you talking to Ms. Ida earlier. Did you hear?”
“Hear what?” I grabbed the collar of my T-shirt and twisted it, breathing heavy through my mouth.
“She passed, a few minutes ago.”
I couldn’t stand still. “And?”
“I thought you might want to pay your respects.”
I bent over, hands on my thighs, beads of sweat trickling down my face despite how cold I was. “I didn’t know her.”
“You’re the only visitor she’s had.”
“That’s not my problem!” I yelled so loud, the police officer started down the hall.
I stood upright, hands cupped over my mouth, trying to come to grips. Lance was walking in my direction now with Meagan’s brother. I couldn’t take another confrontation. I ducked into the deceased old lady’s room.
Another soulless body, yet this was nothing like what I’d just seen. Her glow was gone, but her flesh was untouched—no bindings, no hideous, dust-covered wound. The room seemed serene and quiet. And a lingering, vitalizing scent let me know a Watchman had been there. Maybe several.
“Good-bye, Ms. Ida.”
It was the best I could do.
I stepped out of the haunted hospital into the afternoon sun, so shaken that I actually tried to outrun my own shadow. Once home, I hid under a pile of blankets in the corner of my closet, curled in a fetal position, suffering from cold sweats and night terrors even though the sun lit up my room. It didn’t matter whether my eyes were open or squeezed closed, I saw Meagan’s face. The horror in her eyes.
I never wanted anyone to say my name ever again.
THIRTY-TWO
POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER WAS more than a psychiatric term in a textbook for me now.
I quit going to school.
Quit eating.
Quit living, really . . .
For fifteen days.
THIRTY-THREE
IT FELT LIKE I’D DROPPED OUT OF life for fifteen years. My only connection to the outside world was Ray Anne. I told her what had happened to Meagan, and for several nights after that, the only way she could sleep was if her mom was lying next to her. She missed some school too, exhausted and sick with sorrow.
My mom nagged me to get out of bed, but I was determined to isolate myself until my mind quit rehearsing Meagan’s demise.
And I refused to go to the funeral. I was done with burying the dead. Meagan wasn’t in a better place and couldn’t possibly be resting in peace, and hearing someone say that she was would have pushed me over the edge.
I didn’t know where that captor had taken her soul, but I was sure it was unbearable.
It took a while, but I finally came to understand that I’d never get over her death, not even slightly—because she wasn’t truly dead. Her body was, but not her.
It was a Thursday afternoon when I pulled the covers back, tired of nursing a wound that couldn’t heal. I wanted to strike back, take some revenge. I was so desperate to put the Creepers on the defensive that I was willing to try just about anything. My frustration gave birth to a plan that I knew had almost no chance of working.
My dog was fixated on my mother’s closed bedroom door, barking her head off. Perfect conditions. “Stay there, girl. I’ll be right back.”
I went to Home Depot and bought the biggest, highest-powered flashlight on the shelf, then hurried home, ready to shove my mom’s bedroom door open and shine the light directly into the Creeper’s eyes. They have an aversion to people’s light, right? So maybe this was worth a try.
As I neared my house, it was clear my experiment would have to wait. A patrol car was in my driveway, and Detective Benny was pacing next to it. He saw me before I could make a U-turn.
I parked my bike and sipped a bottle of sweet tea as I approached him, like his presence created no anxiety in me whatsoever.
“Hello, Owen.” He was one of those guys who nearly fractures bones when he shakes your hand. “I need you to follow me to the station, right now. We’ve got some more questions to ask you.”
I dragged my feet back to my motorcycle, then texted Ray Anne and my mom. I told Ray Anne I’d be off the grid for a while, unplugging to clear my mind. I told my mom the truth.
I was escorted to a gray-walled interrogation room, where Detective Benny lowered into a chair across the table from me, then tapped his pen over and over on a yellow notepad like some sort of mental torture technique. My mind was fragile enough.
“Can I get you something to drink, Owen?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He glanced at a clock on the wall, and I counted four cords spewing from the back of his thick head.
“Please recount the events that took place the day before Walt and Marshall’s deaths. Start with what you did that morning and early afternoon, then explain, in as much detail as possible, what happened once you met up with the two boys. Leave nothing out, please.”
He wouldn’t have brought me here if he didn’t have increased suspicions and probably some new evidence on me. But there was no time to think up a new cover story, and besides, I’d watched enough episodes of Dateline to know that was a big mistake. He’d be listening for inconsistencies. So I told the same story I’d already told him twice before.
Believe me, I was tempted to crack and come clean about the water, but how would I explain my decision to hide it until now? Let’s face it—guys like me get killed in prison, and death was to be avoided at all costs. I’d seen the grim reaper in the flesh and knew now that his kingdom of eternal darkness was real.
I spoke for about twenty minutes, concentrating so hard I got a headache. Or maybe my soaring blood pressure caused it. I worried the detective could feel my pulse reverberating across the table. I tried to act normal even though normal was a distant memory.
I didn’t kill them on purpose.
I said it over and over in my head, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t a real murderer and certainly didn’t deserve to share bunk beds with men who were.
But I didn’t believe me.
I’d committed an incredibly selfish act that had resulted in the loss of two lives—two young souls I now imagined had been sucked into the same black pit as Meagan. Justice demanded some sort of penance on my part.
But I couldn’t bring myself to confess. Human nature at its worst, I guess.
“Owen, some of your classmates have expressed concerns about your mental and emotional stability.”
“Let me guess—Dan Bradford? He’d say anything to get me in trouble.”
Lance might have squealed too.
“Well, for starters, your girlfriend, Jess, says you’ve been acting delusional and even claiming to see scary creatures. She said you recently jumped on top of her and nearly smothered her, supposedly because you believed you were protecting her from something unseen that was out to get her?”
I made a fist, barely resisting the urge to punch the table.
“She’s my ex-girlfriend, and with all due
respect, sir, what does that ridiculous accusation have to do with Marshall and Walt’s deaths?”
“According to their autopsies, the cause of death appears to be the result of having ingested a hazardous substance of some kind. The problem is these two young men don’t fit the profile of kids who wanted to kill themselves, and we have to do our due diligence to investigate all other possibilities, including homicide.”
That’s all it took for Murder to poke its grisly head through the wall.
“I’ve already told you everything I know.” I strained to keep my eyes on the detective, not the predator staring me down.
“But I haven’t told you everything I know, Owen.”
I gripped the sides of my chair, bracing myself for physical evidence that I couldn’t explain away.
“Walt’s mother said her son came home that evening complaining that you made him drink something that made him very sick. Are you starting to connect the dots, son? He likely died of poisoning and said you were the one who coerced him into drinking the ‘weird water,’ as he called it. And your classmates are saying you’re not in your right mind. That doesn’t look so good, does it?”
I had no choice but to pull the rip cord. “I’d like to speak with my lawyer.”
I didn’t have one, but it was time I found one, fast.
Detective Benny let me go.
My mom was in the parking lot, rushing toward me.
“Owen! What did they want?”
“It’s a big misunderstanding, Mom. People are making up accusations about me, like I had something to do with Walt and Marshall’s deaths.” I could hardly tell the difference between the truth and my lies anymore.
Her face turned as white as a bleached sheet. “I’ll get a lawyer.”
Ray Anne invited me over that evening, and I jumped at the chance. I told her I’d help her get her math homework done even faster, but yeah, that didn’t happen. I was too distracted—by the astronomical stressors in my life, of course, but also by her. On the sofa next to me.
All I could think about was how badly I wanted to pull her on top of me, escape for a little while under the weight and touch of her body. Her megablue eyes were getting to me, making me wish I’d never committed to her to hold back. I actually felt a tinge of resentment that she’d asked that of me.
I guess she sensed my longing—she scooted away and tucked a throw pillow between us. I could have ripped that pillow apart with my bare hands.
I wanted to respect her commitment to purity, as she called it, but at the same time, it presented a provoking challenge. Could I persuade her to give in to me?
I leaned toward her, my elbow crushing the ugly pillow, mouthing soft words close to her ear. Giving it my all.
“You want something to drink?” She stood, basically dumping a bucket of ice water on my head.
“Sure.”
She went into the kitchen, and I stayed on the sofa. Alone. Just me and my frustrated ego.
But not for long. A Creeper poked its head through the front door, its lethal eyes targeting me. Its name was easy to read:
lust
So Creepers can smell pheromones, I guess.
It didn’t stay there long and didn’t dare come in—not inside a home full of Lights. But I was still disgusted with my behavior. I’d never thought of myself as a Dan Bradford, the type that uses girls. And the thought of Ray Anne being used filled me with rage. Yet I wanted to.
We drank some purple Kool-Aid, then I went home, wrestling with my motives while also trying to get the image of Meagan’s face out of my mind. I couldn’t go very long without seeing it.
I sat down at the desk in my bedroom and couldn’t resist texting Jess: Thanks for trying to get me arrested.
A minute later, my phone rang. She spoke without taking a breath. “I know you’re probably furious, but the police came to my house and questioned me, and at first I didn’t say much, but the more they asked me about you, the more I just told the truth about stuff.
“After they left, I felt really bad, like I’d betrayed you or something, and I thought about telling you, but I just didn’t know how. I don’t think you did anything bad whatsoever to Marshall and Walt, Owen.”
I was prepared to really sock it to her, but I lost all momentum after she groveled. I’m sorry was not in Jess’s vocabulary, but I knew that’s what she meant.
And honestly, I kind of understood where she was coming from. I knew from personal experience how distressing it is to lie to the police.
What was eating at me now, though, was that she had refused to believe me in the first place.
“Jess, are you even slightly willing to consider that my warnings to you are true?”
For all I knew, her ears were being blocked.
“Owen, what do you expect? I can’t possibly believe what you’re saying. No one could. Besides, your claims are really terrifying.”
I was well aware how terrifying they were. That’s why I wanted her to take them seriously.
Oh well. There was no sense in trying to convince a shackled person to believe me.
On Sunday night, there was a candlelight vigil being planned in Meagan’s honor and in memorial of the other suicide victims, at Franklin Park of all places. My mom tried to guilt me into going, but eventually we made a truce. She’d leave me alone about it if I started going to school again.
Done.
Masonville High was a mess. The graffiti was out of control—every solid surface had more black than blank space. The halls were lined with Creeper notes, but people paid no attention, trampling them without a thought. I tried pointing them out, even showed one guy how they dissolved when you touched them. All he said was, “Dude, get off the floor.”
I spotted a hulking Creeper in an empty bathroom and took the opportunity to put my megaflashlight to the test. I pulled it from my backpack and aimed it at the Creeper’s hazy eyes. I might as well have thrown baby powder at its cheeks. No effect whatsoever.
I shook it off and kept brainstorming.
By now, I could look at a certain classmate or teacher and recall which Creeper tended to torment that person. I would see someone, like my friend Sammy, for example, and think, Hey, Sam. Where’s Aggression today?
My goal of helping people seemed like a pipe dream now. I’d lost all confidence in my ability to encourage people out of their bondage. I’d seen where that got me with Meagan. With Jess and my mom, too.
At least Ashlyn seemed to be doing better. She’d agreed to help Ray Anne start a Fellowship of Christian Athletes chapter. I told Ray I’d be glad to hang their FCA posters. But that’s about it.
I was on my way to fifth period, navigating around people’s chains, when the Creepers began charging in the same direction, scurrying like the Watchmen were back. Naturally I followed.
One by one, they threw themselves to the floor, lying prostrate in single-file lines that stretched all the way across the cafeteria, which was clear of tables this time of day. I ran up a nearby stairwell to watch, stopping on the landing between the first and second floors, overlooking the open space.
The Creepers were falling into a pattern, every other one facing the direction opposite its neighbor so that their heads were beside one another’s feet. They clung to each other’s ankles, creating tight Xs with their lanky bodies, blanketing the floor like a mildewed, mutilated carpet.
The bell rang, but I stood there, enthralled.
Like the pounding of a thousand bass drums, I felt it in my chest when, all at once, they began chanting in unison. It was loud, much louder than I’d ever heard them before, but I couldn’t understand them at first. Then . . .
“Ave rex! Molek! Dominus Mortuorum!”
They rolled their toxic tongues in one accord.
Latin. I knew exactly what it meant. Then came the proclamation in English.
“Hail the king! Molek! Lord of the Dead!”
Over and over they chanted with raspy, booming voices, in one earthly langua
ge after another.
That’s when my body was seized by a mind-altering sensation that threw my balance off and gave me a nauseating high. My freezing, clammy palms slid down the metal banisters, and I caved to the floor.
I felt sweat fall from my forehead, only it appeared to travel up from the ground back onto my face at a delayed speed. I wanted off the ride.
Then I saw him, emerging from the suicide memorial fence outside and passing through the wall, into the cafeteria, looking like an elaborate Halloween costume—only this monstrosity was alive. Two Creepers crawled on their hands and knees, trampling on top of their prostrate coconspirators, straining under his weight. He dominated his slave escorts using reins attached to sadistic face harnesses, a foot crammed into each of their swayed backs. Every twist of his wrist elicited agonizing shrieks, to which he lifted his chin all the more.
It was him again, the same monster who had plunged Meagan’s soul into the depths of the dead.
He closed his eyes and slowly swept his head back and forth, like the Creepers’ praise infused life into his soulless existence. Once he trod over his submissive subjects, they rose to their hands and knees and crawled behind him, forming a massive entourage, never lifting their brainwashed heads.
I couldn’t turn away. Despite my hostility toward him, his presence had a seductive power that mesmerized me.
Could this be God?
I shoved my face between two banisters to steady my wobbly, swollen head and watched as the Lord of the Dead—Molek—finally came to a halt in the center of the cafeteria.
The Creepers huddled on their knees at his feet, hands lifted high, yet wincing, visibly troubled by his presence. They didn’t dare look him in the face.
The king lifted one gigantic hand, and all activity instantly ceased. He paused, then shoved his other hand out, clawlike fingernails so long and thick they were visible from where I was. The Creepers moved back at once.
I remained doubled over on the stairwell, bewitched by fascination mixed with despair. It only got worse when the dictator belted out a command—an inhuman word that called forth an inhumane world.
The Delusion Page 21