Little Creeping Things

by Chelsea Ichaso

  I try to meet Gideon’s eyes, but smoke fills my mind as the memory slips in. I blink, just like I did that day when I found myself coated in ash, attempting to cough out the dry, burning sensation in my lungs. “Giddy, someone…”

  He reaches for me, lowering his head to make eye contact. My gaze sinks to my gray trainers. “Cass, what?”

  I inhale a slow breath. “I think—”

  The front door squeaks, jolting us apart. Asher walks in, carrying a small plastic bag. He stops when he sees us, like he did earlier, brows hoisted. “Wow. You guys haven’t moved much, have you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but strolls past, chuckling softly. We remain huddled together, unable to budge.

  Gideon glances to where Asher disappeared behind the wall. When he looks at me again, lines mar his features. “You were saying?”

  I shake my head, feeling the separation between us like a fog, cold and thick. I’ve spent the past ten years trying to erase this image. Fire Girl. Trying to convince everyone—trying to convince myself—I’m not a killer. And the only person who bought into my efforts was Gideon. He’s always seen a better version of me. Now, that version is about to shatter into pieces on my kitchen floor.

  This is the one thing I can’t tell him.

  “Nothing. Let me ask Asher about Melody.”

  Hope wiggles its way into my mind. Maybe Brandon doesn’t have my notebook. Maybe I dropped it somewhere in the house, and Asher picked it up.

  I knock, my thoughts jumbled as he opens the door. He wears a smile, but it wavers as I stand in the doorway like a mannequin. “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Uh, yeah. Hi.” I scan the items scattered on the desk. The crumpled plastic bag is weighed down by a pack of gel pens, some stationery, and a printer ink cartridge. No spiral notebook. “Looks like you got lucky,” I say, putting on my best casual voice.

  He nods. “Who would’ve guessed Carver’s actually carries something real people use?”

  “Hey.” I lean against his door frame for support. “I use the cat jewelry, every time I dress up like an eccentric cat lady for Halloween.”

  He grins, but it fades quickly. “Actually, Cass, I have to print up these documents by three. Did you need something?”

  “Oh. I—yeah, sorry. I was just wondering if you’d seen Melody when you were in town. Or on your way back here. I’m going to lose my spot on the team if I don’t get some extra help with my hitting.”

  Asher’s eyes widen. “You want Melody to help you? She calls you a cousin killer every time she sees you.”

  Okay, maybe I could’ve come up with a better reason. “I really want to keep my spot, and she’s still the best outside hitter in town. You didn’t see her?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “It’s fine.” But a tiny fragment of hope tears away, leaving an ache in my chest. “Also,” I add, trying to act casual, “I was wondering if you’d seen my notebook. The little silver one? I think I dropped it somewhere in the house.”

  Asher looks up in thought, then shakes his head. “Nope, haven’t seen your diary,” he says with a smirk. “But I’ll let you know if it turns up. We wouldn’t want the world finding out about your crush on you know who.” He winks, and I can’t even manage a sisterly quip. “I’m sure it’s in your locker at school or something, Cass. It’ll turn up. Remember, classic horror will wash away all of your troubles tonight.”

  I sigh through my fake smile and back into the hallway. “I’ll let you get back to work.” I shut the door, standing there for a long beat.

  Back in the kitchen, I find Gideon exactly where I left him, his foot tapping on the tile. “Well?”

  “He hasn’t seen her. Let’s go.” I rush out the back door again, stooping to pick up my bike. If Melody’s not home, I have to get to the sawmill before it’s too late.

  Gideon looks worried that whatever happened in the gym today isn’t over. That Fire Girl is having an episode.

  Maybe he’s right. I can’t deny seeing the school gym burning down one minute, and blinking to find it perfectly fine the next. But if this isn’t an episode—if I really heard Melody scream for help until she couldn’t scream anymore, this is time I can’t afford to waste. I clench my teeth and start pedaling.

  We went to Melody’s house once for a party at the end of sophomore year, when all of the volleyball players, even junior varsity girls, were invited. She asked me to go down to the basement to grab more beer, and when I obeyed, she locked me inside and turned up the music. It was an hour before anyone heard me pounding on the door.

  The houses in her neighborhood aren’t quite as spread out as they are in mine. Large trees drape over the narrow road, creating a tunnel of false serenity for us. It feels like we could ride through and end up on the other side of all this.

  When we reach the quaint white-paneled home with mocha trim, I slow down and drop my bike onto the lawn. Gideon trails me up the porch steps and I ring the doorbell.

  A flash of blond emerges in the doorway, and my heart soars. But it sinks again when I realize it isn’t Melody. It’s her younger sister, Gracie, who’s a year behind Gideon and me at school. She’s on the tennis team. I went to a match last year. When Gracie returned the ball straight into her opponent’s face, knocking her to the ground, Gracie nearly burst into tears. Before the girl knew what had happened, Gracie was over the net, helping her up.

  “Hey, Gracie,” Gideon says.

  Gracie blushes and her mouth quirks to one side. The Gideon Hollander Effect. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”

  My hands are numb. I rub my fingers together to get some feeling back.

  “Is Melody home?” Gideon asks, pushing the hair off his forehead.

  Gracie shakes her head softly. “She was supposed to be working, but the diner just called looking for her. Apparently, she didn’t show up for her shift.” My heart sinks to the cement porch, but Gracie flashes a cherubic smile. “My sister’s not exactly a star employee, though. What’d you need her for?”

  “Just some help with my hitting,” I say, using the lie that didn’t work on Asher.

  Gracie lifts a brow. She doesn’t share her sister’s hatred of me, but she knows Melody and I don’t exactly hang out. “I can pass on a message, if you’d like.”

  I’m suddenly mute, my foot tapping on the porch.

  “That’s okay,” Gideon cuts in. He sounds cheery, but I feel him deflate at my side. “We’ll catch her later. Thanks, Gracie.” He musters a half smile, and Gracie’s cheeks flush crimson as she closes the door.

  “Let’s go back to your place and call around,” Gideon says to me, descending the steps. “Someone must’ve seen her.”

  I follow him to the curb, but my legs slow. This can’t be happening. I reach the bike and pick it up with Jell-O hands. I slip a flaccid leg over the seat, but I can’t lift my feet to place them on the pedals. Everything—the sounds Melody made, the muffled voice in the woods—is swirling around in my head. My bike is too heavy resting against my legs. It’s okay now repeats in my mind, gluing my feet to the asphalt.

  Those words never mean anything is okay. Those were the words a paramedic cooed to me while wheeling me away on a stretcher. The firefighters still worked, their heavy yellow coats fading into the distance as my world crumbled. Those were the words my mom whispered to me after I woke up from a particularly gruesome fire dream a few years back. Only Asher was finally able to help by pulling Fox in Socks, my favorite childhood book, from the shelf and reading until his voice became croaky.

  The ashes may have sunk into the soil years before, the smoke long since dispersed, but I’d never escape that fire.

  Now Melody may be beyond saving too.

  I blink again to see Gideon take off down the street. I get my bike moving, but the pedals are leaden. I’ll never catch up to him. I huff and wheeze and drip sweat until finally, I give
up. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t call out to Gideon. The words, the notebook, wisps of my giggling conversation with Brandon have landed on my chest and filled my throat, suffocating me.

  Gideon’s figure becomes speckled with tiny grayish-white flecks. More white dots appear, like he’s biking straight into a snowstorm despite the tepid feel of the air.

  Overhead, the sun vanishes behind an ink-dark cloud. I glance down at a snowflake that’s fallen on my bare arm. It doesn’t melt against the warmth of my skin.

  Because it’s ash. When I look up again, the horizon is a blazing display of neon orange and red, the sky is black with smoke, and Gideon keeps biking straight into a cloud of ash.

  My head feels tight. Too tight. And the silver cloud swallows him up.

  3

  “Cass.” Gideon’s voice. Slowly, I blink his blurred face into focus.

  “What happened?” I slur.

  “You crashed your bike into a trash can. I think you hit your head on the pavement.”

  I attempt to stand, but my vision fogs. We’re on the sidewalk, but it looks like we’re floating on a stormy sky. Gideon must have dragged me and my bike off the road before any cars managed to squash me. I wince. The entire right side of my body stings. I’m bleeding from my knee and elbow. I clearly hit the asphalt hard.

  Gideon pulls me to my feet and steadies me, brushing gravel off my arm. “We need to get you home.”

  I want to agree, to head home and watch a movie, safe and snug on my couch with Gideon. But instead I say, “I’m fine. Just some scrapes. I have to get to the sawmill. I have to find Melody.” Too shaky to ride, I grip the handlebars of my bike and roll it.

  “The sawmill?” Gideon asks, eyeing me. My body sways until he grabs my waist. “Why the sawmill? Cass, you’re bleeding and you might have a concussion. I’ll find Melody. After I take you home.”

  I shake my head. “I have to do it.”

  “Why? What are you not telling me? Why don’t you trust me to take care of this?” He leans in close enough for me to breathe in his familiar scent—sweat, pine from biking through the woods, and a hint of citrus from his shampoo.

  His face falls. I know what he’s thinking. We don’t keep secrets from each other.

  My gaze drifts to the oak trees lining the road. “I trust you. It’s just…” I want to tell him. I do. So he can fix this, the way he fixes everything.

  But I can’t ever tell him the truth about that night with Brandon. He’d never see me the same way again; he’d see me the way everyone else does. I don’t respond, and Gideon growls under his breath, rolling his bike a yard ahead of mine. My eyes sting and my chest wrenches.

  “Look, someone took my notebook!” I force out. The words hang in the air as Gideon turns to stare at me, mouth and eyes wide open. I double over, breathing in the grass-scented air with my chest pressed into the handlebars.

  “I’m lost.”

  “I wrote something in there about Melody. Something bad. And now the notebook is gone, and…”

  “Cass, this is what I was afraid of. I think someone’s messing with you.”

  “That’s not it.” But my stomach flips. Or is that exactly it? Melody and Brandon could be doing this together. They could’ve seen me head into the woods and decided it would be fun to mess with Fire Girl.

  The horrible feeling wrapped around my chest squeezes tighter. I blink back the tears. “I’m just afraid if I tell you—” The tears escape, running down my face. I wipe them, smearing the back of my hand with mascara.

  “Cass…” Gideon softens, gently pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Melody’s not at work because she ditched her shift to stay with that guy from the woods. I don’t know what you heard, but I know you’re not going to get in trouble.”

  Considering my history, that’s the last thing he should claim to know with any certainty. Everyone in this town knows I’m trouble. Or troubled. Add that notebook with the detailed murder plan; it seems I’ve laid out the evidence, nice and neat, right in front of them.

  But I can’t tell Gideon about any of that.

  “Sit down,” he says. “I’ll call Asher to come with the car. In the meantime, I’ll bike to the diner and grab you some ice.”

  I nod and lower onto the curb. “You’re right,” I say, touching my head and finding my fingertips sticky with blood. “I probably have a concussion. I’m sorry for acting so weird.”

  Gideon smiles weakly. “I’ll be right back.” He places a gentle hand on my arm, and guilt churns in my chest. Then he hops onto his bike, tossing me one last concerned glance over his shoulder.

  The second he disappears around the corner, I’m on my feet and slipping a wobbly leg over my bike. I start pedaling in the opposite direction, up the street with manicured lawns and picket fences, and onto the narrow road that weaves through the hills.

  To the abandoned sawmill.

  I pedal as fast as my weak legs will allow, my head pounding. I might’ve lied to Gideon about staying put, but I very well could be concussed. A trickle of sweat or blood drips into my eye and I rub at it with a sleeve, keeping one hand on the handlebars. Ahead, a hare hops through the tall grass off the path, pausing on his haunches, muzzle twitching, black eyes wide. I swerve to avoid him as he springs back into the trees.

  When I reach the fork in the trail, I brake and dismount. Off to the left, trees line a dirt road that is just large enough to fit a vehicle. If Brandon drove Melody up here, where would he hide his car? I drag my bike through the tall grass a few yards to the right, then I take off running up the windy trail.

  Water gurgles in the distance, and I push through the weeds and brambles until the mill bursts into view, its roof partially caved in and the door missing. This place hasn’t run since the late 1800s. The mill owner, Tom Garrison, used this place to dispose of his wife, Maribel, our town’s namesake. Tom was executed for the murder, but, according to town legend, his spirit haunts the place to this day. If he sees you, the mill starts up and running of its own accord, sawing you into tiny bits that no one will ever find.

  Which explains why not even the drug addicts come up here. I near the old building, which looks empty, like always.

  But I have to make sure. I can’t let someone else die because of me.

  My breathing is ragged as I head past the rusted wheel half-buried beneath overgrown weeds and twigs. Knee-high in rubble and vines, I duck under a fallen beam.

  I’m not worrying about the ghost of Tom or even about stepping on something sharp and tetanus-inducing. I need to figure out what to do if I discover Brandon inside with Melody, ready to enact part two of our plan.

  Or worse, finished with part two.

  I tiptoe around the back of the mill. Some swallows dive through the blackberry bushes beside the wheel, startling me. This side of the building is completely eroded, with parts of the wall missing. Black mold and oxidized paint splotches mingle over the remaining bricks, but there’s a tiny stone window for me to peek through.

  I reach up, loose mortar crumbling beneath my hand as I push onto my tiptoes and hold my breath. The ruined brick building is empty inside.

  I exhale, relief flooding my body.

  But then I see a glint. Beneath a rotted wooden bench, tangled up in the dirt and rubble.

  I press my face closer, scraping my chin against the stone. My stomach twists. It’s a gold necklace with a charm of a musical note. Melody’s—she always wears it. The chain is coiled like a bronze snake, its broken clasp shimmering in a slanted ray of sunlight. I lower onto the gravel.

  I’m too late. I struggle to take a breath, bending over with my hands on my knees.

  Or maybe Brandon heard me coming and took Melody somewhere else.

  I pull myself up and skirt the building, searching for any signs she could still be alive. I should get back on my bike and away from the mi
ll. If someone has my notebook and Melody really turns up dead, I can’t be seen here.

  But if I run away now, I’d be letting this happen.

  Back near my bike, I whip out my phone and dial the sheriff’s station again. I’ll deal with the repercussions later. Please pick up. It rings, rings again. And then, miraculously, a woman’s voice answers.

  “Maribel sheriff’s station. This is Pam speaking.”

  “Hello,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Someone’s in trouble.”

  “Just a minute,” she says casually, like I called to schedule a routine dental appointment.

  “We don’t have a minute!” I hiss, my fingers quivering around the phone.

  A crack sounds behind me, and I freeze, dropping the phone into the tall grass, the voice on the other end still chattering into the air.

  I spin around, ready to face Brandon or even the blade-wielding ghost of Tom Garrison, himself. Instead, Gideon is standing beside an oak tree, ankle-deep in weeds, betrayal etched on his face.

  4

  “What are you doing up here?” Gideon asks, gaping like I took a swing at him.

  “Gideon, I told you we needed to hurry!” I point back to the mill, frantic. “Melody’s necklace is in there.”

  “What?” he asks skeptically. Maybe this is why I was too afraid to tell him. Deep down, I knew even my best friend wouldn’t believe me.

  “We don’t have time,” I say, realizing the phone at my feet has gone quiet.

  Gideon takes a cautious step toward me. “Cass, Melody’s fine. She updated her Instagram ten minutes ago.”

  “No, she was—” I crane my neck to look back at the ruins. “But her necklace.” I reach down to snatch my phone and then sprint back to the mill. Gideon’s steps pound the earth behind me, but I keep running, this time straight through the glaring hole that used to be a door. I barrel through the cobwebs and overgrown vines, kicking over the rotted bench.

  But my heart lunges, knowing before my eyes do. The necklace is no longer coiled on the stone.