Little Creeping Things

by Chelsea Ichaso

  Even that has faded over time. I know the words, but the trace of a voice is gone. I hear the rushing water, the rustling leaves, the birds.

  If Laura was messing with me, then Seth is the killer. He’s behind bars where he should be, and Maribel is safe.

  But if she got scared off and lied to the detectives, it only means one thing.

  A killer is still out there.

  The feeling of being watched crawls over me and I lower the covers. My eyes dart to the shelf on the wall. There, sitting in her place as she has been the past eleven years is my porcelain doll, Edna. Her gigantic blue eyes stare straight ahead at the opposite wall, not at me.

  I exhale and look at the framed photo of Sara and me beside it on the shelf. We were so small, so happy. We wore coordinating dresses with white polka dots that Sara’s mom made. Mine was pink and Sara’s was green. Those were the dresses we wore the day of our tea party. Sara’s last day. My dress was scorched so badly my mom had to throw it away. As usual, the photo makes me achy inside.

  I hear a ding and grab my phone from the nightstand. Gideon.

  Cass, feel better. I’ll talk to Laura in the morning. If she was telling the truth about Seth, we’ll look into it together.

  I text a quick Thanks and open the threat from this afternoon. I read it over and over again. These texts likely came from burner phones. Anyone could have sent this one. Gideon’s probably right. It’s Laura’s elaborate plan to make my life hell. Why did I take everything so seriously?

  I can’t trust myself. How can I know what I heard in the woods? How can I know what happened the day of the fire?

  Maybe everyone’s right. Maybe I meant to start that fire. I told Melody to knock it off in the portable classroom, but when the fire erupted, something inside me came alive. Something wanted to let it grow. To see it wrap its molten fingers around her.

  Despite the warmth of the covers, a shiver pulses through my body.

  I’ve grown up knowing the story of how I knocked over the candle, how Asher tried to open the door. How by the time he opened it, it was too late for Sara Leeds. But the memories have always felt distant. I see the series of events like pages in a picture book, not like pieces of my own life. My parents always batted away my questions, and eventually I knew the story so well I stopped asking.

  I’ve never had the guts to do this, but I need to know the truth. I toss the phone back onto my nightstand. Then, I tear myself from my bed and retrieve my laptop. Nestling back against the pillows, I start a search on the one topic I’ve tried to erase from existence since I was seven years old.

  Articles about Sara Leeds pile onto the search results. I click on one about her funeral, and close it. I scroll down, clicking and skimming articles. But I pause when a black-and-white photograph pops onto the screen. It’s a little girl on a stretcher. She’s wearing a mangled polka dot dress. The title of the article is “Girl Survives Fire, But Remains Eerily Silent.”

  The little girl is me.

  I scroll through the article. The subheading “Investigators find no evidence of foul play” should be settling, but as I read further, the lines electrify the hairs on the back of my neck.

  I keep reading until a knock on my door rattles me. I slam the laptop shut and slide it onto the bedside table.

  “Come in,” I call, lying back onto my pillow like the sick patient I’m supposed to be.

  Asher steps into my room. “Hey, Cass. I heard you weren’t feeling well. Just wanted to see if you needed anything.” He nears the bed, squinting down at me like I might break.

  “Thanks. I’m fine. I know I shouldn’t keep sleeping this close to bedtime, but I can’t get up.”

  He straightens and moves toward the light switch. “Go back to sleep. I didn’t mean to bother you. Yell if you need anything.”

  “Okay. But Asher,” I say before I can change my mind. I sit up.

  “Yeah?” He drifts closer.

  “I need to ask you something.”

  “Sure, anything.” He bends over the bed.

  “It’s about the fire.”

  Asher’s eyes meet mine questioningly, and then his face falls. His fingers go straight to the scars on his left hand. “Why are you asking?”

  “I just thought if you told me what happened, I might remember more.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” He’s solemn as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

  “My whole life I’ve been told I knocked over the candle that burned down the place. But I don’t remember doing it.” I shut my eyes, letting the image of the playhouse crashing around me flicker in the darkness. “Maybe I’m not remembering because”—my fingers twist the edge of the bedsheet—“I did something horrible. Like everyone says.”

  “Cass, no. In the hospital, you did have some trouble talking about what happened. But then you told the doctors, the police, Mom and Dad. It’s possible Sara knocked it over, and you were covering for her. You might’ve felt bad that she didn’t make it, so you took the fall. But it was an accident either way. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

  I scrunch my lips. “Did you have to choose? Who to save, I mean.”

  Asher’s eyes drop to my comforter. “Thankfully, no. You were closest to the door, so I got you out first. But you know all of this.”

  “I should’ve been on the other side of the table. Then you could’ve saved Sara.”

  Asher exhales forcefully. “It wouldn’t have mattered, Cass. Why are you making me relive this?” He keeps rubbing the scars. “You want me to say I would’ve jumped over Sara’s unconscious body to save you?”

  I reach out to take his hand, to stop it from ripping his flesh apart. “No, no. Asher, I’m sorry. I-I’m asking because I found this.” I release his hand and grab my laptop, opening it. I spin it around, showing Asher the article with my photograph at the top.

  “Why are you reading about this?”

  “I told you. I wanted to remember. I wanted to know why the people in this town have always treated me like a criminal, instead of like a seven-year-old would-be victim. And I guess this explains it.”

  His fingers move for the scars again, but he catches himself, lowering both hands carefully to his sides. “The trouble you had talking after the fire… It wasn’t a little trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Asher’s eyes glaze over. “When they took you to the hospital, physically you were fine, apart from some minor burns on your legs. But you weren’t acting fine. You asked a couple times about your doll, but you weren’t exactly lucid. And then you didn’t speak again. You refused to talk about the fire.” His shoulders sink. “For days. You were silent for days. You didn’t cry about Sara. You wouldn’t answer any questions from the cops. Not one. People started talking. It got around town, in the papers. A shrink came to see you. Mom and Dad were worried you’d get taken away.” Asher’s eyes veer from me to the carpet, and his voice drops. “I was outside the door to your room the night Mom and Dad fed you the story about how you knocked over the candle.” He takes a breath. “Over and over again.”

  My fingernails dig back into my palms. Breaking the skin.

  So they thought I’d done it. My family fabricated the candle story to keep me out of some mental hospital. “What do you think happened, Asher? You were the first one through the door.”

  “Don’t ask me that, Cass.”

  Tiny needles prick my eyes. “I need you to tell me. Please. Something is happening to me, and I…I just need to know.”

  Asher takes a long breath. His lips purse tightly before he releases it. “I thought I was going to lose you—not just to the fire. To yourself.”

  “What?” I blink, like maybe it will restart this day. But it doesn’t.

  “I told the cops that the door was stuck. But Cass, you were on the other side of the door.” He bites his lower
lip. “You were holding it shut.”

  I’m sick for real now. I fight back a gagging sensation and blurt, “Why didn’t anyone tell me this?”

  “We were protecting you.”

  “What about everyone else? Didn’t Mom and Dad wonder if I’d do it again?”

  “We all kept a close eye on you for a long time. And eventually, you started talking again. You met Gideon and went back to normal.”

  I’m anything but normal.

  “I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. I’ll be fine, really. I just need to sleep.”

  Asher tries to smile, but it’s forced. “It was a long time ago, Cass. Whatever happened, it’s best you forget it. You’re not that little girl anymore.” He takes the laptop from me and places it on my desk. “Get some rest.” He turns the light off, shutting the door behind him.

  I lie back down, letting the truth expand in my brain until it strangles every other thought. I’m capable of horrible things. Much worse than letting Melody die. Maybe when I wrote the murder plan out in that notebook, some part of me hoped it would come true. That Brandon really would work up the guts to go through with it. Or maybe I wanted to carry it out myself. Only someone else got there first.

  No one should be protecting me. It’s only a matter of time before I give in to that blazing impulse again.

  Get it together. If I continue unraveling, my family’s efforts—this decade-long charade to keep me out of a mental hospital—will have been for nothing. This is exactly what Laura wanted. To witness Fire Girl’s return.

  I tell myself that it was Seth Greer’s face that Melody Davenport saw before she was taken from this world. Not Brandon’s. Not anyone else’s. I repeat that over and over as I try desperately to sleep.

  29

  I wake in the morning before my alarm. The mottled light breaks through the slits in my window blinds, to bring with it a jumbled mess of emotions.

  Either I’m the target of a mammoth prank or I hallucinated my encounter with Laura. And there’s a third possibility: Laura was telling the truth about being Seth’s alibi, and a killer is still out there. A killer whose identity was concealed beneath the sounds of rushing water.

  None of these possibilities are comforting.

  Thanks to a night of worrying about all three options, I’m having trouble getting out of bed. I try to wake myself up with a quick shower. Afterward, I examine my face in the vanity mirror, seeing the lack of sleep drawn in my drooping, puffy eyes. Tiny rivulets of blood web throughout the whites. My hands tremble too much for makeup, so I secure my hair into a ponytail, dab some blush on my cheeks, and shrug at my reflection.

  The sound of the doorbell startles me. The clock reads 7:10 a.m. Gideon used to pick me up at 7:20 in the olden days; he must have forgotten our routine.

  I open the front door, and confusion washes over me. Peter stands on my porch, wearing a shy smile.

  “Peter! Hi! What are you doing here?”

  “Hey, Cass. Sorry to just show up like this. My tutoring appointment this morning canceled and I don’t have a first period. So I got to thinking”—he pauses, cocking a brow playfully—“maybe a certain mermaid would be willing to skip first period to come on a breakfast date?” He flashes his crooked smile, and there’s a tug on my insides.

  “Oh, Peter. That’s really sweet. I wished you’d called. I…um, Gideon’s picking me up for school in a couple minutes.”

  “Gideon?” Peter’s forehead wrinkles.

  “Yeah, we started talking again. You know, trying to work stuff out. To be friends again.”

  “Got it.” His eyes drop to his sneakers, causing my heart to crash down along with it.

  My gaze travels to the thermos in his hand. “Did you make breakfast?”

  “I bought breakfast. If I’d had more time, I probably could’ve whipped you up some Pop-Tarts from scratch, but—I thought we could have a picnic. Maybe another time. You’re right, I should’ve called.” He turns toward the steps, but stops. “I’d be surprised, though, if Gideon goes to school today. I think he’s sick.”

  “What do you mean?” The question bursts out much too loudly.

  “He was my tutoring appointment this morning. He didn’t show. I texted him, but he never responded. That part wasn’t a surprise. Things have been a little weird ever since…you know.”

  “Since what?”

  “Since you and I went to the dance. He barely speaks to me during our sessions. But this is the first time he just hasn’t shown up. That’s why I assumed he must be sick.”

  “He would’ve at least texted if he wasn’t going to pick me up.” It’s 7:20 now: pickup time. If Gideon does pull up in front of my house right now, things are about to get all kinds of awkward. “Let me call him.”

  I duck inside, remembering my phone is still on the nightstand, where I tossed it last night. I hurry down the hall to my room, surprised to see a colorful glow radiating from the screen. I grab my phone and see the text is from Gideon. Sent at 6:55. I must have missed it while I was in the shower.

  Sorry, not feeling well. Can’t pick you up.

  I feel a stab of disappointment as I trudge back out to Peter. “I guess you’re right. He’s sick. Well, the plus side is I’m free to take you up on breakfast.” I force a grin.

  I should go by Gideon’s house to check on him, but I see Peter’s face light up and push the thought aside. I send a quick text back to Gideon and grab my backpack.

  Feel better. I’ll come by after school.

  Peter’s car is still warm and filled with the sweet scent of fresh-baked bread. A brown bag rests at my feet. “Mmm. Where did you pick up breakfast?”

  Peter starts the car and we head the opposite direction from town and school. “Gina’s, of course. You know, if you went to your precious Daisy’s Ice Cream Parlor and tried to get breakfast, you’d be waiting outside on the cold curb for like, four hours, right?” he says, grinning. “Because they’re not open for breakfast, if you didn’t get that.”

  I roll my eyes. “I got it. Thanks, but I was about to say it smells delicious.”

  “Oh.” He pats me teasingly on the arm. “Hey, Gideon called me yesterday. Did you end up finding Laura?”

  “Yeah, thanks for your help. Everything’s fine.”

  “That’s good.” He pulls over to the side of the road and turns off the ignition. “Well, we’re here.”

  I laugh. “We barely left my house.”

  “I know, but my secret spot happens to be near your house. Just through there.” He points to the woods, thick with evergreens, where it seems the sunlight from the open road can’t infiltrate.

  My heart suddenly fills my throat, making it difficult to achieve a playful tone. “Where exactly is your secret spot?”

  “I’ll show you. I’m sure you’ve seen it before, since it’s so close to your house. But I usually go this way because I live over on Sunnydale. It’s my shortcut.”

  My eyes drop to my feet. “I don’t suppose you’d want to just eat in here?”

  “What?” Peter stops reaching for the bag to look at me. “It’s such a nice morning. Finally sunny out.”

  Not in there. My eyes tunnel through to the dark area behind the trees. “We should probably stay out of the woods. Melody was killed in there.”

  “But Seth is behind bars. Besides, I’ll keep you safe.” He flexes a bicep.

  I try to laugh, but it’s useless. There has to be a way to change his mind without letting him know how much I hate his plan. I keep my eyes on the messy passenger’s side floor, searching for an idea in the pile of wrappers, empty water bottles, and random articles of clothing. A ding from somewhere by my feet gives me the excuse I need. “Sorry, just a second. That might be Gideon or my mom.”

  I fumble through the bottom of my backpack where I stashe
d my phone. There’s a text message from Laura, but I’m distracted by a pop of green among the books and folders. I bend over and pick up the item, a green hoodie, letting it hang from my two fingers. A memory of Gideon tugging at the strings of a green hoodie in Hathaway Hall, his eyes distant and jaw scruffy, floods my mind.

  I swallow hard. “Why do you have this?”

  Peter glances at the hoodie, his knuckles tightening over the steering wheel. “Oh, Gideon and I had one of our sessions at good old Gina’s a couple weeks ago. He said he hadn’t gotten much sleep or something and needed coffee.” Peter licks his lips. “He practically collapsed onto the desk at the tutoring center. I drove. He must’ve left his sweatshirt in here.” I follow Peter’s every movement. Every twitch. “I’m surprised I never noticed it down there.”

  Peter’s voice quavers. He wipes his palms on the steering wheel. I unlock my phone and read the text from Laura, trying to ignore the panicked thoughts swirling in my head.

  I’m really sorry about yesterday. I started freaking out as soon as I told you about Seth. Then the cops showed me that threat on your phone and I couldn’t do it. But I told you the truth. If the killer is sending you threats, be careful.

  I close the conversation and stash the phone back in my backpack. The once-heavenly scent of bread is now suffocating. I want to crack a window or throw the bread outside. I settle for unzipping my jacket. I take a deep breath and try to blink away my dark and blurry vision. I’m going to pass out in Peter’s car.

  After another blink, my eyes open and settle on the brown bag with the blue writing: Gina’s Diner. I shut my eyes again.

  If Peter’s a regular at Gina’s, he would have seen Melody all the time. She’d been a waitress there since last June, which would’ve given Peter months to get to know the pretty girl behind the counter. And she must’ve noticed the gorgeous guy with the emerald eyes who came in twice a week to order a milkshake—or perhaps to chat up the waitress.