Little Creeping Things

by Chelsea Ichaso

  “I need some air,” I say. Peter laughs like I made a joke. Then he shrugs and rolls down the window. The cool air rushes into the car along with the chirping of birds and sounds of the rushing creek in the distance. Gracie’s words simmer in my brain: He was a great guy, smart, funny. Was it always Peter? And now, with his breakfast and his jealousy and guilt trips about me looking at another guy, is he grooming me to be his next victim? I’m probably right where he wants me, about to trace Melody’s steps out into the woods.

  “If it’s air you want, we can just head out. You know, like I suggested earlier,” teases Peter, who’s still smiling, but squirmy.

  I need to find my phone and call Gideon or someone to help. I stuff my hand back into my backpack and thrash it around in desperation.

  As I do, my backpack knocks over a large binder resting at my feet. Something small and silver spills out, joining the pile on the scraggly carpeted floor.

  A spiral notebook.

  My body freezes. Peter pulls at my arm, trying to get me to make eye contact. Trying to trap me with his sparkling eyes—the eyes of a cat stalking its prey.

  I gape at him in horror.

  “Cass,” he pleads. “What’s wrong? It’s Gideon, isn’t it? Did he tell you not to hang out with me? That guy doesn’t deserve your friendship. Why can’t he just let you be happy?” He inches closer, the leather seat squeaking unnervingly as he reaches for my hand. His voice drops to a whisper and he bends over me, the words barely audible over the birds and the gushing stream in the background: “Come on. Forget about him for an hour. We have breakfast and we’re alone.”

  A prickly sensation runs up my spine. Hearing the words, low and softened by the sounds of the woods, brings back the fragmented line from that day: We’re alone. And it puts me back into the hole in the ground.

  Only this time it isn’t Melody who’s alone with a killer.

  Peter looks at me with his crooked smile, and that smile is no longer adorable; it’s sinister. And it was probably the last thing Melody Davenport saw before she died.

  I try to unlatch my seat belt, but it’s jammed. It holds me down, strangling me while Peter’s smile morphs into a confused expression. His hand reaches toward me.

  “Stay away from me!” I pull my arm back and press myself against the car door.

  Peter stares at me, his hand frozen in midair. “Cass,” he says with a hard blink. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Of course I’m afraid of you!” I shout. “You killed Melody! You did something to Gideon. And for all I know, he’s dead too!”

  “What are you talking about?” Peter’s brow is furrowed, his mouth open, but I’m not falling for it.

  I keep pressing my back farther into the door, even though the handle stabs me. “She worked at the diner. You go there twice a week. Don’t pretend like you never spoke to her. Flirted with her.”

  “Of course I talked to her. That makes me a killer?”

  “Explain this,” I snap, lifting the notebook from the pile on the floor. I hold it before him with shaky fingers.

  Peter’s face reddens and his eyes fall. “I was going to return it. I only read a couple pages. I’m sorry.” He pushes the hair off his forehead, but it sticks. “I found it a few weeks ago at the diner, and I should’ve given it back to you right away. But I really liked you, and you didn’t know I existed. I thought I could watch some of the movies you wrote about and we’d have something to talk about.” His head slumps. “But then I was too embarrassed to return it.”

  “You did something to Gideon,” I repeat. I feel around again for my phone, keeping my eyes on him.

  “That’s crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy. Stay back!” I flinch. My elbow smacks the glove compartment, sending a volt of pain up my arm.

  “Cass, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I do something to Gideon?” My heart is pounding. My phone is still lost within the backpack. Or he must have taken it when I wasn’t paying attention. I fumble with the seat belt latch again, my eyes still glued on his.

  “I don’t know. Because he was getting between us. Because he was helping me look into Melody’s murder. Because I told him about your threats!” Where is Gideon when I need him? Finally releasing my seat belt, I search frantically for some way to distract Peter.

  “Cass, I have no idea where any of this is coming from.” Peter’s eyes are stuck to the steering wheel.

  “Prove it then. Call him! I want him to tell me he’s sick!” I move my hand back against the door.

  “He won’t answer my call.”

  “Just do it!” I scream. Peter hesitates, and then gives a long sigh before scrolling—or pretending to scroll—for Gideon’s number.

  I don’t waste a second. While his eyes are on the screen, I fling open the car door. I run in the direction of my house, straight through the forest. I can see my back gate, but a familiar sound, though faint and muffled, halts me in my tracks.

  It’s the theme song from Rosemary’s Baby. Gideon’s ringtone. The notes have never sounded as eerie as they do drifting toward me through the dark woods. I follow the sound of the music, hearing the snapping of sticks and the crunching of leaves as Peter pursues me.

  The phone has been discarded or dropped several feet from my backyard. Partially buried beneath the earth, its screen still glows blue after the music stops. I dig it up, turning to face Peter as I back away from him, carefully.

  “Cass. Please stop running from me.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Make it easier for you?” My shoulder brushes against the sharp edge of a branch and I recoil.

  “I don’t know how the phone got there. I haven’t been anywhere near here.”

  Gideon’s screen is cracked, but the phone still works. I scroll through the messages. Our conversation from this morning is the last thing on it, but he never responded to my text. A tremor snakes its way up my core.

  Why is Gideon’s phone in the woods? Did Peter bring him here this morning when they were supposed to have tutoring? It would explain why Gideon never turned up at my house. My mind is a tornado of confusion, with terrifying images of Gideon lying helpless, or lifeless, at the forefront.

  Shaking my head, I step back onto something white and fluffy strewn about the dirt. I take another step, and it’s like walking on the clouds. I must be dreaming, or dead.

  “Please don’t come any closer,” I whisper as Peter steps toward me, leaves crackling beneath his feet. Between his looming figure and the shadows of the evergreens that block out the morning light, I am trapped.

  As my vision darkens, a thunderous crash followed by a deep cry echoes through the woods. I meet Peter’s eyes—I’ve never seen those eyes so big—and immediately know.

  I’m wrong.

  But I’m not dreaming.

  I’m not dead.

  And I’m not crazy.

  30

  Peter and I sprint toward the sounds, which become fainter with every step through the mossy, leaf-ridden ground. We near the log, where I’m certain Gideon is hurt, or worse.

  We hear voices—or a voice—as we near the log, and this time, though still obscured beneath the sounds of rushing water, there is no mistaking it. The same voice from that day with Melody. The voice that haunts my dreams.

  It hits me in the gut, knocking me off balance. No.

  When we stop, Peter pulls my face before his, mouthing, “What’s going on?”

  Breathe. I whisper into his ear, “It’s Asher. The killer. And he has Gideon.”

  I peek out from behind the tree, stifling a cry as I glimpse Gideon’s figure slumped over the log, swathed in the ethereal glow that spills through the treetops. His lifeless face is hidden beneath matted hair and dripping blood. I steady myself against the tree trunk. I’m light-headed, incapable of processing the stillness in Gid
eon’s always-active body.

  Asher stands behind the log, facing our direction. He hovers over Gideon, who suddenly manages to hold himself upright, but just barely. One of his eyes is swollen shut. His hands are bound behind his back, and his feet are tied together with thick rope.

  Over Gideon’s head, Asher dangles something that glimmers under the rays of light.

  Melody Davenport’s necklace.

  “Is this what you were looking for?” Asher snarls. He clutches the golden chain in his fist and stashes it into his pocket. “I really didn’t want to do this, Gideon, but you follow every idiotic command my sister gives you like a lost puppy.” He makes his way toward a black canvas bag resting on the ground beside the log. A blood-coated metal wrench pokes out through the zipper. I fight back nausea.

  Something else is half-concealed in the bag. Shiny ringlets of hair dangle over the side and I can make out one glassy blue eye. The rest of the face is covered by the doll’s upturned dress, leaving its soft, torn belly exposed. More of the cloudlike material has spilled from its bowels and is scattered across the forest floor.

  I gag, doubling over again. Asher didn’t take the doll to fix it; he used it as a hiding place for the necklace. The evidence was moved to my room.

  There’s something else buried in the fluff: a scrap of green material with white polka dots, its edges singed black.

  Asher rifles through the bag, pulling out a shiny blade, and resumes his position behind Gideon. He raises the wood carver and proceeds to lower it in front of Gideon’s throat.

  “No!” I shriek, stumbling from my secure location into the open woods.

  At my outburst, Asher drops the tool to his side, a shocked expression washing over his face.

  “Cass? What are you doing here?” He moves toward me, and I back away, expecting to shuffle straight back into Peter’s firm arms. But the arms never meet me. When I turn, Peter has vanished.

  I’m on my own.

  As I stand, helpless and alone, the weight of my brother’s crimes and my blindness come crashing down on me. My knees buckle, and I crumple to the ground, allowing him to step closer and closer. My fears, my selfishness that day in the woods, probably kept Asher out of jail, and maybe even ended Melody Davenport’s life. And now my best friend’s life is about to be extinguished, just like hers.

  I sense Asher standing over me, and I glance up. He gazes down as though pleased to see me perfectly playing my part in whatever game he’s operating. Traces of worry mark his face, but I’m focused on his eyes. Those icy cold eyes I now know match his soul. I shudder, knowing we share more than those eyes.

  “Asher, please. Let Gideon go.”

  “You really should’ve gone to school today. You need to leave. Now.” His voice is firm but pleading. Clearly, my presence has ruffled him. He can’t go through with his plan as long as I’m here.

  “I won’t leave him.”

  “Cass, this only ends one way. Let me finish this”—he gestures to the log with the carver—“and we can go back home together.”

  “No!” I scream.

  “You have to see that I can’t let him live. Not with everything he knows.”

  “Asher, he won’t say anything.”

  He sneers. “I’m sure.”

  I notice movement behind the log, and Peter’s blond head of hair bobs up behind Gideon, fumbling around back there. A gush of hope stirs me from my paralyzed state. I have to engage Asher in conversation. I want to keep him occupied, to buy Peter time to free Gideon. But I also want to conjure up the brother I know: it couldn’t all have been a lie.

  “Just let me help you,” I say. “The way you always help me.”

  “I already told you. The way you can help is by going to school.”

  “Did you plant the evidence in Seth’s car?”

  Asher’s lips nearly curl. “Don’t feel too bad for the guy. He was dating your nemesis, and you hate guys who do that.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Oh, but you did. You forced my hand when you refused to let things go. The cops had no suspects. You’re the one who did this to Seth. I couldn’t frame Brandon because he would’ve pointed the finger at you. All I wanted to do was help you, Cass. By following the instructions in the notebook.”

  “You found the notebook? But—”

  “Not found, exactly. I wanted to know what you and Brandon were getting so friendly about, so I snuck it out of your purse that night after the diner. What I can’t quite understand is why you’ve been working so hard to screw everything up for us. I really thought you’d be happier with Melody gone. Now I’ll probably have to get rid of Laura.” He flashes a chilling half smile.

  “How did you get the photo from Melody’s phone?”

  “I read the notebook and became extremely curious about what she had on you. So I asked her out. On our first date, I told her I wanted to take a photo of her and send it to myself.” He tilts his head like he’s bored. “She gave me the password, I snapped a photo of her—you might remember that one from her last Instagram post—and I sent your fiery photo to myself. I think you already know what transpired on date two.”

  My will is slipping. I can’t hold my head up or move my legs from their contorted position amid the twigs. “What about Sara Leeds? Why do you have part of her dress?”

  “Cass, I never meant for that day to plague you the way it has. If you would’ve just repeated what I said when I rescued you—that Sara started the fire—no one would have blamed you. Instead you had to act like a weird, fire-starting zombie child.”

  “Did Sara start the fire?”

  Asher shakes his head. “I threw a rock at the candle.”

  “I don’t understand.” I shut my eyes and the voice from the woods repeats in my head. Shh, it’s okay now. I’ve been so consumed by those words without really knowing why.

  The memory comes back in a rush. Asher said those words as he stood on the other side of the playhouse door and I feverishly tried to push it open. He stood there and said them as Sara collapsed to the ground behind me and I wheezed in the smoky air until I couldn’t wheeze anymore.

  I believed my dreams were plagued by memories of the fire, but it wasn’t really the fire that haunted me. It was the boy whose voice remained calm on the other side of the playhouse door as the flames raged around us.

  “I didn’t hold the door shut. You did.” I grip my knees and rock, back and forth. “I thought you were trying to help me open it, but you were holding it shut. You closed the window so the smoke would suffocate us. You killed Sara. You”—I try to gulp, but my throat is too dry—“almost killed me.”

  Asher shakes his head. “The fire was never going to get anywhere near you, Cass. I made sure to get you far away in plenty of time. Of course, I couldn’t let either one of us get away completely unscathed.” He holds up his left wrist. “Not if Sara was going to, you know.”

  My mind spirals and darkens. “But why?”

  “She wasn’t as innocent as you remember, Cass. I heard you two in the playhouse. She was threatening to tell Mom that you broke one of her teacups. I was doing you a favor, just like I did with Melody.”

  “You killed my best friend.” All these years, the doll—Asher’s gift to me—was a hiding place for that scrap of Sara’s dress.

  His first trophy.

  My body convulses with sobs, and I whistle in a breath. I wasn’t silent after the fire because I was protecting myself. I was in shock. My brain must have erased everything to help me cope with the fact that the brother I loved murdered my friend right in front of me.

  When I look at him, I still see myself cuddled up beside him on my bedroom floor as he read Fox in Socks over and over again. I can reason with him. He saved me that day. However twisted, his aim has always been to help me. “Asher, you can’t do this.”

  “See,
that’s where you’re wrong. After the fire, I realized I can get away with anything.”

  Asher is still facing me, his back to the log. I steal a glance at Gideon, whose hands are now free. Peter kneels in front of him, working to untie the rope binding his feet. “I love him. Please don’t.”

  Asher’s features shift and a familiar expression creeps back onto his face. Maybe this is genuine remorse. Maybe the brother who read me stories was real, and he’ll come back to me.

  His face is soft as he lowers over me. I envision him helping me up, the two of us walking off through the woods together, headed to watch a classic horror flick on the sofa. “I don’t want to. You have to believe me. I would never do anything to hurt you. But he gave me no choice.” His face presses even closer to mine, and I notice he doesn’t reach for his scars the way he always does when he worries about me. His voice doesn’t quaver in concern. Instead, he whispers in a voice as smooth as the blade of the wood carver he holds inches from me, “And if you don’t hurry up and get far away from here, you’ll be leaving me no choice.”

  I see Asher now. The real Asher. It’s the first completely honest thing he’s ever said to me. It shatters whatever remnants kept my heart intact, sucking the breath from my lungs.

  It also breaks the shackles that bind me to him.

  “Go ahead,” I say, giving up. I deserve it. Peter seems seconds from releasing Gideon. If my death can somehow help the boys escape, it’s the least I can do. It won’t make up for all of the hurt I caused. But it will be something. I close my eyes, ready to let the blade do its job.

  A deep grunt rattles me from my state of surrender. I open my eyes to see Peter and Gideon standing in front of the log. Peter is already rifling through the black bag in the next second, pulling out the wrench while Asher stands, stunned. Gideon’s body sways slightly, and I’m afraid he might collapse. But his gaze unites with mine. In that flicker from his one good eye, I know we have a plan.

  I turn and take off running through the woods. My feet pound against the uneven terrain, and I know Asher has a choice to make. He can either chase after me or face the two boys and their bag of tools. Barely a second passes before I hear the sound of his body barreling through the branches.