by Dan Wells
next to her head. She was stretched out on the floor, my shadow falling ominously across her. I pulled the strips of ripped curtain fabric from my backpack and tied her wrists together as tightly as I could. Her bones were thin and brittle, and I thought I could probably snap them in half if I wanted. I realized that I was already squeezing with one hand, pressing toward the breaking point, and pulled away. Leave her alone! Gently, I stretched her bound wrists above her head, and tied them securely to a radiator below the window. I did the same to her ankles, tying them first to each other and then to the foot of the bed. All the while, snapping photos, shot after shot, keeping an eye on the GPS handset. The demon's car stopped moving. I dropped the phone, and grabbed the GPS with both hands, eyes glued to the dimly glowing screen. He was on the far side of town, near where Lauren lived, at an intersection. I held my breath. He started driving again, and I let it out. False alarm. I peeled back the pillowcase just far enough to see Mrs. Crowley's mouth, and gagged her with another strip of curtain. She was still unconscious, and still breathing evenly, but I didn't want to take any chances of her waking up and calling for help. I took another picture of her face, and then pulled the pillowcase back down. I had enough photos now. The monster snarled again inside my head—a picture of her arm, lying unattached in the middle of the floor, would be so effective—but I struggled to ignore it. With one eye on the GPS I repacked my bag. It was time for phase three. And then the demon stopped again. The street corner on the screen was unfamiliar, but both streets were named after flowers, so I could guess which neigh- borhood he was in—The Gardens, just this side of the train tracks that led through town to the wood plant. He was very close to where he'd killed Max's dad. It was sure to be patrolled, and he was taking a big risk. Maybe he'd been stopped by a cop. I held the GPS unit in one hand and the phone in the other, waiting. The car was motionless. It was now or never. I created a text message, attached the first photo of Kay, and dialed Mr. Crowley's number: MYTURN As soon as I sent the message, I created a new one, then the third, then more, dropping the GPS unit, and using both hands on the phone to keep up a rapid-fire onslaught of horror. Soon I stopped sending messages altogether, just photos,
one after the other, in a step-by-step catalog of everything the demon's wife had suffered. I paused a moment to glance at the GPS screen and cursed loudly at the motionless arrow. Why wasn't he moving? What was he doing? If I didn't catch him in time, he'd kill someone, and the whole plan—everything I'd done—would be wasted. I didn't want to let him kill anyone else—not even one more person. Had I waited too long? The phone rang again, and I almost dropped it. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Mr. Crowley's number this time—I had his attention. I ignored the call and sent him more photos: Kay sleeping, Kay hooded and gagged, Kay tied to the radiator. A moment later the arrow on the screen jerked backward, turned, and came barreling back down the road. The bait had worked, but would it be enough? I watched the screen intently, waiting for the car to slow down, or careen off the side of the road—any sign that his body was finally destroying itself. But nothing changed. The demon was healthy, the demon was mad as hell, and the demon was headed straight for me. 18 The arrow on the GPS set raced closer. I looked around at the room—at the disheveled sheets on the bed, the scattered mess on the dresser, and the beaten body of my next-door neighbor lying bound and gagged on the floor. I couldn't clean any of it up—I would barely have time to get outside before the demon came back, let alone find a place to hide. In a few seconds I'd be dead, and Crowley would rip open my chest and pull out my heart. After what I'd done to his wife, he'd probably kill my whole family, too, just for vengeance. Well, everyone in the family but Dad—good luck finding him. Sometimes it pays to be estranged from your psychopathic son. Yet even if I had given up, the monster inside me had not. I looked up from my fatalistic thoughts to find myself gathering my things—the GPS set, the ski mask, the backpack—and heading for the bedroom door. As my intellect caught up with my instinct for selfpreservation I doubled back into the room, scanning the floor for anything I might have dropped. DNA evidence didn't worry me—I had spent so much time in the house for legitimate reasons that I could probably explain anything the police found. I
told myself that the phone records could also be explained, or erased, and that somehow I could still hide who I was. I took the phone with me, just to be sure. As a final action, I turned out the lamp and slipped into the dark hallway. The house was pitch black, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. I stumbled blindly toward the stairs, my hand on the wall, not daring to use my penlight. I felt my way carefully down the stairs, one step at a time. Halfway down, I caught a glimmer of light from the window in the back door. Moonlight, faint and sullen. I reached the ground floor and turned toward the basement stairs, but another light was growing in the front windows, pale yellow, and the dull roar of an engine swelled rapidly to an angry scream. Crowley was back. I forgot about the basement and ran for the back door, desperate to be out of the house before the demon entered. The knob stuck, but I twisted hard and a little button popped out, unlocking the latch. I threw the door open, stepped outside, and drew it closed behind me as quickly and quietly as I could. The car screeched into the driveway, and the distant trees in the back were suddenly flooded with an angry yellow glare as the car headlights reached down the side yard and out across the snow. I heard the car door open and the demon roar, and I realized too late that I'd failed to relock the back door behind me. I was still crouched next to it in fear; if he checked it, I'd be dead. I wanted to open it again and lock the knob, but the sound of the front door opening told me I was too late; the demon was in the house. I leaped down the few concrete steps to the ground, and ran to the corner of the house. Stepping around meant facing the glare of the headlights, where it would be impossible to hide, but staying here meant he would see me when he opened the back door. I took a deep breath, and ran across the headlights, diving into the shadow of the garden shed. There was no sound behind me. The back door didn't open. I cursed myself for being so scared of something so small—of course he wouldn't notice that tiny button on the unlocked knob, not when he was racing to rescue his wife. A moment later I heard a howl from the second floor, confirming my suspicions. He'd gone straight to Kay, and I might be able to escape after all. I crept back into the light, furtive and wary, ready to run, and convinced that if he saw me, running wouldn't make any difference. I didn't know how much time I had. He might untie Kay immediately, or he might wait until he regained his human shape; he might stay and make sure she was okay, or he might rush back outside to find the person who'd hurt her. I had no way of knowing, but I did know that my chances of getting away decreased with every second I delayed. I had to go now.
I stuck close to the house, walking quickly toward the blinding headlights. I kept my eyes averted, shielding them from as much light as possible, to make it easier to adjust to the darkness beyond. When I reached Crowley's car I ran out around the far side, away from the house, and crouched by the tire. I could peer over the car and see the front of Crowley's house: the door hanging open, the upstairs curtains still tightly drawn. : I looked out at my own house, a million miles away across the street. Ice and snow surrounded it like land mines and razorwire, waiting to trip me up, or show a footprint, or simply delay me as I ran for the shelter of home. If I could make it across and into my house I'd be safe—Crowley might never suspect I'd been involved—but it was a long way, across an open street. All it would take was a single glance through the window and it would all be over. I braced myself for the sprint. . . . . . and that's when I saw the body in the passenger seat. It was slumped over, below the window line, but in the dim light of the open door I could see him—a small man, half hidden in shadow and a drab woolen coat, lying in a pool of blood. I sank down to the frozen pavement, numb with shock. I hadn't stopped the demon from killing at all—I hadn't even slowed him down. I'd taken too long with the pictures, and with Neblin, wr
estling my darkest impulses until it didn't even matter, and by the time I distracted the demon he had already found a victim, and stolen an organ. He was already regenerated, and all because I couldn't control myself. I wanted to slam the car door, or shout, or make some kind of noise, but I didn't dare. Instead the monster inside me, smooth and insidious, crept forward to look at the corpse. In all these months of killings and embalmings, I had still never been alone with a newly dead body. I wanted to touch it while it was still warm, to look at the wound, to see what the demon had taken. It was a stupid urge, and a stupid risk, but I didn't stop. Mr. Monster was too strong now. The driver-side door was open, but I was on the passenger side, away from the house, and opened that door quietly. The car was still idling, and I hoped the low rumble masked any noises I made. I pulled open the body's coat, looking for the slashed abdomen that had become so familiar from the demon's other victims. There wasn't one. The head was twisted grotesquely, face planted in the seat, but when I peered at it from the doorway, I could see that the throat had been cut, probably by one of the demon's claws. It was the only wound. The coat was undamaged, and the flesh beneath it felt fine. The blood on the seat and floor seemed to come solely from the neck wound. What had he taken? I peered in to look at the neck more closely. It was still attached, but the veins and throat had been
sliced clean through. Nothing seemed to be missing at all. Finally, I looked at the man's face, twisting back the neck and wiping aside the blood and matted hair, and in that instant I almost cried out. The dead man was Dr. Neblin. I staggered back, nearly falling out of the car. The body fell slowly back to the side, lifeless. I looked up at the Crowleys' house in shock, then back at the car. He'd killed Dr. Neblin. My mind searched for meaning in the revelation. Was Crowley on to me? Was he already targeting people I knew? But why Neblin, when my Mom was right across the street? Because he needed a male body, I supposed. But no—it was too strange. I couldn't believe that he knew I was involved. I would have seen some hint of it. But then why Neblin? Staring at his corpse I remembered our phone call, and I felt myself grow cold. Neblin had left me a voice mail. I pulled out the phone and dialed it up, terrified of what I knew I would hear. “John, you shouldn't be alone right now; we need to talk. I'm coming over—I don't even know if you're at home, or somewhere else, but I can help you. Please let me help you. I'll be there in just a few minutes. See you soon.” He had come to help me. In the middle of an ice-cold January night, he had left his home and gone into the empty streets to help me. Empty streets where a killer was hunting for fresh prey and finding none, until poor, defenseless Dr. Neblin walked right into his sights. He was the only man in town that the demon could find. And he'd found him because of me. I stared at the body, thinking of all the others who'd gone before—Jeb Jolley and Dave Bird; the two cops I'd led to their deaths; the drifter by the lake that I didn't speak up to save; Ted Rask and Greg Olson and Emmett Openshaw and however many others I didn't even know about. They were a parade of cadavers, resting inert in my memory, as if they had never been alive at all—a row of eternal corpses stretching back through history, perfectly preserved. How long had this been happening? How much longer would it go on? I felt that I was doomed to follow that row forever, washing and embalming each new corpse like a demonic servant— hunchbacked, leering and mute. Crowley was the killer, and I was his slave. I wouldn't do it. That row of corpses ended tonight. The demon hadn't taken any of Neblin's organs yet, which meant that any second now, he'd come barging back out of his house, desperate to regenerate. If I hid the body first, he might wither away and die. I grabbed the body by the shoulders and pulled it upright. My gloves slid wetly across the blood from the wound, and I let go abruptly—I was covering myself with evidence. I stepped back, fighting with my paranoia. Did I dare link myself to the crime? I'd been so careful—moving
quietly, hiding my tracks, planning for months to keep myself completely distanced from any of the attacks, and from any of my responses to them. I couldn't throw it all away now. But was there any other way? Hiding the body was my one chance to kill the demon, but I couldn't do it without covering myself in Neblin's blood—if I tried to keep blood off myself, by dragging the body by the feet, I'd leave a trail of blood that would ruin the whole plan. I needed to keep the blood off the ground, and that meant getting it all over myself. I took off my coat, wrapped it around Neblin's head and shoulders like a bandage, and grabbed him by the shoulders. A sudden howl from the house cut through the silence. I dropped back, my eyes darting first to the back door, then to the front, back and forth, wondering from which direction the demon would emerge. Mr. Monster, screaming in my head, told me to run, to get out of there, to get away safely, and try again next time. That was the smart thing to do, the analytical thing to do. The demon would live, but so would I. I could stop him eventually without risking anything of my own. My eyes fell on Neblin. He wouldn't leave, I thought. Neblin had gone out of his house in the middle of the night, knowing full well that there was a serial killer on the loose, because he wanted to help me. He did what he needed to do, even though it put him in danger. I've got to stop thinking like a sociopath. Either I endanger myself, or Crowley kills again. Two months ago, even two hours ago, the choice would have been obvious: save myself. Even now I knew, objectively, that it was the smartest thing to do. But Neblin had died trying to teach me to think like a normal human—to feel like a normal human. And sometimes normal, everyday humans risked their lives to help each other because of the way they feel. Emotions. Connections. Love. I didn't feel it, but I owed it to Neblin to try. I grabbed Neblin by the armpits and pulled him toward me, feeling his bloody shirt slap against my coat and cover me in incriminating DNA. There was another howl from the house, but I ignored it, heaving Neblin backward and pulling him out of the car until his legs—still clean of blood—flopped out onto the driveway. The blood stayed on my clothes rather than dropping to the ground, and I gritted my teeth and started to move. The body was heavier than it looked; I remembered reading that dead and unconscious bodies are harder to lift than active ones, because the limp muscles don't compensate for movement and balance. He felt like a sack of wet cement, ungainly and impossible to carry. I kept his head and shoulders pressed tightly against my chest, my arms wrapped under his armpits and locked across his sternum. Turning my body carefully, I balanced on one foot and tugged on the door with my other, getting it nearly closed before Neblin's arm fell to one side and his body weight shifted awkwardly. I fell against the car, clinging tightly to the body and trying to hold it straight. No blood had dripped down, at least not yet.
There was a crash from somewhere inside the house, as if Crowley had fallen against something—or shattered it in a fit of rage. I nudged the car door closed and turned farther, until I was fully facing the street, then began backing slowly into the Crowleys' backyard. I went cautiously, step by step, relying on memory to lead me safely past the neatly shoveled snow without disturbing it or leaving any traces. Step by step. I heard another crash, closer now, somewhere on the ground floor, and gritted my teeth. I was almost there. I reached the shed and maneuvered Neblin's legs farther out into the driveway. The shed sat parallel to the driveway, with the door facing the street, so I had always shoveled a walkway in front of it, leading off from the driveway. It was only a few feet long, but it went just far enough for me to step around the far side of the shed and pull the body into the narrow gap between the shed and the wood slat fence. I tugged Neblin in as far as I could go, without poking out myself from behind the short shed, and dropped him heavily in the snow. The back door clattered, and I held my breath. Neblin's feet were still stuck out past the front of the shed, though just a few inches. This whole gap was shaded from the still-bright headlights by a wall of snow, so the demon might not see the feet. But if it came looking, if I'd left any kind of visible trail, it would see them for sure. I held my breath for ages, listening to every sound: the low rumble of the car, the soft ding of the dashboard, the beating of m
y own heart. The demon took a few footsteps on the other side of the shed, arrhythmic and weak, then stepped or stumbled into the snow. The top, frozen layer crunched under its feet—once, twice, three times, followed again by normal steps back on the cement. He was unsteady and slow. This might actually work. I listened to the footsteps drag themselves down the driveway: step-stop, step-stumble. I didn't dare to breathe, closing my eyes and willing the demon to keel over and die, to give up and be done forever. Step-stop, step-pause, step-grunt. It moved slower than it ever had. I stayed perfectly still, afraid to move an inch, and the cold, snow, and bitter air began to take their toll on me. I felt again the same sense of physical breakdown I'd felt when I first discovered the demon, when I'd hidden in the snow at Freak Lake, aware of each slowed heartbeat and faltering sense. My hands and feet were on fire with pinpricks, which faded to a tingling numbness, which faded to nothing at all. My body was like a spent clockwork machine, softly winding down until the last gear turned, the last spring popped, and the whole thing stopped forever. Balancing carefully, with no good places to put my feet in the narrow gap, I bent down and slowly, imperceptibly, pulled Neblin's feet back behind the shed. Inch by inch, not making a sound. The footsteps on the driveway continued, halting and agonized. I tucked Neblin's knees up and quietly—oh so
