Devils Within

by S. F. Henson

  So I’m shocked to hear someone call my name on the Tuesday morning of my second week of school. I’m almost to the glass double doors when heels click on the pavement behind me.

  “Nathaniel?” a woman says.

  My blood turns to ice. Only people at The Fort and the media call me that. I told the social worker I wasn’t safe. Now it’s too late. I’ve been found.

  Where can I run? Not the parking lot. Others could be waiting there. Inside? To the office to call for help?

  “Nathaniel,” the woman repeats. It isn’t a voice I recognize. I turn my head slightly and catch a glimpse of blonde hair. “I’m Shaw Holt. Can we talk?”

  Shaw Holt. I know that name, but I can’t remember from where. The Fort? Is she one of the Skynbyrds? They’re the women who paper areas with racist flyers. That’s how it starts. The Fort picks a town—one that’s too diverse, or where political tensions have been rising, or just where they think they can get a foothold for some reason. If the flyers don’t get enough attention, the men step in and make sure the message can’t be ignored. Graffiti, meetings, marches, even bloodshed. Whatever gets them noticed and spreads word of the cause.

  I teeter on the edge of standing my ground or bolting inside. If she’s small, I can overpower her before anyone else shows up. I turn and face her. Instead of the fatigues and white- or red-laced combat boots I expect, she’s wearing crisply creased khakis and tan high heels.

  She sweeps her long blonde hair over one shoulder and flashes a bright white smile that takes up half her face, kind of like a clown. Or a shark. The gears in my brain click into place.

  Shaw Holt.

  Reporter.

  I remember seeing her name on articles about me. She’s the woman who watched me and Traitor leave the Psych Center.

  My heart rate slows slightly. She’s not a physical threat, but a threat all the same. I turn and reach for the door.

  She darts in front of me. “It’ll just take a minute.”

  “How did you find me?” Somehow, my voice stays even while my insides are flipping all over. They said no one could find me.

  They lied.

  If this chick can, The Fort can. I have to leave. My hand slips into my pocket where I put Ms. Erica’s card every day when I get dressed. I’ll use the office phone. Ms. Erica will believe me. She’ll insist they take me back to the Psych Center where I’ll be safe.

  “Finding people is what I do,” the reporter says, flashing her fake smile again.

  I glare at her.

  The smile fades. “Fine. I hid behind the mental institution and wrote down your uncle’s tag number as you drove away. From there, it was pretty easy.”

  “Who have you told?”

  “No one. Not a soul, I swear. I’m one hundred percent alone on this.”

  Like her promise means anything. Reporters lie and twist and manipulate. It’s their job. Not that different from The Fort when you think about it. Both feed on people’s fear.

  “Why would I tell anyone?” she asks. “I don’t want to get scooped. I want—” A diesel engine rumbles by, bringing the first load of students. The reporter glances toward the bus. A flicker of irritation passes over her face, but it’s gone so quick, I wonder if I imagined it. “Is there somewhere else we can talk?” she asks.

  “No.” I go for the door again, this time yanking it open. Cold air rushes over me.

  The reporter’s heels tap on the tile. “I want to hear your side.”

  “Leave me alone,” I say, a little too loudly. It echoes through the empty hallway. I face her again and lower my voice. “Go back to wherever you came from and forget where I am. Please.”

  Not that it will matter, because soon as I call Ms. Erica, I’m out of here. But I don’t want this lady hounding me at the Psych Center, either. The first few months there were miserable. Reporters camped outside, trying to sneak in, bothering other patients’ families.

  The reporter drops the fake smile completely. “Don’t you want to get your side out there? To let people know the real Nathaniel? I want to tell your story. All the articles and reports about you have been unbalanced. No one has ever gotten your perspective. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think that’s fair.”

  Her eyes are steady. I shift my weight. Of course I want my side out there, but on my own terms. Not from the perspective of some shady reporter who tracked me across two states.

  “No thanks.” I turn.

  Her hand jets out and latches onto my backpack. “Just hear me out.”

  I jerk away and the strap rips. The bag slips off my shoulder and hits the floor with a thunk. “Shit! Thanks, lady.”

  Her eyes go wide. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Hey!” a voice booms. “What’s going on?”

  I whip around. The black guy stands near the office, dressed nicer than most of the teachers dress.

  “Just talking,” the reporter says, smiling again.

  The locker guy folds his arms. “I don’t think you’re supposed to be here. Let me get Principal Rawls and check.”

  “Actually, I was leaving.” She takes a couple steps, then looks back over her shoulder. “I meant what I said. Think it over.”

  She walks away as the first wave of students enter the building. Her blonde head bobs through the crowd and disappears behind the bus.

  I kneel and scoop up my torn bag. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.

  “Hey, man, you okay?” The black guy appears beside me, eyes narrowed.

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “Who was that?”

  I sling the intact strap over one shoulder. “No one. Thanks for—”

  “No problem,” he says. “They don’t call me the Bodyguard for nothing.”

  “Who calls you the Bodyguard?”

  He laughs. “The basketball team. I hold the record for taking the most charges in a season, although I’m looking to break that this year. You like basketball?”

  “Yeah. It’s kind of a big deal in K—” My face flushes. “Um, where I come from.”

  “And where’s that?” The Bodyguard walks toward our lockers.

  I start to follow, then stop short, glancing back at the office. I can call Ms. Erica about the reporter or continue talking to the only person who’s been nice to me since I moved here. I trot to catch up to the Bodyguard. I can call Ms. Erica later.

  “It’s nowhere important.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Can’t be all bad if they like basketball.”

  I hitch up my lopsided backpack. “Guess not.” Geez, I suck at conversation. We reach our lockers and toss our stuff inside.

  He starts to walk away, but turns back at the last second. “Hey, what are you doing after school?”

  “Huh?”

  “Want to hang out?”

  I rock back on my heels. He can’t be serious. I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that. Kelsey never asked. She told. I can picture her clearly, plopping down in the desk beside me, scooting it so close to mine that her hair brushed my arm. “You’re coming over today.” No choice. I never had a choice with Kelsey.

  “What … what do you want to do?” I ask.

  He grins. “I’ll meet you after the last bell. Okay?”

  Traitor’s usually waiting out front as soon as the bell rings. He’ll be pissed if I’m late. “Okay.”

  The Bodyguard sticks his hand out. “My real name’s Brandon, by the way.”

  I shake. His hand is warm. “Nate. Why are you being nice to me?” I ask as he pulls his hand away.

  “Because I don’t think you’re like everyone says, Nate.”

  “What does everyone say?”

  The bell rings. “We’ll talk after school,” the Bodyguard—Brandon—says, before he’s swept up in the flow of students heading to homeroom.

  I wait by my locker after the last bell, but Brandon doesn’t show. This is a setup. He and his basketball friends are going to dump pig’s blood on me, or something. Right when I’m ab
out to give up, he walks briskly down the hall, out of breath, tucking his white polo into his creased khaki shorts with one hand.

  “Sorry. Coach held us long because Fletcher couldn’t finish his sprints without complaining the whole time. I swear if he keeps this up, I’m gonna hide my sweaty socks in his car.”

  “Oh, it’s cool.” But I’m looking around for strings and buckets and other signs of the prank.

  Brandon stuffs some books in his bag and shoulders it. “Ready?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.” He leads the way out the front doors, almost colliding with Traitor. “Excuse me, sir,” Brandon says.

  Traitor’s eyes settle on me. “Nate, where the hell have you been?”

  “Waiting on Brandon. We’re going, well I don’t know yet, but somewhere.”

  Brandon sticks out his hand. “Brandon Kingsley.”

  Traitor’s eyes widen. “Whose idea was this?” he demands.

  Brandon drops his outstretched hand back to his side. “Mine, sir.”

  “He asked if I wanted to hang out this afternoon,” I say. “Is that a problem?” The beast is waking up in my gut. Someone is finally nice to me, and Traitor comes along to ruin it. I clench and unclench my fists and close my eyes. I can’t lose control here. Not now.

  “No,” Traitor says. “It’s not a … I mean … Nate, can I speak to you alone a minute?”

  My eyes fly open. The darkness closes in.

  “I’ll wait over here,” Brandon says. He retreats to the sidewalk near Traitor’s truck.

  “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Traitor spits.

  “Hanging out with a guy from school,” I growl. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Traitor presses me against the door and I drop my broken bag. “If you plan to hurt that boy, I swear to God, I’ll—”

  My breaths come in fast, shallow bursts. “Hurt him? That’s what you think I’ll do? So what, I convinced him to ask me to do something this afternoon so I could lure him away and kill him? Another notch in my belt?” I shove Traitor away.

  He stumbles, but recovers quickly and pushes me back. I’m several inches taller than my uncle, but his burst of strength catches me off guard. “Look here, you little nazi shit. That black boy gets one scratch on him, and I’m calling the cops, you hear me?”

  The beast is roaring now, screaming for me to rip Traitor’s head off. My flimsy thrift-store shoes aren’t heavy boots, but I bet I could still do damage. I catch sight of Brandon by Traitor’s truck. His brows are furrowed. His cell phone is out, like he’s ready to call the police, himself.

  I think about the light. Breathe. Breathe. Traitor has one thing right. I let the beast loose and it’s jail for me. No more Psych Center.

  I can’t do juvie again. That place only fed the beast. Too much longer and there wouldn’t have been any light left. Thankfully, my attorney saw what was happening and got me moved.

  I won’t be so lucky a second time.

  I leer at Traitor. “His name isn’t ‘black boy,’ it’s Brandon. And if your first thought is hurting him, then maybe you’re the nazi shit, not me.”

  All the color drains from Traitor’s face. I push past him and hitch up my backpack. “Let’s go,” I call to Brandon.

  “You all right?” he asks me for the second time today.

  “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

  The river. That’s where Brandon’s taking me. We stopped at a large brick house long enough for him to drop off his books and grab a couple fishing poles. I craned my neck to see inside, but couldn’t catch more than a hint of the dark entryway. What is a black family’s house like? Especially a family like Brandon’s?

  Is that racist? I hate that I don’t know these things, and I don’t have anyone to ask.

  Poles in hand, Brandon leads me down a path through the woods.

  I haven’t entered the woods since that day. The closest I’ve come is the hole with the tree where I dump everything during yard work.

  I keep telling myself this isn’t my forest of blood and shame and fear. It’s similar to my woods in Kentucky, but … warmer, more alive. Dense underbrush, thick oak trees, elms, and maples, and tall pines towering over them all. And it’s quiet, but not bad quiet. Not silent. Cicadas sing, frogs croak, and mosquitoes the size of quarters buzz around my head. By the time we reach the water, I already have at least five angry red welts rising on my arms. I’d have more if I’d worn shorts like Brandon. He doesn’t seem to have a bite on him. Is that a black thing? Do they not bite dark skin?

  Not that I can be too thankful for my jeans. I only have one pair that isn’t ripped, and I’m wearing them today of all days. The denim sticks to my sweaty legs, making it hard to walk after a while. At least when we hit the river, the woods clear enough to let a little breeze through.

  Brandon rests the rods against a tree. “So, what do you think?”

  I glance around, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. All I see is woods and brown water and a muddy riverbank. “About what?”

  “This.” He spreads his arms wide. “I figured, being new and all, you should see a place in town that doesn’t suck. Lewiston doesn’t exactly have a lot going for it.” He laughs. “This is the best spot in the whole damn town.”

  It doesn’t look like much more than a mudhole to me. Brandon follows my gaze to the water’s edge.

  “It’s kind of low right now, but trust me, there’s good fishing here in the summer. I caught a ten-pound bass right over there a couple years ago.”

  “Wow,” I say, and I mean it. I can’t fish for shit.

  He smiles as he talks. Little creases form at the sides of his eyes, like the pictures of Santa Claus on the Christmas cards in the Psych Center in December.

  “The guys and I use this spot more for drinking beer than for fishing, so I can’t say if there are any fish here right now or not. I thought we could give it a shot, though.”

  “Sure. Okay.” I can’t remember the last time I went fishing. Probably with Kelsey in the pond at the edge of The Fort. She always caught a bunch while I got nothing but mud and sticks.

  Brandon flicks his wrist and the line sails out to the middle of the water. He makes it look easy.

  “There’s something about this place,” he says. “You just sort of forget the rest of the world exists. That’s probably not too impressive.” He laughs and reels in the empty lure. “What about where you’re from? Please tell me it’s more exciting than this.”

  My body tenses. There’s only one place where I’m from where the world could fall away: the holly bush in the woods with Kelsey. And even then, it never completely disappeared—not like Brandon’s describing—it only faded a little. No matter how much I tried to shut it out, a part of me was always aware that the shadows lurking in the trees were attached to real monsters. That’s not something I can talk about, though. Not that the holly bush really counts anymore, anyway.

  I shrug. “There’s not much where I’m from. I don’t like talking about it. It … wasn’t a good place.”

  Brandon’s mouth turns down slightly.

  He casts again. “I hope we’re different then.”

  I stare at my fishing pole.

  Brandon teases the line across the water. “The people here aren’t that bad,” he says. “If you give them a chance.”

  “They haven’t really given me a chance.”

  Brandon arches an eyebrow. He looks like he wants to say something else, but focuses on the dancing lure.

  “Brandon …” I hesitate. He’s been nice so far, but I don’t know if we’re to the point where he’d be honest with me. I decide to risk it. “What have you heard about me?”

  “Doesn’t matter, man,” he says. “Don’t listen to that shit.”

  I twirl the fishhook. “Could you tell me anyway?”

  He keeps his eyes on the water. “You’re fresh out of juvie. That’s not a secret.”

  I get hot a
ll over. “How do you know?”

  “I mean, everyone knows about you hitting Maddie on the first day. There’s a debate about whether it was intentional, but come on. You didn’t even know her. Why would you do that on purpose? Unless you’re Superman, I’m pretty sure you couldn’t see her on the other side of that door. Anyway, I know Maddie, and she tends to exaggerate.”

  He reels in and casts again. “It only made things worse that Maddie peeked in your file.”

  My hook catches on the dead skin at the end of my thumb. “What? How?”

  “Mrs. Rawls left it on the counter the first day. Maddie didn’t read much. Just enough to cause trouble, if you ask me. Then Caitlyn Somers said you threatened her at the water fountain.” He starts to reel in again, but stops. “It’s cyclic. You have a bad first day, folks learn you had a rough past, they spread rumors, you hear them and withdraw even more, which reinforces the rumors that you’re scary and mean, so everyone stays away from you.”

  Yeah, if only they weren’t rumors. I guess I did kind of threaten Water Fountain Girl. I’m not exactly a small guy, and I know how frightening I can look. I’ve seen all my expressions on his face more times than I can count.

  At least one person at school is willing to give me a chance. But I can’t help but wonder how Brandon would react if he knew my actual past.

  “You’re not scary and mean, though,” Brandon says. “You seem like a nice guy to me.”

  But I’m not a nice guy. Not deep down. I can pretend to be nice, but underneath the sheep’s skin, I’m still a wolf. I still have his blood in me, and nothing will ever change that.

  Brandon claps me on the back. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll prove them wrong. Let’s move downstream aways and see if we can’t get one of these suckers to bite.”

  The Farmer Gazette

  The Secret Life of a Killer

  By Sam Lawson

  Staff Writer

  Most teenage boys obsess about the girl they like, sports, or getting laid. Not Nathaniel Fuller.

  His obsessions are blood and hate. A known violent Skinhead Neo-Nazi, Nathaniel has a well-documented history of brutal attacks on innocent victims, mostly minorities and homosexuals. Of the unsolved attacks on African Americans, Jews, and Muslims, witnesses put Fuller at the scene of almost all of them.