Demonica

by Preston Norton

  “Hey, Daddy,” I greeted, hoping at least to achieve eye-contact with the old man. He still had the same burly build of his own early football days, but was now fifty pounds heavier, with every last ounce of it strapped to his gut.

  My dad hugged his bowl of popcorn close as opposing teams collided. “Uh-huh?”

  “Did you know that Casey is planning on going hunting tonight after dark?”

  “That’s great, sweetie. That’s—WHAT! Come on, ref! I mean—seriously! What, are these refs on Oklahoma’s payroll? I can’t believe this!”

  Okay, mission failed. Without a second thought, I slumped out of the room and climbed the stairs. Crossing through the hall to my bedroom, I caught sight of Casey with his bedroom door wide open. He was cleaning the barrel of an overly elaborate rifle with a scope. I walked faster and shut my bedroom door behind me.

  In a running dive, I belly-flopped onto my bed and screamed into my pillow. As soon as that much-needed outburst was let loose, I rolled onto my back, glaring at the pale green glow-in-the-dark stars adorning my ceiling.

  My bedroom had literally not changed in five years. The last time I decorated it, I was eleven. This much was obvious, judging from the Justin Timberlake posters and enough frilly pink on my bed set to choke Hello Kitty.

  After seventeen seconds of torturous silence, I slid my cell phone out of my pocket. I scanned through my contact list for the one name that could pull me out of my current state of pre-weekend insanity. Skipping through the entire alphabet, I hit call.

  The other line rang only twice before answering. “Sup, bitch,” said a spunky girl on the other end.

  “Zoey, I’m losing my mind,” I said.

  “Roger that. I’ll be over in a sec,” said Zoey.

  “Can we do your place? My house is the root of the problem.”

  “Uh-oh, shit’s real. This calls for pedicures. Get your ginger ass over here.”

  Resurrecting from my frilly pink grave, I crossed the hall past Casey’s room, through the living room where my dad was cussing out the ref and the entire goddamned state of Oklahoma, and past the kitchen where my mom was mad at work with some dish involving bell peppers. All three individuals seemed relatively oblivious to my petty existence. Exiting the front door, my eyes were immediately assaulted by a flood of Louisiana-green forestation.

  We lived on the very outskirts of Villeneuve, smack dab in the middle of Mother Nature. As such, the driveway of our pastel-blue two story ended at a gravel road. Looking both ways like a good pedestrian, I dashed across the road to the eggshell-white house across the street. Zoey and I were past knocking two years ago. I let myself in. I drew the attention of her family’s bulldog, Cookie Monster. He did this sort of pig-snort-thing at me and then rested his bulky head on the carpet. I rushed around the corner to the first bedroom on the left.

  “What took you so long?” Zoey lifted her head of black and blue hair from her vast armada of nail polishes lined up on the bedside table.

  “Uh…well, I looked both ways before crossing the street,” I said.

  “Safety freak. Give me your feet. We’ve got work to do.”

  If Zoey’s blue-streaked hair wasn’t a dead giveaway of her personality, her runaway thrift store style was. She was currently wearing a tight Led Zeppelin shirt cut off at her midsection, exposing her belly button ring and the dragonfly tattoo on her lower back. She was also sporting plaid skinny jeans that were meticulously ripped to shreds. Did the girl like to stick out? Chyeah. Like a boner.

  Kicking off my shoes, I pulled my socks off inside out and dropped them on the floor. I then hopped on Zoey’s bed and surrendered my feet to her.

  “So what seems to be the problem?” she asked in what would have seemed a professional psychiatric manner, had she not been stuffing foam between my toes. Being the hopelessly ticklish person that I am, I could not help but laugh.

  “Problemsssss,” I said. “Well, two of them, at least.”

  “Which are…?” I could already feel the cold nail polish remover on cotton balls. The girl was a fast worker.

  “Number one: Casey has a deathwish.”

  Zoey shook her head and tsked discouragingly. “Of all the wishes to have. And to kill a godlike body like that?” She licked her glossy lips with a daydreamy smile.

  Zoey’s had a thing for my brother since before Cate. Since we were all in elementary school, really. Zoey is also a big, fat chicken and has probably spoken half-a-dozen whole sentences to him in her entire life. The day that she actually flirted with Casey would be the day that Keanu Reeves wins an Honorary Academy Award for Who The Fuck Knows What. After the initial shock of the Cate tragedy, she tried to be devastated, but there was no hiding the glow of excitement in her eyes. Ever since then, her fetish with my brother has grown beyond ridiculous.

  I cleared my throat and raised a second finger. “Number two: I’m being stalked by a sexy ghost.”

  By some miracle of pedicure artistry, Zoey had already finished removing my old nail polish and was fast at work on my right big toe when her head perked up at this announcement. “You’re being what by a what?”

  “Stalked by a ghost. And, for the record, he’s way hotter than my brother.”

  “Okay, one…” said Zoey, lifting her finger at me. “That’s impossible. B: you’re crazy. Three: that’s impossible.”

  “One, B, three?”

  “Hey, you’re claiming to be stalked by the ghost of Hollister past,” said Zoey. “And how am I even supposed to take you seriously when you keep laughing?”

  “Hey, I’m ticklish! Sue me!”

  She was right though. I wasn’t making a very believable case for myself. Rolling my head back on the mattress, I sighed. “It’s been a long day.”

  “May I ask why you think this guy is a ghost and he’s stalking you?” I could feel her already at work on my left foot.

  “Well, it all started when Casey and I were having lunch at that Italian joint on State Street.”

  “Mmm, Leonardo’s. I love that place.”

  “Meh, it’s alright.”

  “Psh! Anorexics have no taste in good Italian.”

  My eyes went wide, and my mouth sputtered open. “I am not—!”

  “Go on, tell your story,” said Zoey. “You and your sex-god brother were having fabulous Italian at Leonardo’s and…?”

  “And then I saw him. Outside the window. The real sex god, and he was staring at me. And then I look away for one second, and he’s gone.”

  This time Zoey rolled her eyes back at me. “That doesn’t mean he’s a ghost, Monica. And if this guy was really a sex god, he was probably checking out his reflection in the glass, not stalking you. I think I see your brother looking at me all the time, but ten bucks says he doesn’t even know my name. And I’ve been to your house a billion times! It’s just those cute guy eyes, Monica. They always look like they’re looking at us because we want them to look at us.”

  “But it happened twice. And the second time, he was across the street.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Zoey, groaning her exasperation. “Maybe you’re schizophrenic, and he’s a product of your deranged ginger mind. But a ghost? Seriously?”

  She had a point. Of all the many explanations for what I had seen earlier this afternoon, ghosts were definitely not on the more plausible end of the spectrum.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m going crazy.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you for years, darling.” Dotting my pinky toe one last time with her nail polish brush, she sat up straight and threw her hands in the air. “Voilà! Now don’t get too turned on when I blow on your toes.”

  Before I could respond, she was blowing, making deliberate raspberry sounds in the process.

  “Blow, don’t spit, please,” I said.

  “What was that? I just he
ard spit. Okay!”

  She continued to blow obnoxiously on my toes for a few seconds longer. At least if I was literally crazy, Zoey would still be good company. With a final huff, she sat back up.

  “Alright, my dear. Are you ready to witness sheer pedicure artistry?”

  Propping myself upright on my elbows, I flicked my toes up. What I witnessed was sheer pedicure anarchy. My right toenails were painted white, black, white, black, white. My left had no discernible pattern at all: yellow, purple, green, red, and blue. It was almost a headache looking at my feet for too long.

  “Wow, Zoey, I…wow,” I said. I was struggling for appropriate words, and then finally spat out my immediate reaction. “Is there a name for what you just did to my toenails?”

  “I like to call it art,” said Zoey.

  “Really? Huh. Because I was thinking my left foot looks like a bag of Skittles, and my right foot looks like a piano.”

  “Well that’s the beautiful thing about art. Everyone is entitled to their own interpretation.”

  “Yeah, thanks, Picasso.”

  “Anytime,” said Zoey. “So, future sister-in-law…tell me about this death wish my future husband has.”

  I plopped myself back down on the bed, nauseated by a wave of my earlier frustration. “He thinks it’s a good idea to go hunting at night.”

  “At night?”

  “Tonight,” I said. “Says he’s been planning it for a month.”

  Zoey’s lips pressed into a straight line. “That’s weird. What’s so special about tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Probably his way of saying I can’t talk him out of it.” I turned my head to the side, meeting my best friend’s gaze. “Am I really that predictable?”

  “Only when you’re trying to be a goody-goody sister. Which is all the time.”

  “I’m not a goody-goody. Why does everybody suddenly think I’m so fucking nice? I mean…fuck. I swear like fucking Eric Cartman.”

  “Hey. I’ll have you know that potty mouths are some of the nicest people I know. I think it’s like a psychological release or something. Let’s people see the world clearly so they can follow Jesus and shit.”

  “Um. I don’t believe in God with a capital G. Hell, I don’t even believe in Something with a capital S. I believe in like….science and Darwin and Big Bangs and shit.

  “Alright. So you’re an atheist who likes helping old people cross the street and stuff. Jesus would still be proud.”

  “I play games with old people at an assisted living center. It’s fun.”

  Zoey opened her mouth, probably with some smart-ass response, but cut herself short. An outside voice from across the street shouted, “I’m going out.” The voice was obvious to both of us. It was Casey.

  The sound of my front door slammed. Zoey pranced over to the window. Rolling off the bed, I hobbled behind her with foam still stuck between my toes.

  Casey cut across the lawn to the driveway, towing a hefty duffle bag over his shoulder. Throwing the bag in the back of his mud-encrusted black Jeep, he hopped inside but did not start the vehicle right away. He simply sat there with his head down.

  I raised an eyebrow. “What’s he doing?”

  Leaning forward so her nose was practically pressed against the window pane, Zoey tilted her head. “I think he’s looking at something.”

  Sure enough, the object of his focus was lifted, and then tucked into the mirror flap of his sun visor—a photograph. Even though the photo was well out of discernible view, I knew exactly what it was. The way he had carried it, the way he now stared at it…

  It was a picture of Cate.

  What came next, however, caused me to jump and Zoey to yelp. He screamed lashed a humongous hunting knife out of his belt, stabbing it into the passenger seat headrest. Then, without bothering to remove it, his hand flew to the keys in the ignition. With a swift turn, the Jeep roared to life. Not bothering with his seatbelt, he floored the vehicle in reverse. He skidded out of the driveway and onto the road. Loose gravel spewed behind the tires. He then floored it in first gear. The Jeep roared around the corner and then disappeared behind the trees.

  “No…” I said. At least I tried to, but my voice was caught in my throat. I knew what was happening. I knew exactly what was happening, but even still, the idea was too frightening to put into words.

  “What was that all about?” said Zoey. She cast a sideways glance at me, noting the alarm in my face. “Monica? You okay?”

  “Cate…” I said, breathless. “Casey is going after the thing that killed Cate.”

  3

  Into the Mist

  My body reacted faster than any sort of common sense could kick in. I raced around the bed and attempted to stuff my feet in my shoes. It was a moment before I caught on to the obvious problem.

  Damn foam.

  Pulling the foamy shit out from between my toes, I slid my shoes on successfully, and flew—fucking FLEW!—out of Zoey’s room.

  “Monica!” Zoey shouted. Her footsteps clapped desperately behind me. “What the hell are you doing?”

  What the hell was I doing? I had no clue. My brain had taken a backseat to my overriding instinct at the moment. Should I tell Mom and Dad?

  No. There was no time. If I did, we’d stand no chance of catching up to Casey. There was only one option, and I was dead set on it before I even realized what it was.

  “I’m going after him!” I said. I flew past Cookie Monster and bolted out the door. The bulldog cocked his head, half-interested, and then laid back down.

  “Wait!” said Zoey. “The police don’t even know for sure what killed Cate!”

  Her voice was already fading. The girl may have had enough spunk for ten people, but I was the one with the legs and lungs for running. Two years of track and field saw to that.

  “That why I have to catch my brother!” I yelled. “I have to talk some sense into him! Go get my parents, Zoe! Tell them what’s happening!”

  I didn’t even know if she heard me, but at this point, it didn’t matter. Crossing the road, I reached the old silver Camry I had received for my sixteenth birthday. Thankfully, I still had my keys on me from Leonardo’s. Jerking the keys in the ignition, the vehicle revved to life. Mimicking Casey’s reckless reverse move, I squealed out of the driveway and roared across the gravel.

  Trees rushed past me in a green and brown blur. The road peaked after a brief incline. Then it dipped down, exposing the curves ahead. Casey’s black Jeep was nowhere to be seen.

  This was insane. What the hell was I doing? From my vantage point, the road ahead forked in opposite directions at several points. Most of these were quickly lost in thick forest and swampland.

  Then I saw it—a metallic flash in the distance. Black separated from black as the Jeep veered right onto Saints Street. I knew exactly where he was heading. A mixture of relief and HOLY FUCK wrenched my insides. The relief came from the fact that Saints Street was not intersected by any other roads. It was a straight shot to its final destination, fifteen miles from here.

  However, the greater part of me—the part which was now having difficulty breathing—knew that Saints Street ended at the Saint Salazar Cemetery.

  I had been there only once. Me, Zoey, and a couple other friends went on a dare, and rest assured, it was as creepy as advertised. Unfortunately, I was way too familiar with the folklore. Nobody tends to it anymore, so naturally, the place is in shambles. I don’t blame them for abandoning it either. Names are scratched off of headstones. Graves are dug up with caskets left open. Corpses have been tampered with. There were even tales of gravediggers from the 1800s found dead in their half-dug graves, impaled by their own shovels. Just really swell stuff, lemme tell ya.

  Why Casey was taking his vengeful hunting trip there was beyond me. Cate sure as hell wasn’t buried there. No one had been in over a ce
ntury.

  I shot an uncomfortable glance up, dreading the setting sun. Streaking orange hues spilled across the horizon. Readjusting my grip on the steering wheel, my leg went rigid on the gas. Cruising downhill, Casey’s Jeep was no longer in sight, but I didn’t let this bother me. I hugged every tight turn with adrenaline-heightened reflexes.

  As trees grew thicker around me, I was drowned in their shadows. Minute by minute, the sky receded into darkness. I normally found driving at nighttime relaxing. At the moment, I couldn’t be more on-edge. My hand instinctively reached for the radio, searching out the peppiest pop station I could find. Typically, I’m one of those annoying chicks who sings along to every song I know the words to, mumbling past the words I don’t know because, like, why the hell not?

  Today was definitely not a sing-along day.

  It was not long before the sun finally slipped beyond the horizon. Darkness prevailed like a motherfucker. Then, to accentuate the brink of night, a flurry of white headstones emerged from the shadows like ghosts lined up in military fashion. Most of these were drowning in the thick undergrowth but were nevertheless illuminated by the gentle flow of moonlight. This same moonlight gleamed against the glossy exterior of Casey’s parked Jeep—at least the portion that wasn’t caked in mud. Swerving parallel to it, I skidded to a halt on loose gravel. As I suspected, the Jeep was empty.

  Great. Absolutely fucktastic. Now what? I’d followed him all the way out into the middle of nowhere, only to be left with a graveyard and three hundred and sixty degrees of open forest that he could have wandered through in any direction. Top that off with the fact that I didn’t have a flashlight, and one might suspect that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

  My first instinct had me whipping out my cell phone. At least I could tell everyone where we were at. The more people I could get to distract hungry bears from my vengeful brother, the better. The moment I attempted to enter my contact list, however, I was greeted my two disheartening words:

  Service unavailable.