Small Town Monsters

by Diana Rodriguez Wallach

  The next week, the accident happened. Five of their classmates died in a car crash while driving home from Devil’s Pool. Max had been at the creek that day. He’d watched them drive away. This was his first time back.

  Max swiped at the sweat from the blazing evening sun. He should get home, make sure everything was okay. Maybe he could pick up dinner?

  He sat up, reaching for his tattered backpack.

  “You’re leaving? What about the bonfire?” Leo swigged his beer.

  “I can’t. Too much crap going on. But maybe I’ll come back later.”

  Leo narrowed his gaze like he didn’t believe him. “Your mom still sick?”

  Max’s mom hadn’t been to the restaurant in nearly two weeks, but his claims that she had the flu, in June, were getting harder to sell. Still, if he told them the truth about the way she’d been acting lately, they’d ask if he was feeling all right.

  “Yeah, but she’s getting better,” Max lied.

  Leo and Jackson had known him since preschool playdates. They were around for the dark days after his father’s funeral. They knew about the periods when his mom didn’t leave her room, or worse, when she parked her car on the lawn. But they also saw her cheering in the stands at every track meet.

  Only six months ago, his family celebrated his sister Chloe’s seventh birthday, and everything was normal. His mom made breakfast for dinner and gave Max an “un-birthday” present—ever since his dad died, birthdays were a celebration for everyone. Max opened the box to find a new Mets cap, just like his father’s, the original lost in the flames, charred and gone.

  Touching the hat was like getting a piece of him back, a physical reminder that they were still linked, father and son.

  Where had that woman gone?

  Max shoved his feet into his dirty flip-flops, then hopped out of his truck and slid on the cap, ignoring the stench of sweat. He refused to wash it. Dad said cleaning a baseball hat would curse the team, like getting up to pee during an inning with two runners on base. Dad’s superstitions were to be respected.

  Leo hopped down beside him. “See you later, bro. Want me to tell Delilah anything? She’s gonna notice you leavin’.”

  Max looked toward the tall blond in the turquoise bikini, her toes in the chilly creek and her hand clutching a can. He pursed his lips. He and Delilah had an on-again, off-again thing all year, if you even wanted to call it that. She wasn’t his girlfriend, but she had made it pretty clear that was what she wanted to be. Last month, she decorated his locker for his birthday, covering it with white and aqua streamers and all this gold glitter. You could see it from halfway down the hall (if not from space), and it was obvious it took her a lot of time. Max thought it was cool she remembered, but he also thought it was a bit much. When he said “Thanks, that’s…nice,” you would have thought he’d run over her poodle. She stomped away moaning, “You can be a real jerk sometimes.” They hadn’t spoken much since.

  “Don’t tell her my mom’s sick.” Max shook his head. “She’ll show up with chicken soup or something.”

  “Dude, that girl wants you. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.” Leo shook his head like Max was an idiot.

  Maybe he was. Delilah was easy to look at, and he definitely thought about her that way (a lot), but his life was so messed up right now, he couldn’t handle bringing a girl into it.

  At least, not this girl.

  “I’m not waiting for anything. I’m just weighing my options.” Max smirked as he trekked to the driver’s side.

  “You hanging tomorrow?” Leo called after him.

  “I’m working the dinner shift.”

  “I will make you have fun this summer!” his friend called.

  Max plopped into his seat and slid the cap backward. “I’m all about fun!”

  And he was, when he wasn’t making sure his sister was safe—from his mother.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Vera

  Vera scratched her back on the bark of a tree as lime-green strings of pollen showered her book. At school, she was reading The Stand on her phone. At home, she was reading a signed copy of The Outsiders, a prized possession.

  Books, solitude, and work—that was her summer break in three words.

  A metal screen door clattered in the distance, and she turned to spy white-haired Mr. Zanger following his little puff of a dog, nearly as arthritic as he was.

  Seven years ago, during the worst hurricane their town had ever seen, Vera saved both their lives. She wasn’t being dramatic. She was ten years old, and she ran out into gale-force winds to help the old man when he slipped while taking the dog out to relieve nature’s call. Mr. Zanger hit his head, hard, and was motionless, faceup in the wind and rain. Vera jostled him back to consciousness, and when he opened his eyes, he clambered away as though she were scarier than the Category Two storm.

  Sadly, that wasn’t the worst thing to happen that day. Or the most dangerous.

  Vera raised her hand in a neighborly salute. Mr. Zanger turned his back. The dog, however, locked its black eyes on her and released a series of piercing yelps. Then its gray mustache twitched, shifting into a throaty growl.

  I should’ve left you both in the rain, she thought, though she’d save them both again tomorrow. First, do no harm. Med school was in her future.

  “Vera! Dinner’s ready!” Aunt Tilda called from the kitchen.

  Vera set her bookmark and strode toward the back door, inhaling the savory scent of rosemary. Tilda McMahon prided herself on being “the best Irish cook in the family,” though her only competition, Vera’s mother, considered microwave popcorn a reasonable dinner. Vera’s father could cook, mostly Spanish rice and plantains, but he only donned his Kiss Me I’m Puerto Rican apron on major holidays. Other than that, Vera boiled pasta and Aunt Tilda cooked potatoes with some form of meat that was hardly ever chicken.

  “Smells good.” Vera tiptoed in.

  The oven was open, flooding the room with warmth, but Vera didn’t fear that door. Instead, she nudged around the entrance to the basement, her whole body reacting to its heat. Behind those rustic barnwood planks rested a collection of artifacts from her parents’ work, which Vera had never examined for herself, but which routinely haunted her dreams. Never touch the door, never open the door—those rules were uttered so much, her family should have had them cross-stitched on a pillow.

  It was as if the basement held not objects, but energy. Vera swore she could feel the artifacts humming, a buzz crawling against her skin even from the other side of the house. But whenever she told her mom, the response was always the same.

  There’s nothing to be afraid of. Would Daddy and I do anything to hurt you?

  Vera was certain they wouldn’t, so she tried to ignore the internal pull she felt, and she convinced herself that it wasn’t the call of evil, and that the call wasn’t coming from inside her house.

  “What did you make?” Vera asked as she sat down at their fifties-style dinette, the vinyl cushion sighing beneath her.

  “Shepherd’s pie, with lamb.” Aunt Tilda kissed the top of Vera’s head. “I saw your report card. I’m so proud of you.”

  Vera smiled as the gray-haired woman who practically raised her served up an overflowing plate of food. Then the table rattled, her cell phone vibrating. “It’s them.” Vera unlocked her screen, putting it on speaker. “Hola.”

  “Honey, you there?” She could hear the smile in her mom’s voice.

  “Yeah. Aunt Tilda’s here too.”

  “Great! We just wanted to check in.”

  “How’s Spain?” Vera asked.

  “I made shepherd’s pie,” her aunt blurted, as if proving she kept their daughter well fed.

  “Todo bien,” said Vera’s dad, also on speaker.

  “We haven’t seen much of Barcelona outside of the home
where we’re working. It’s…a sad case.” Her mom sounded tired. It was midnight there.

  “Is the girl afflicted?” Aunt Tilda asked. Afflicted was their family’s polite way of saying “possessed by evil demons.” Her parents were demonologists. Exorcists. Or a few other words most people didn’t understand.

  “Sí, unfortunately. We’ve spoken with the church, and we’re just waiting to hear back.” Dad sighed deeply. “How’s school?”

  “Over.” Vera shrugged.

  “Oh, that’s right!” Her mom’s voice rose—she’d clearly forgotten. “Are you celebrating?”

  Yeah, I sprouted friends and joined the Glee Club in the two weeks you’ve been gone.

  “Aunt Tilda and I are living it up,” Vera quipped.

  “Great. Til, I have to tell you about dinner. We had this amazing paella. Did you know they leave the heads on shrimp here?”

  Vera’s face crinkled. Seriously? Did her life matter so little that they’d rather talk about entrées and appetizers? Please, tell me more about the salad….

  “And you should see the cathedral here. It’s stunning, and Gothic, and unfinished,” Mom droned.

  “Espera. Don’t forget about Father Chuck,” Dad interrupted. “He’s stopping by tomorrow because he has a wedding on Sunday. Someone needs to be there to open the basement.”

  Vera’s eyes shifted toward the sub-level gateway to Hell, only steps away, like it was a charming breakfast nook.

  “I’ll be here,” Aunt Tilda replied. “And that prayer candle he brought last time…”

  “I got my grades,” Vera cut in, since her parents didn’t bother to ask. “Straight As.”

  “Oh, mija, wonderful,” said Dad.

  “Really, that’s great. We’re so proud of you,” Mom cooed.

  Vera’s lips turned up. It was hard to feel special in a family of people who could do things few others in the world could, like in all of human history. Her parents saved people’s souls. A talent that skipped a generation, which didn’t go unnoticed. Vera wasn’t like them. Sometimes at night when she was in bed trying to ward off impending nightmares, she let a dark thought slip in—if Vera didn’t fit with the parents who made her and she didn’t fit with kids at school, then it was possible she would never belong anywhere. Ever.

  “God’s certainly blessed us,” Mom added.

  Vera set her jaw. God didn’t take my finals. It was her accomplishment, though it was sacrilegious to even think that.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Vera muttered, all sense of pride squeezed out. “So, tell me about you.”

  She slumped in her chair. Only one school year left before Vera could put Roaring Creek, and everything that went with it, behind her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Max

  Max returned home, creek sand still gritted between his toes. He kicked off his flip-flops and found Chloe perched in front of a flickering television.

  “Where’s Mom?” he asked, patting his sister’s curly black hair, which looked somewhat brushed. He should be grateful for that, but instead it made his stomach turn.

  Chloe had begun playing hide-and-seek with the comb, refusing to let Max brush her ringlets. Then last night, Max awoke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. He crept out, upright hairs on his neck making him wish he slept with a baseball bat, and he spied his mother gliding into Chloe’s bedroom. He watched Mom sit on the edge of his sister’s mattress, wearing that tacky yellow T-shirt from her latest self-help group. She lifted a wide-tooth comb and brushed her daughter’s tangled locks.

  It was two in the morning.

  When Max called her name, Mom didn’t turn. When he strode to her side, she didn’t react. Finally, he nudged his mom’s shoulder, and she lifted her chin to display fluttering lashes and eyes rolled into the back of her skull. There were no pupils, only white pools marked with bloodshot veins.

  His hands quivering, he said nothing more as he helped his mother back to her room. She sleepwalked the whole way. Then he spent the night on the floor of his sister’s bedroom.

  “Mom’s door is closed. She’s not answering,” Chloe told him.

  It was five o’clock. His sister must’ve gotten off the bus over an hour ago, and she’d been by herself the entire time. He never should have gone to the creek.

  “How ’bout mac ’n’ cheese for dinner?” he asked.

  “Nope. Peanut butter and jelly.”

  “I think we’re out.”

  Chloe turned his way, eyes tight. “I want peanut butter and jelly.”

  Max ground his teeth.

  “Fine, I’ll check the cabinet.” He knew it was empty. He hadn’t bought any groceries recently, and his mother definitely hadn’t. She barely left her room.

  He marched to the kitchen, past a bookshelf overflowing with self-help tomes. Mom bobbed from lifestyle blogs about organic eating, to yoga, to meditation, to mindfulness, to podcasts on living your “optimal life” and finding “happiness within,” to large-scale arena events with high-priced gurus, to powering crystals in the moonlight, to her latest—the Sunshine Crew, TSC for short. It was a local group that not only advertised with cheesy yellow hats and T-shirts, but it was started by the family at the center of the town’s worst tragedy, at the center of his family’s tragedy. Creating this group seemed to be their way of atoning. Max didn’t agree, nor could he understand how his mom swallowed any of it, but it was better than downing a bottle of booze or a handful of pills, so Max let it go.

  That was, until lately.

  He yanked open the cabinet door: crackers, Cheetos, a can of coffee. No peanut butter.

  He dropped his head.

  The store was a mile away. He could run there and be back before Chloe’s movie ended. His legs needed it anyway. So did his brain.

  He peered down the hallway, a pendulum clock ticking behind him. His mother’s door was at the far end, closed, dark, and silent.

  He grabbed his sneakers.

  * * *

  Max cradled the plastic jar of peanut butter in his arm like a football as he jogged down Main Street, dodging potholes. A streetlight flicked red, and he kept pace at the curb, maintaining his heart rate while he waited at the light. He swiped sweat from his brow as a horn blared. His head jerked in time to see a woman backpedal to the opposite curb, having stepped into oncoming traffic, her eyes blinking with shock, as though she hadn’t expected cars to be driving on a busy boulevard. Max rolled his eyes. The woman kept blinking, adjusting her canary-yellow baseball hat—the same one his mother owned, featuring a cheesy eclipsed sun. Man, that group was everywhere.

  The sign shifted to Walk and Max dashed across the street, the hospital looming ahead of him.

  Vera worked there. His classmates whispered about the irony all the time: Vera Martinez, the girl with the “death disease,” worked part-time at Roaring Creek General. Max actually found it relatable. Not a lot of his friends had part-time jobs, but with a family restaurant, Max began working when he was old enough to fold paper menus.

  He eyed the hospital’s sliding doors. If he wanted to talk to her, if he really wanted to continue what he’d tried to start in school, he could. It wouldn’t be too hard to find her schedule.

  He leapt over the flattened carcass of a dead squirrel and, as if on autopilot, his body led the way.

  * * *

  The hospital detour was brief and Max sprinted home to overcompensate, stagnant humidity filling his lungs, not a hint of a breeze. He reached the front steps and flung open the door. Instantly the smell of bacon coated his tongue.

  Breakfast for dinner?

  “Ma, you up?” Max sniffed. It was smoky.

  “No, I’m cooking!”

  That was Chloe.

  “What?” Max yelped, sprinting through the house and rattling the good dishes in the china cabinet.


  He entered the kitchen and saw his sister at the stove, standing on top of a plastic stool with all four burners blasting, only two of them covered with pans, and blue flames so high they nearly kissed her elbows.

  “What are you doing?” he shouted, dropping the peanut butter as he dove for the gas knobs with such force, he knocked his sister off her stool.

  Chloe landed on the linoleum with a thump. “Stop it!” Her voice was piercing. “Mom said I could!”

  “Where is she?” He switched off the flames, cringing at the pan of burned, unseparated bacon slices. Another nonstick skillet held the charred remnants of what used to be pancakes. Chloe didn’t know how to make batter. His mother had to have been involved in this.

  “Mom woke up! She said I could!” Tears sprang to Chloe’s eyes, her lower lip wobbly, and Max crouched by her side.

  It didn’t take much to make his sister cry, but still, he shouldn’t have pushed her.

  “You okay?” He helped her up.

  She could have burned down the house, and he’d only left her with their mother for a short time.

  Max glanced around the room. A gallon of milk was warming on the counter, bowls of gooey slop filled the sink, the faucet dripped a trickling stream of water as sticky serving spoons covered the Formica counter. Swiftly, he shifted into old habits, flinging open cabinet doors and digging for an open bottle. He couldn’t go through this again. If his grandparents found out…No. He shook his head, refusing to accept that his mother would bring alcohol into this home. But then, why would she leave Chloe standing near an open flame?