It’s an easy decision, but still his pulse pounds within him. He can feel it in his throat, his last pumps of life, and he savors them as he relinquishes control of this world. The Angel is everything. He will do anything for it, anything it says.
He hears it then, the tick, tick, tick of a stove’s burner trying to catch upstairs. Instantly, flames erupt above him, a blast so colossal it might split the Earth. It takes only moments for the fireball to plume down the staircase. It’s barreling toward him, toward everyone around. As the fiery mushroom cloud approaches, he spreads his arms wide as wings. His last thoughts before the spiraling inferno engulfs him are I’ve done it. I’ve done it for you.
He burns. Sheep shriek above him, sacrificial lambs roasting on an unseen altar.
It is over.
But only for them.
On the other side of town, as the flesh of the innocent are combusting to ash, a boy awakens. His mother is at his side, clutching his hand full of wires. She’s always clutching his hand.
“What happened?” he asks. “Mom?”
Tears flow from her eyes in a steady stream as she kisses his head, that perfect blond head. He smells like a newborn babe wrapped in a receiving blanket, the fresh powder of a life starting anew. Spring petals sprout on his cheeks. His grip tightens. He feels strong.
“You’re okay. It’s okay,” says the mother.
He’s done it, she thinks. He’s really done it.
She knows her husband is gone. She doesn’t know how, not yet, but she knows. She can feel it as though someone whispered it in her ear. Or something.
She looks at the shrine by the son’s bedside and places a hand on the Angel.
Thank you, she prays. You’ve answered our prayers. You’ve heard us. I will do anything for you. I will do anything now….
She spreads its word.
She adds her offerings.
Her son gets better.
And the town grieves.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Vera
“Vera, wake up!”
Her aunt’s fingers dug into her shoulders, and Vera felt her head rock limply with every shake. Her eyes opened to find she was standing on the precipice of the staircase.
“I heard your door open—caught you just in time,” said Aunt Tilda, yanking her from the edge.
Vera stared down the steep steps to the stained-glass church windows below, knowing exactly where she was headed, where her dreams wanted to take her.
“I had another one.” Vera was breathless, sweat gluing her hair to the back of her neck.
“A nightmare?”
“A vision.” Vera corrected her.
They moved to Aunt Tilda’s bedroom and sat on her mattress in the dim incandescent light of an antique glass lamp. Religious portraits hung from her aunt’s walls, along with a crucifix and some spiritual carvings. Aunt Tilda encased herself with God to ward off the evil pulsating from the basement. It wasn’t a bad plan.
Vera described her dream.
“He thought he was saving his son. That was why he did it. It felt so real.” Vera plunged her hands into her hair. “Aunt Tilda, if these dreams are coming from the demon—like my mom thinks—then why would the demon want me to know this? Why would it show me the secrets of how it works? How it lures people? What it promises?”
“The devil plays tricks,” her aunt stated simply.
“Do you feel the devil, right now? Do you feel any darkness within me?” Vera peered at her earnestly.
She may not be as gifted as her sister, but Aunt Tilda had an extra sense.
“No.” Her aunt shook her head. “I don’t.”
“Neither do I. Maxwell said the demon was wrong today, about his feelings for Chloe. And I think it’s wrong about my dreams. That’s the trick. These dreams, these feelings, are real, and it wants me to believe otherwise.” Vera’s throat grew thick, tears collecting one on top of the other. “Aunt Tilda, Seth Durand wasn’t a bad man. He wasn’t evil, not before that day. He killed all those people as some sort of offering. How could he do that?”
Vera sniffled, unsure why she was crying. For him, because of him, for everyone who died? She reached for a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand. Seth Durand said he would do anything, just like Maxwell’s mother did. Vera balled the tissue in her fist, squeezing out her fears, her throbbing head, her dark visions—she wanted it all out.
“He made a choice,” her aunt replied. “People aren’t born evil. Lucifer wasn’t always the devil. He was once the morning star, God’s second-in-command. Then he chose pride and was sent to Hell.”
“Clearly, he didn’t stay there.” Vera huffed.
Aunt Tilda nodded in agreement. “We’ve seen a lot of evil in this house, and we keep saying you have to invite it in, but maybe invite is the wrong word. The line that separates good and bad, it doesn’t exist out there somewhere in need of an invitation.” She twirled her veiny hand in the air. “It’s inside you, but not like cancer, not like something you can’t control. It’s a choice. People know right from wrong. They know not to cross the street until the light says Walk, but sometimes they cross anyway; they think the rules don’t apply to them, and they don’t care who gets hurt. The man who caused the explosion, he made a choice; it was unthinkable, and we all got hurt.”
“But he saved his son.”
“And killed seventeen others, not to mention the permanently injured and the families he destroyed. All to do a demon’s bidding. And now the son he saved is leading a cult.”
“But the Sunshine people think the group is helping them, that they’re learning empowerment and getting grief counseling.” Vera considered Samantha and her mom. They were good people, smart people. How could they not see what was happening? If this group could get to them, it could get to anyone.
Aunt Tilda shook her head like it wasn’t that simple. “Yes, when they bought that book, they were seeking something to bring them peace of mind. But at some point, they let that man’s words replace their own. They abandoned all logic and reason and agreed that he alone had all the answers. He told them death was better than living, and they agreed. Blindly.” She handed Vera another tissue, the good kind with lotion. “He could probably stand in the town square and commit mass murder, and they’d somehow find it justified. Why? Because he said he could solve their problems, take away their pain, and that somehow gave them the right to inflict pain on others. The devil’s in that.”
Vera wiped her nose once more. “But Maxwell’s mom, she didn’t intend for this to happen. She didn’t know what she was doing. She couldn’t have. She was just hurting.”
“You’re probably right, which is why Satan, the Angel of Tears, cult leaders, seek out the most desperate and seduce them with magical solutions and impossible promises.”
“And we’re supposed to compete with that? There’s all this evil in the world, and only Mom and Dad fighting it? That’s ridiculously crappy odds.” Vera slapped the mattress. Her aunt grabbed her hand, holding it flat between both of her own.
“There are a lot more than just your parents.” Aunt Tilda’s gray braid slid over her shoulder. “Sometimes people choose evil, but they can also choose to be heroes, like you, and Father Chuck, and Maxwell. That’s how good prevails.”
“You sound like that cheesy quote.” Vera strained to remember her eighth-grade social studies teacher. She had a poster on the wall. The only way for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing.
“Exactly.” Aunt Tilda squeezed Vera’s hand, her warmth spreading. “People sometimes face horrible choices, and it’s not easy to choose the brave thing.”
So exactly what was Vera’s choice here? She wasn’t an exorcist like her father, and she didn’t have superpowers like her mother, but maybe she could get through to Samantha? If she could somehow show her, and ev
eryone like her, that they were worshipping a demon, and not a guru, maybe Vera could halt the damage. She could prevent someone else from losing themself like Mrs. Oliver or becoming murderous like Seth Durand.
Vera was about to voice this idea to her aunt, when the slam of a storm door grabbed her attention. Her head whipped toward the window in time with her aunt’s. It was nearly one in the morning, but she knew that sound, a metallic crash they heard five times a day, whenever Mr. Zanger let out his dog.
Vera rose from the four-poster bed and ambled to the curtains, swishing back the ivory lace. Her aunt pressed beside her in a fuzzy sea-green robe.
A motion sensor flicked on, casting a too-bright beam on Mr. Zanger and his tiny white puff. He rested the dog on the grass, and its twiggy legs immediately kicked backward.
“Seriously, he needs to get that thing a litter box,” Vera muttered, and it was as if the dog heard her through the double-paned glass. Its head shot up, cocked to the side, white fluffy ear hanging down as its black eyes peered straight inside her. It started yapping. Not its normal bark, not even its I-want-to-eat-your-ankles bark. The pooch began spinning in circles, rapidly chasing its tail. Its high-pitched yaps bordered on squeals as it turned faster and faster.
“Snowball! Heel!” yelled Mr. Zanger. “Sit!”
The dog paused, then yipped and squealed once more, its round eyes pointed directly at Vera. It bounced on its tiny legs.
“What is wrong with that thing?” asked Vera.
Mr. Zanger’s eyes sliced through the night. Maybe he felt them, or maybe he wanted to see what his dog was howling about—either way, the moment the man’s eyes turned upward, the pet ran. Not toward his home, not even toward Vera’s home, it ran away. The little puff streaked straight to the back fence, which consisted of two wooden horizontal beams designating the lines of the property. It offered no protection, no security.
“Where is it going?” Vera’s body shifted toward the doorway.
She should go down and help. Mr. Zanger was too old to chase after an animal. It was dark.
Aunt Tilda grabbed her arm. “You won’t be useful.”
“The dog could get lost.” Despite how the man treated her, Vera didn’t want him to lose Snowball. That puff was all he had.
“Yes, but the animal hates us. If we go anywhere near it, it will keep running. He’ll have a better chance of calling it back if we’re nowhere around.”
Aunt Tilda had a point. But still, guilt sank to the depths of Vera’s gut. Mr. Zanger’s wife died years ago, he had no children, and no friends came to visit. He was about as pathetic as she was, only crotchety. He needed that pet.
“The dog will come back.” Aunt Tilda patted her elbow. “Get some sleep.”
Vera nodded. Her aunt was probably right. The dog correctly sensed the evil in their house, and so did Mr. Zanger. The Angel of Tears was released from these walls. Darkness lurked in their basement.
But Vera was not choosing to do nothing.
She marched to her bedroom and snatched her phone from its charging station. She didn’t care how late it was.
To Chelsea: Text me as soon as you get this. We need to talk about Sam.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Max
It was his idea. Though Max had to convince Vera.
Her friend Chelsea, from the hospital, informed them that the Sunshine Crew was hosting a rally in the town square at noon. Actually, rally was probably the wrong word. It was more like a free summer camp. There was going to be an adult obstacle course with a rock-climbing wall, a dance party with a DJ for kids, and a stage hosting a smattering of speeches to encourage indoctrination. Chelsea agreed to approach their coworkers—janitors, orderlies, food service, anyone complaining about being creeped out—and convince them to “accidentally” remove as many Angel shrines as possible. She also promised to keep her girlfriend far away from Max’s house, without even asking why. Vera said she just seemed happy to do something.
It was over the something that Max and Vera disagreed.
Vera wanted to break up the rally, bring a bullhorn and shout, You’re all worshipping a demon! You’re in a cult and being brainwashed! Like people would listen to her. Max couldn’t say it to her face, but he knew she was aware of her family’s reputation.
He gently encouraged a different approach.
Max slowed his truck outside the home of the other most notorious family in Roaring Creek. It was unassuming—an old split-level, half stone and half white siding. It had black shutters and a black door. There was a faux floral wreath. The sidewalk was cracked and the shrubs looked scrawny. It was a house fit for a mailman, a school secretary, or, apparently, a cult leader.
Max felt insulted for Vera. Legions of Sunshine Crew followers flocked to the home of the family that blew up the town, yet they thought her house was cursed. In seventh grade, on Mischief Night, the ultimate act of bravery was to run onto Vera’s front porch and ring the doorbell. That was it. That’s how scared their classmates were of her family. Given the fact that Max now knew there were actual demonic artifacts filling the Martinez basement, maybe his classmates had a point. But still, the Durand house had launched a demonic cult.
Max stepped out of his truck, Vera slamming her door shut in time with his own.
“If we get caught…” Her voice trailed off like she didn’t want to finish the sentence.
“We won’t,” he insisted, with enough conviction he almost believed himself.
They started up the driveway, and a seagull shrieked from the rooftop. The windows were dim, the inhabitants busy across town brainwashing new members. That was the basis for his plan. They had time. Maybe they could find evidence to tie the Sunshine Crew to the Angel of Tears, and the Angel of Tears to criminal activity, and then bring it to the cops. They could shut it all down legally. The odds of success were flimsy, but it was better than sitting on their hands waiting for a flight from Barcelona to arrive tomorrow.
Father Chuck called earlier. He said the “prayer circle” was still in effect outside of Max’s house, near his mother’s bedroom window. Max didn’t know what the prayers were accomplishing, but he appreciated knowing his mother was still inside. She was safe—at least her body was. She wasn’t in the town square morphing into a beast for all of Roaring Creek to see. She wasn’t hurting anyone, aside from her children. As long as she was there, they had time to wait for Vera’s parents to save her soul. And maybe they might find something inside of the Durands’ house that could help them save her.
They reached the front door and Max peered through a long, slender side window. The living room could have been his own—plaid navy sofa, brick fireplace with a brass-trimmed screen, silk purple tulips on the mantel, and a remote on a Target coffee table. It was so normal.
Vera turned the knob and pushed. The door didn’t budge. She squatted down to search beneath the gritty welcome mat. No key. He didn’t think it would be that easy.
“Follow me.” Max moved with purpose around the edge of the home, eyes flicking toward the neighbors. Not a curtain swished, not a shadow moved. He crept toward a rickety, handmade wooden deck in need of a new coat of stain that led to what was likely the kitchen. He moved carefully up the splintered steps, Vera close enough that he could hear her nervous breathing.
“Is this a good idea?” she whispered.
Probably not, but the house looked about as old as his own, with the exact same style of windows—screens on the outside of original wood-trimmed glass panes. Growing up, Max’s parents were constantly at the restaurant, meaning he frequently returned from school to an empty house. More than once he forgot his keys and had to break in, achieving expert status years ago.
Max twisted his neck to peer at Vera, a rush of adrenaline coursing through him as he pressed an index finger to his lips. He then grabbed his keys and slid one into the seam
alongside the grimy screen. It took surprisingly little effort to pop it loose. He gripped it with outstretched arms, placing the screen on the deck, resting it against the brick wall. Vera’s face showed more fear than it did in his mother’s bedroom. He restrained a smile. This was probably the most fun he’d had since he’d met her.
He reached for the mullions of the window, his fingers long and flat against the glass as he pushed up. It slid easily, unlocked. Now his smile stretched wide.
“After you.” He swept his hand toward the now-open cavern—a dining room with birds on the wallpaper.
“What if they have a silent alarm?”
Max’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t Fort Knox. The guy didn’t even lock his windows. I’m surprised the door’s not open.”
Vera didn’t move.
“It’s now or never.” Max placed his hands on the windowsill, the rusty metal tracks cutting into his palms, then he hoisted his head and torso through.
No turning back now, Max thought as he wiggled his legs and landed on the hardwood floor.
He gazed through the opening at Vera, whose doe eyes were wide as the noonday sun backlit her hair, making the dark strands glow. For a girl surrounded by evil, it seemed she hadn’t done much wrong in her life.
He extended his hand. “Let’s see what the Big Bad Wolf is hiding.”
For a moment, Vera’s lips turned up and he caught a flash of excitement in her eyes. That’s the spirit.
She followed him through.
* * *
They started with the bedrooms. No one hides criminal evidence in the kitchen pantry. (Actually, maybe they should.)
They tiptoed up the creaky stairs, Vera gripping the back of his black T-shirt as though they were in a haunted house on Halloween and a wicked clown might pop out at any moment.
Small Town Monsters Page 18
