Devil's Creek

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  Portia laughed, pointing to the pile of movies on the table. “What about ‘The Notebook’? I love that one.”

  “Deal.” Grace hopped up and popped the DVD into the player.

  Chapter 44

  Grace woke late the next morning, shocked to see that the little digital clock on Portia’s nightstand read ten o’clock. Her sister was already gone. When she stood to stretch and gaze out the window, she saw Portia cantering off toward the hills on Mirage.

  “Drat,” she said. “I should’ve gone with her.”

  She showered and changed, heading for the stairs to go down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. There would be no breakfast today. She still felt full from yesterday’s feast.

  At the top of the stairs, she stopped. Her parents were conversing in the living room, and she froze when she realized they were talking about her.

  “Do you think we’ll ever be able to stop worrying about Grace?” her mother said softly.

  Dirk answered, but Grace couldn’t quite make out his words. She crept quietly partway down the steps and sat, straining to hear.

  “She seems good now. But I keep wondering, will I always be watching her for signs of drugs?” Daisy said.

  “Probably. At least for a few more years,” Dirk said. “This kind of thing isn’t something you just shrug off and walk away from. It’s very hard for kids—well, anyone—to get free of it. So I’ve been told.”

  “But Portia’s so easy! She just does what she’s supposed to. Why do you think they are so different, honey? What did we do to make Grace so unhappy back in high school? Where did we go wrong?”

  Grace heard her father sigh. “Now listen, Daisy. We can’t take credit or blame for anything our grown children do. Sometimes that’s just the way they turn out.”

  Grace stormed downstairs, tears streaming down her face. “How did I turn out, Dad? Defective? Is that why I’m such a disappointment?”

  Her parents jumped to their feet, their faces ashen. Daisy ran to her, but Grace backed away.

  “Honey! We didn’t mean it that way. We love you.”

  “Sure you do.” Grace streaked for her purse and keys, and turned to them at the door. “I’m going out. And you can tell my perfect sister that I’ll sleep in my own room tonight.”

  Slamming the door, she ran toward her rusty old Ford. She jumped inside and started the engine, shoving the gearshift into reverse. The tires spit gravel when she turned onto the driveway and sped down the road.

  “Always second best. Always the problem child,” she said through heaving tears. “I knew it. I knew they loved her more.”

  She drove too fast around the corners, skidding a few times. But she didn’t care. “They expect me to fail.”

  Sobbing harder now, she pummeled the steering wheel with one fist. “I can’t win. I’ll never make them happy.”

  In a flash, the mother deer and her twins she’d seen on her way home the other day popped out of the woods, skittering across the road. The littlest one stopped and stared at her oncoming car.

  Grace stomped on the brakes and yanked the wheel to the right. The old car fishtailed, spinning into the woods and sliding down into a swampy section of muck. When it stopped, the fawn calmly trotted after its mother.

  Grace screamed. “Argh!” She grabbed her purse and fumbled for her phone. “No way. No way.” Images of her iPhone charging in Portia’s bedroom floated to her mind’s eye. “No freaking way!”

  She grabbed her coat and opened the door, stepping into ankle deep swamp water. Her sneakers were instantly soaked. “This isn’t happening.” She began to cry again, but took a deep breath to try to stop the tears. “I can’t believe this. What the hell!”

  How could she get help without her phone?

  She stumbled up onto the dirt road, watching the three deer leap across the old cornfield. They’d almost reached the edge of the distant woods now, and she shook her head. “Why couldn’t you cross the road one second later? Geez!”

  She hadn’t really paid attention to her progress along the road when she was driving like a maniac, but now she took stock of the landscape around her and realized she was probably about three miles from her parents’ house. The nearest family lived about a half mile in the opposite direction. She shuddered. She really didn’t want to go there, deal with all that old baggage. But she had no choice.

  It started to rain.

  “Of course.” Grace slid into her parka and pulled up the hood, wrapping her bright pink scarf around her neck. The rain turned to a cold drizzle and the sky began to spit sleet. She pushed her purse strap high on her shoulder and plunged her cold hands into her pockets. Shivering, she wondered why she had even come home for the holiday. She should’ve stayed with Anderson. There was no drama in his little apartment, aside from the theater class he taught, of course. She could have been warm in bed with him making sensuous love to her right now.

  “Dumb, dumb, dumb!” she screamed it to the trees above, and six crows took flight, scolding her.

  Trudging in her wet, stinking shoes, she made her way down the road. No cars passed her. Not a soul was out in this messy weather. Everyone was probably still in their post Thanksgiving meal coma.

  Her toes went numb.

  Finally, when she thought she couldn’t stand the cold one more second, she spotted Skeeter’s parents’ house. Old, dilapidated, with peeling yellow paint and a junk-filled porch and yard, it reminded her of her high school days when they’d gotten into big trouble together.

  But maybe Skeeter wouldn’t even be home. Hadn’t he moved out a few years ago? She didn’t know anymore. But she hoped she could avoid him and his father. That guy creeped her out.

  Please, just let Skeeter’s mom be there.

  Two more minutes of trudging in the cold, and she finally reached the cluttered porch. She knocked on the storm door.

  No answer.

  She caught a slight movement out of the corner of her eye. There, in what she knew was the living room, a curtain fluttered.

  She banged on the door this time. “Hello? Anyone home?”

  Finally, she heard heavy footsteps approaching. Heavier than a woman’s feet, she thought. Ugh. Was Skeeter’s weird dad going to open the door?

  Her heart sank when the man’s weathered face came into view. A bulbous, red-veined nose spoke of too much drinking, and true to form, one hand clutched the neck of a beer bottle. “Grace?” he said. “That you?”

  “Hi, Mr. Weatherby. Yes, it’s me.”

  “What’re you doing here? Skeeter’s not due home for an hour.”

  “I, um, my car went off the road, just down there.” She pointed in the general direction and shivered. “I just wondered if I might use your phone?”

  “Sure.” He opened the door wider. “Come on in. It’s been a long time.”

  She forced a smile and stepped into the blessed warmth, noting the familiar old smells of cigarette smoke and stale beer. The furnace had to be set at eighty. She kicked off her wet shoes in the doorway, apologetically peeling off her socks. “They’re soaked. I went into the swamp.”

  “I’ll get you a blanket.”

  Maybe he’d be okay with her? Maybe he wasn’t as creepy as she used to think? “I just need the phone, really.”

  “We don’t have one any more,” he muttered, walking ahead of her to the living room. “We use my son’s cell phone instead. Like I said, he’ll be home in an hour.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling pins and needles in her hands and feet. “A lot of folks are doing that these days.”

  “Yeah. Saves us money.” He picked up an afghan and handed it to her, but this time she noticed his eyes scanning her body, lingering on her breasts. “Take off your coat. Sit over here and I’ll get you a hot drink.”

  “Thank you,” she said, leery now. “But please don’t go to any trouble.” She unzipped her wet coat.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” He lumbered to the kitchen, heated up something in the microwa
ve, and brought back a steaming cup of cocoa. “Here you go. Let me hang up your coat to dry.”

  “Thanks. So, where does Skeeter work these days?”

  “At the gas station.” To her dismay, he leaned over to lift her feet onto the couch. “Here. Let’s wrap them in this throw.” He handled her feet as if they were wounded birds, carefully placing them on the soft blanket and wrapping them up. But when he was done, he didn’t remove his hands. Massaging and rubbing, he stared down at his handiwork.

  “Feel any better?” he asked.

  She tried to draw her feet under her, but he held onto them. “No, let me warm you up some more.”

  “It’s okay,” she blustered, trying to stand.

  “Sit,” he said, gently but firmly pushing her shoulders back. “You’re still cold.”

  “I think I’m okay now, Mr. W.”

  His face changed, his eyes narrowed, and he slid closer. “Call me Harry.”

  Chapter 45

  Call me Harry? Grace’s eyes widened and her heartbeat kicked up a notch. “What? No, I don’t think I could do that, Mr. Weatherby.”

  He leered at her, and tightened his grip on her ankles, sliding one hand up beneath her pant leg. “Why not? We’re neighbors. You’re an adult now.” He barked a smoker’s cough. “Aren’t you?”

  An icy tremor ran up her spine. My God, what the hell is he doing?

  Still holding her with one hand, he took a long swig of his beer and set the bottle down on the floor. “Come here, honey. I’ll warm you up some more.”

  She froze. “No. Please leave me alone.”

  “You always were a pretty little thing. My son told me he banged you plenty of times in his old Chevy.”

  “What?” She knew she’d screwed Skeeter at least a dozen times when he’d promised her a fix, but she’d be damned if she’d admit it to this old sleazebag. “That’s a lie.” She tried to look horrified and pulled back.

  “Aw, come on. I heard you give really good head, too. Wanna show me?” Before she could squirm away from him, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis. “See? Poor guy is feeling a little lonely since my wife left me.”

  She shuddered at the sight of it. “No. Put that thing away.”

  Mrs. Weatherby left him? Crap. That leaves her rescuing me out of the equation. She jerked away from him, scrambling into the corner of the couch when he came closer. “No!”

  He stood now, waving the crooked thing in her face. “Just a little taste? Come on.”

  She jumped up and tried to twist away from him, but he caught her by the waist and pinned her back to his front.

  “No!” Panicking now, she went into full rage mode. “Leave me the hell alone!” she screamed, kicking her feet wildly.

  The brute was stronger than she realized. It felt like he clamped an iron band around her arms and chest, and the more she struggled, the more her ribs hurt. With horror, she realized he’d become hard, and in the corner of her eye she saw it bumping against her hip. She wanted to hit him there, but her arms were pinned to her sides.

  “Let me go!” she screamed.

  He clamped a dirty hand across her lips. “Shut up. You gave it to my son. You’ll give it to me.”

  “NO!” Salty tears streaked her cheeks and she began to shake. “Please.”

  He dragged her into a bedroom and tossed her onto the bed as if she were a ragdoll. “Lie down. And keep still.”

  She rolled and scrambled to the other side of the bed and onto the floor, but he caught her and slammed his fist into her temple. Stars exploded in her field of vision and she went limp; nothing in her body listened to her brain’s signals.

  As if seeing the scene from afar, she felt him lift her and lay her on the bed. He stripped her clothes from her body, and cinched ropes around her wrists, connecting them to the headboard.

  This can’t be happening.

  When she felt him prying her thighs apart, she knew it was real. Horribly real. She wanted to punch him, kick him, spit on him. But she couldn’t make her body respond.

  “Please,” she whimpered. “Don’t do this.”

  His breath stank, and she turned her head away from his eager lips. “Oh, baby. I’m doin’ this.”

  She screwed up her courage and screamed, loud, long, and shrill.

  Someone burst through the door, and before Harry could enter her, Skeeter yanked his father off the bed and onto the floor.

  “Get off that girl, Goddammit!” Skeeter yelled, shoving his father away from the bed. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Harry growled at his son, “Leave me be. I’m just doin’ what you did all those years ago. I deserve some, too.”

  Skeeter kicked his father in the side. “No!” He turned to Grace, who lay naked and shaking on the bed. Quickly, he untied her. “I’m sorry, Miss. I’m real sorry.”

  When she pushed back her hair, he did a double take. “Grace? Oh my God.”

  He offered her a blanket and she covered up as best she could. Her words came out in a hoarse rush. “Thank you.”

  Behind him, Harry reared up and roared like an attacking lion claiming his female. “NO! You don’t get her. She’s mine.”

  Skeeter turned in time for his father’s fist to smash into his nose. Blood spurted instantly from the blow. “Fuck, Dad. Were you gonna rape her? Stop!”

  Skeeter tried to grab his father’s arms and pin them behind him, but the iron man easily escaped and turned to crash into his boy, head-to-head. Skeeter went down, and Grace, who’d been hurriedly dressing, screamed.

  Harry staggered toward her. “Mine.” He reached across the bed, but she raced across the room and into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

  “Go away!” she screamed, hoping to rouse Skeeter.

  Harry banged and kicked at the flimsy door, which rattled as if it would crack open any minute. Howling, he threw is body against it. One hinge broke free, and then there was a crash, and all was quiet. Too quiet.

  “Grace?” Skeeter’s voice sounded shaky. “You can come out now.”

  She peeked out the door, and when no one attacked her, opened it wider. There, on the floor in a pool of blood, lay Harry.

  “Oh my God. What happened?” She slipped out the door, making a wide circle around the prone figure.

  “He was beating down the door. I told him to stop, and he turned on me,” Skeeter said, his wild purple-tinted hair sticking out in spikes. “He grabbed that fire iron and swung at me.” He pointed to a gash on his arm. “Christ. He got me good.” His complexion paled, and sweat popped on his brow. “It was instinct. I hit him with that lamp.”

  “Is he dead?” Grace said, staring down at Harry. The back of his head shone with dark blood.

  “I don’t know.” Skeeter seemed frozen. The table lamp still dangled from his hand.

  Grace finished buttoning up her blouse and tucked it in, drawing in a deep breath. “Look! I think he’s alive. He just twitched.”

  Skeeter let out a long-held breath. “God. I can’t stay here. He’ll kill me when he wakes up.”

  Grace felt the world swirl around her, still dizzy from the blow to her head. “He clocked me good, just before you got here. Oh, crap. I feel like I’m gonna pass out.”

  Skeeter dropped the lamp and took her arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I should report him,” she said, holding a hand to her head. “He tried to rape me.”

  Skeeter looked nervously at his father, who’d begun to stir. “No. If you do, he’ll try to get back at you. If he can’t find you, he’ll hurt your family.” He locked eyes with her. “Just let it go.”

  She wavered, giving in. “Okay. Get me out of here.”

  Chapter 46

  When Grace didn’t call at ten o’clock the night after Thanksgiving, Anderson began to worry.

  What the hell was going on? She’d telephoned the night before, happy and sweet, telling him how much fun she was having with her sister. They’d been watching movies and doing each
other’s nails, and she seemed just fine. She’d whispered to him how much she loved him from the privacy of the bathroom, and had hung up with promises of a sweet reunion when she returned to school.

  He paced back and forth in his living room.

  Ten-thirty.

  Eleven.

  Eleven-thirty.

  Too late to call now. She and her family might be in bed already.

  All night he tossed and turned, sweating through his flannel pajamas. His heart pounded, and he imagined the worst possible scenarios.

  Tomorrow, he’d call her. Maybe she’d just gone out with Portia and lost track of time. Or, maybe she’d been watching a movie or playing a game with her family, and couldn’t slip away without them noticing.

  Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

  Then again, she could be in trouble. He had a bad feeling all night, and when he finally dozed off at four in the morning, he’d slept through until seven, awakening with a start. Worry filled his throat, making him want to cry out for her.

  Am I overreacting?

  He got up and checked the clock again.

  Too early to call. He should wait until nine.

  He tried to lie down again, but couldn’t fall asleep.

  Why hadn’t Grace called?

  ∞∞∞

  Grace was so tired, so damned furious with that bastard Mr. Weatherby, and so disgusted with her parents. She lay in the back seat of Skeeter’s old Buick, asleep but not asleep.

  First of all, where did her parents get off comparing her to Portia? Her sister had never had anything to deal with in her princess-like existence. Everything had been so easy, handed to her on the proverbial silver platter.

  She’d never studied, hardly at all. And she aced every class she took. Without a lick of work! Who does that? And why couldn’t her parents see how unfair it was? Grace had to work herself to death to get on the honor roll, setting aside hours per night to memorize facts and prepare for tests while Portia just lay around in the living room watching reruns of her soaps.

  Sometimes she hated her sister.

  Not that it was really Portia’s fault. But crap, why had life been so damned easy for her?