The Devil Crept In Read online

  Mornings had her dry-heaving as she stumbled into the kitchen. While Otto slept, she tried to air the place out, tearing down the curtains and throwing the rugs out onto the porch. If the police returned, she’d blame it on spring-cleaning. If they noted the smell, she’d hold the strays at fault. The officers had seen them hiding beneath her porch. Perhaps one had found its way inside the walls of the house and died. They’d seen the state of her home. They would buy it, one hundred percent.

  She started to reconsider her refusal to bury the body. If she had disposed of it when she’d found it, she wouldn’t be assaulted with the rankness every day. But the risks circled overhead like vultures. Just because the cops hadn’t come back to ask more questions didn’t mean they wouldn’t eventually call on her again. She didn’t want to keep them from exploring the property, didn’t want to give them any reason to suspect her. And so she left the windows open despite the rain. Every rug and bit of upholstery was sprayed down with Lysol. Scented candles burned all day. If the police rang her bell again, she’d invite them in. Only guilty people asked the authorities to keep away from certain spots, and if Rosamund Aleksander was guilty of anything, it was of loving her son the way any mother loved her child.

  She started picking up the newspaper when she went out for groceries, which she did far more frequently, if only to keep on top of the news. Nearly every day there was a new update about Maxwell Larsen, headlines that shouted: “SEARCH FOR DEER VALLEY BOY YIELDS NO RESULTS.” There were interviews with friends and family, but she refused to read them. She felt horrible enough as it was. The police statements became grimmer by the week. No leads. No suspects. No sign of Max anywhere.

  After three long weeks of waiting, deliverance was emblazoned across the front page of the McMinnville Gazette: “SEARCH FOR MISSING BOY MOVES EAST.” Overwhelmed by relief, she bought herself a bouquet of grocery store daisies and a king-sized jar of Jif for her boy. She watched Otto scoop globs of peanut butter into his mouth with his twisted hands as she sat on the couch, and as he greedily sucked at his goo-smeared fingers, she was struck by a thought that curdled her blood: she was rewarding him. They had gotten away with murder, and now they were reveling in their success.

  She had to lock him in the basement to clean out the room beneath the stairs. He screamed and thrashed against the door for hours, but his wails didn’t bother her as much as before. It was safer now with the search party gone, and the constant rain dampened the noise. Rosie only hoped the police wouldn’t catch her on her hands and knees, scrubbing bloodstains out of the floor with a tangle of steel wool. She had come too far for that to happen. This had to end today.

  She loaded the garbage bag into the trunk of her car without any idea of where she would dispose of it; somewhere remote and out of the way, like the Happy Hope. She imagined enduring the long drive down the coast, pulling into the retreat’s long and unpaved drive after dark. She’d bury the body behind Ras’s oceanside home. And if Max was ever found, the old biker would be blamed. She was certain the man was no stranger to the criminal lifestyle. A perfect stool pigeon, if there ever was one.

  But that drive was brutal, and with endless forest around her own home, it was overkill. She was being paranoid. And so she started the car and began to drive northwest toward the coast, up toward Washington State, in the opposite direction it was reported that the search party had moved.

  After thirty miles, she pulled onto an abandoned road tucked into a thick tangle of trees—a good a spot as any. Parked just far enough away from the quiet highway as to not be noticed, she pulled the bag out of the trunk and spilled its contents onto the ground, scattering the remains in a way that would suggest an animal attack. The blood-smeared bag made its way back into the car. She’d get rid of it at a random rest stop trash can along the way.

  And footprints? There were none to leave. The ground was covered with a thick blanket of wild grass, moss, downed branches, and leaves. Rosamund was no expert in forensics, but she’d wager that tracks would be hard, if not altogether impossible, to detect. The police had complained about the rain in the Yamhill Valley News-Register throughout the weeks. Dogs weren’t picking up Maxwell’s scent. There was just too much water. Whatever clues may have been out in the woods near Deer Valley had now been washed away. The search party’s setback was Rosamund’s boon. And as she pulled away from Max Larsen’s final resting place, she was confident that, like the rain, this too would pass.

  · · ·

  She tried to push the feelings of responsibility for what had happened to Max Larsen to the back of her mind, but the last thing she wanted was for it to happen again. Once was a mistake. Twice would most certainly get them caught.

  It took her a couple of weeks of driving by to find the nerve, but she finally pulled into an old stock and feed place outside of McMinnville and parked next to a barn—quintessential with its peeling red paint and rusty tractor parked out front. The next day, the man she’d spoken with showed up in an old pickup to fix her dilapidated fence. He set the pickets straight and ran chicken wire between them. When he asked why she hadn’t hired someone from Deer Valley to do the job—it’s a hell of a lot closer, probably cheaper, too—Rosie simply smiled and asked him if he’d like something to drink.

  The man built a henhouse and feeder, which he painted a bright, jewel-toned blue. The color reminded Rosie of the ocean, the way it looked from atop the California cliffs. That azure, so vivid against a sea of green, gave her hope that her idea would satiate Otto’s appetite enough to keep him away from town, at least until she could figure out how to keep him out of Deer Valley for good.

  The guy returned with Rosie’s chickens a few days later, half a dozen set free in the yard. They ran and clucked and ate seed from between blades of grass, growing comfortable with their new surroundings as the sun began to set.

  Otto discovered them at dusk.

  His eyes widened with wonder before he burst into the yard to give chase, the chickens flapping their wings in panicked surprise, white and brown feathers fluttering up into the sky and onto the ground like pillowcase down. He tore the first chicken’s head off with his teeth and gazed up at Rosie almost adoringly as he chewed. She had to look away as the bird’s body continued to twitch in his hands.

  He killed another the next day, but seemed gentler with it, as though conducting an experiment of just how much he could hurt it before the thing stopped fighting and died.

  His third victim managed to last an entire day before succumbing to what Rosie assumed was some sort of hidden trauma. Each chicken—or what remained of it—was tossed into an open pit in the backyard in the morning, after Otto had gone to sleep.

  She arranged another shipment of six birds within a week. When the same man arrived with her order, he looked more suspicious than she liked. “I left the gate open,” she told him with a bashful laugh. “I’m not used to shutting it behind me.” The man spent ten minutes trying to sell her on a spring-loaded gate hinge, meticulously detailing all the benefits of such an upgrade. All she had to do was give him a call and—whammo bammo—no open gate, no lost chickens, no problem. When he finally left, she made a mental note to call another place next time. He was too pushy for her taste. A bit too I know best.

  Otto continued his reign of terror, but the chickens stopped passing away. Instead, their feathers began to fall out, leaving bald spots of pale flesh exposed to the sun. Their wings drooped, and they seemed to waddle as they walked, their beady eyes squinting against the bright daylight. But rather than running from Otto when he charged into the yard, they clamored toward him. Rosie watched these fascinating exchanges from inside the house; Otto sitting on the grass, surrounded by cats, dogs, chickens, and the occasional wild-eyed squirrel. It was a clash of two fairy tales: Quasimodo meets Snow White.

  Rosie hadn’t been able to figure it out at first. Why had those strays started appearing around the house? But now it was becoming clear, and the reason was far more sinister than she had
originally thought. It had happened to Sasha, too. The cat had been terrified of Otto until he had been attacked. It was only then, contrary to all logic, that Sasha took a liking to the boy who moved around on all fours.

  Watching the animals crowd around her son day in and day out, like rats scrambling toward the last bit of cheese, Rosie started to understand that she had been right; little Maxwell Larsen had been a mistake. But the chickens had helped Otto learn. Fenced off and captive, they were the perfect subjects for experimentation. If he was too rough and killed them, they were gone forever. But if he fed from them and let them live, he could eat more than once. It meant less hunting for him, and less cleanup for her.

  And hadn’t that been what Otto had done with her, too; feeding from his mother’s breast despite the pain it had caused her? He had been too small to kill her with his constant need—that’s why he had screamed for the first year of his life. Hunger. Terrible, inexplicable, insatiable hunger. As soon as Sasha had been turned on to the Church of the Child, he had done what Rosamund couldn’t; the cat had supplied Otto with constant food, disregarding its own well-being.

  The death didn’t altogether stop, however. Some of the weaker animals were put out of their misery, others simply lay down and expired. When Otto fell into one of his moods, he left a trail of slain in his wake, and the dogs were his favorite to maim. It could have been their loyalty to their original owners—their desire to return home—that fueled Otto’s aversion to the breed.

  Rosie’s makeshift graveyard continued to fill up. She began to recognize the felled. There was a white cat with a black spot in the shape of a heart on its side. She had nicknamed him Valentine. For weeks, Valentine sat on the front porch step as though he’d lived with Rosie all his life . . . until one morning his body was left for her just shy of his stoop. Then there had been a dog—curly-haired, brown, with a black leather collar. Just a pup, he had appeared outside the fence a few times. Noodle had gone home one too many times for Otto’s taste. His collar was tucked away in Ansel’s rolltop desk.

  Even poor Sasha—long dead—had eventually weakened to whatever affliction Otto had begifted him. Rosie had explained away his failing health; old age, that was all. But now it was clear to her: Otto’s subservients were on a limited timeline. Was that chronology based on how subordinate each animal was, by how many offerings they gave, or how hungry Otto happened to be that day? That unanswerable question was enough to rouse a familiar itch beneath Rosie’s old scars. If it was only a matter of time before each of Otto’s slaves was put down, it was only a matter of time before . . .

  No, she thought. I’m his mother. I protect him. He would never.

  And what if children began to materialize from the woods? What if, unlike Max Larsen, they weren’t torn apart but brought home instead?

  Rosie pushed the gruesome images out of her mind. She told herself it was impossible.

  And for years, she believed it. The potential of it would worm its way into her brain every so often, but it was impossible. No. It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t. Not ever.

  Time marched on. She got older, more numb, at times toeing complete ambivalence, but the routine stayed the same. The house became more run-down with every passing winter, and by Otto’s twelfth birthday, there was a hole in the roof of the detached garage and the car had started to rust. The picket fence she had repaired was bent by wind, eroded by moist earth, and shoved over by her son’s ever-growing bone-heavy bulk. And if Ansel could have only known how Rosie had spent the money he had squirreled away, he would have writhed in his grave. Writhed, or maybe laughed the way she did when she thought of it now. Chickens. All his education, his long hours, his hard work . . . for chickens. Hundreds, from wherever she could get them. And the funniest part? Throughout those years, she hadn’t roasted a single one.

  With no income of her own, the money ran short. The chickens stopped being delivered but Otto didn’t seem to mind. The strays had never ceased to loiter around the property, and Rosie didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t another Max Larsen. No, Max had been a mistake. Otto wouldn’t dare.

  Until he did.

  Stepping into the basement and finding her now-adult son stooped over something she couldn’t make out, she moved across the floor while Otto gave her a glare. Two and a half decades together, and he’d never shown her affection. Today was no different. He snorted over his shoulder as she approached, warning her to stay away.

  Because there, in the corner of the basement, was her worst nightmare.

  There, in the underbelly of her home, was another child. And this time, Otto had let him live.

  25

  * * *

  MOTHER.

  A word that brought comfort to most had, instead, flipped some aggressive switch in Jude’s brain.

  He took a step toward Stevie, his route along the forested road forgotten. Reaching out, he grabbed Stevie by the arm—a sign that Stevie was going to accompany Jude to that house whether he wanted to or not.

  “H-hey, what . . . ?” Stevie took his own backward step, the look on Jude’s face churning his guts into a sickly green froth. He tried to yank his arm away.

  I’m gonna smash your teeth in, s’gonna be a lot of pain.

  The words were Jude’s, but his crooked mouth—skewed by a newly acquired tick—remained unmoving.

  Gonna bash in your brains in and run ’em down the drain.

  Stevie hardly felt the urine that ran down the inside of his right leg turn cold against his skin, didn’t hear the sleeve of his T-shirt tear at the seams as he turned away. He was too busy bolting toward home, listening to Jude’s stomping footfalls behind him. “Sack!”

  Hey, Suh-Suh-Suh-Sack attack, there’s no turning back!

  Stevie’s lungs ignited like cylinder bursts as he pushed himself to run faster. He wanted to turn around, to crane his neck to make sure that what he thought was happening was rooted in truth. But if he paused, if he stumbled, Jude would be on him.

  “Sack!”

  Time for payback, cracker jack! G-g-gonna give your skull a nice big whack!

  Stevie veered left, sure there was no way he’d be able to sustain this sort of pace. But if he tried hard enough, he could make it back into town. There were people on Main Street. Murder was unlikely on the front steps of Mr. Greenwood’s general store.

  But why was this happening? Why was Jude coming after him?

  “Jude-not-Jude,” he said, his breath rasping in his throat, his arms pumping like twin pistons at his sides. “Jude-not-Jude.”

  If he’d have known he was going to die so young, he would have pointed an accusing finger at Terry the Tyrant. Death by killer stepdad. Never by his once-best friend.

  “Jude-not-J—”

  The toe of his sneaker caught on a tree root. Stevie flew forward, his arm out in front of him, a cry whipping free of his throat, the loop of his manic thoughts derailed. He skidded onto his hands and knees, sure that the next few seconds would be his last. Dirt jammed up beneath his fingernails. Leaves crunched beneath the heels of his hands. The ground bit at his already skinned flesh, a fresh sting of pain igniting like dry kindling across his knees.

  The sun beat down on his back as he breathed hard, staring at the ground beneath him, waiting for a shadow to throw his own into relief. Jude-not-Jude.

  He heard quick footfalls. The snapping of twigs. Jerking his head to the side, he squinted against the sunlight in time to catch sight of his cousin. Except, rather than Jude lunging for him with those cracked lips and hollowed-out eyes, he stopped, grinned, actually winked as if to say Balls, what balls? and dashed in the direction of that awful, moss-eaten house—empty-handed, because the hammer was gone—as though the pursuit was nothing more than a game of tag.

  What?

  The dust Stevie had kicked up in his fall settled around him like a fistful of stars.

  What the hell was happening? Was he seeing things again?

  No, impossible. He was sure this time. Except .
. . his brain could have misfired for half a second, confusing his best friend’s face with the countenance of that creature thing; like when his hand had turned to worms—so real that he’d lost half of two fingers trying to shake the illusion. It wasn’t a stretch to think, with how terrified he was, that he’d imagined it all. Because Jude was his friend. His best friend.

  He would never, ever, not ever in a million billion gazillion—

  There was a shift in the woods. A rustle. Stevie’s heart sputtered to a hitching stop. His eyes darted in the opposite direction of town, where Jude had run.

  It’s only Jude, dude. He’s just hiding behind a tree, see?

  But the harder Stevie strained to find him, the more a figure became overt. Tucked away in the shadows of trees and overgrowth, it was hunched and naked. A face—lipless and burn-scarred—watched him from around a lodgepole pine. Not running after Jude. Not careening toward Stevie. Simply observing. A voyeur, watching an abandoned boy grapple with things that couldn’t have possibly been real.

  · · ·

  Stevie ran toward town.

  Bursting onto Main Street, he left Deer Valley’s residents wide-eyed two days in a row. Mrs. Lovejoy croaked something at him as he blasted by her, probably akin to Stevie finally having gone off the rails. Call the police!

  And perhaps he had gone insane. That must have been why the only person Stevie wanted to see in the whole world just then was his stupid brother, Dunk.

  Leaping up the porch steps, Stevie came flying into the house and crashed against Duncan’s door. He didn’t bother knocking, just burst in like a home invader.

  Dunk jumped at the sudden intrusion. “What the fuck . . . ? Get out of my room, dipshit!” Sitting on an old beanbag chair so tattered it looked like a piece of rotting fruit, he snapped his laptop shut and readjusted it across his lap.