The Devil Crept In Read online

  What was he talking about? What about the cat out behind his shop? What about Sam Benton’s ferret, which Jude and Sam had nearly gotten into a fistfight over after Jude had called it a weasel? What about Jude’s fish, Cheeto? Or Kermit the hermit crab, which Jude and Stevie had painted green—which was probably why the dumb crab had died, but that was beside the point. What about all the strays?

  Mr. Greenwood seemed to take notice of Stevie’s aggravation. He leaned away to give him space, as though crowding him wasn’t giving Stevie’s puny brain enough room to expand. But suddenly, all Stevie wanted to do was yell. He had run all the way out here, Jude was back at that creepy house, there was a monster on the loose, and he was probably going to get grounded for the rest of his life. And all Mr. G. had managed to do was confuse him. He wasn’t a sad and lonely man the way Stevie initially thought. He was a riddling kid-hater, and Stevie just so happened to be a convenient target for his loathing.

  Stevie’s eyes darted to the cellophane bag of gummy candy. All at once he was convinced that, no, Mr. Greenwood hadn’t given him more than fifty cents’ worth. He was almost positive that the man had given him less, and on purpose.

  “They go to the woods,” Greenwood said. “And like your brother’s dog, most of them get there by running away.”

  Logic told Stevie to be patient; just stand there and nod and wait for Greenwood to reveal what it all meant. But something about the way Mr. G. was dancing around the subject was infuriating. He knew Stevie was in a hurry, and yet there he was, stretching out time, daring Stevie to stay longer. How much is the answer worth to you? Two weeks? Two months? Two whole lifetimes in the hole, whole, hole?

  Stevie peered at his bag of candy. He didn’t have time for this. Mr. Greenwood had nothing to offer. He was useless, just like the search team. Just like his mother. Like Aunt Mandy and her blind belief that Jude just needed to sleep it off despite looking like a scurvied pirate. Because they can’t see it. You have to save him because you’re the only one who can see it. You know the truth and no one else does, because, because, because . . .

  Either Stevie figured out on his own what was wrong with Jude, or Jude was done for. Vanished but still there. Invisible but real, like that shadow, that creature that Stevie was sure Jude had seen, too.

  He turned away from the counter, mad enough not to bother with niceties. His lack of a good-bye would speak volumes: he was pissed, and he didn’t appreciate Mr. G. wasting his time. Hopefully, it would make Mr. Greenwood feel bad about stringing Stevie along. Thanks for nothing, you old fart.

  But as soon as Stevie turned, that cellophane crinkling in his palm, the store owner spoke again, his tone trying for reassurance. “The answer to the question isn’t always obvious, Mr. Clark. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but sometimes a straight line isn’t the quickest way.”

  More crappy riddles.

  Stevie marched toward the door, not looking back.

  “Remember Max Larsen?”

  Stevie froze, his hand on the door. The hair on his arms stood on end. He turned, expectantly holding his breath.

  “Something they don’t mention because it seems arbitrary,” Mr. Greenwood said, “is why Max had gone into the forest that day.”

  Stevie’s mouth went dry. “Why?” he asked. What if Max had built a fort, just like Stevie and Jude had? In the very same tree, and that tree was haunted or something? And by building their fort there, Stevie and Jude had roused some shadow beast that was now determined to eat their brains right out of their skulls? Maybe there was a lady ghost in the woods, vexed by some mysterious event nobody quite understood, vengeful enough to steal kids.

  “He was taking his dog for a walk,” Mr. Greenwood said. “A new puppy. The puppy was acting out, digging under the fence, trying to escape.”

  Stevie stared hard at the old man.

  “Max’s dog did get out, Mr. Clark. It was the first or second day he had it. Max and his mom came in here with flyers. Max was crying his eyes out. He was a small boy. A lot younger than you.”

  Stevie’s fingers squeezed. Cellophane crinkled in his grip.

  “The dog showed up on the front step after a few days. A miracle,” Mr. Greenwood recalled. “Max was so happy. He brought him over to my house to show old Pop-Pop how good of a dog Sammy was. But Sammy wouldn’t eat, and he wouldn’t sleep. He came back with fleas, and he kept trying to escape the yard no matter how much attention Max gave him. So Max’s mom told Max to take Sammy for a walk, hoping that some exercise would do the pup some good. And that was the last we saw of them, Mr. Clark.”

  Until two weeks later, when the cops found the body. At least that’s how the story went.

  “The police never did find the party responsible for what happened to Maxi; fat lot of good they do around here,” said Mr. G. “But the dog . . . same as the cat, the one that lives behind the store . . .”

  Was that the answer? The stupid cat? That would have possibly made sense if Jude had been walking his dog the way the Larsen kid had. It would have had a semblance of meaning if Jude even owned a dog, but he didn’t. No. Greenwood was just screwing with him.

  Bullshit walks.

  “I g-gotta go,” Stevie murmured, having had enough. He wasn’t going to figure out the riddle, not at this rate.

  He pushed his way through the screen door and let it slap closed behind him, shoved his hand into the pocket of his shorts and drew out his watch, then squinted at the readout that was almost impossible to see against the glare of the sun. His heart flipped when he finally managed to make out the numbers.

  Five minutes till noon—an impossible feat, but he ran anyway.

  With the bag of gummies swinging back and forth in a pendulum whip, he cut across unfenced yards to save on time, flying down the street as fast as his sneakers would take him. Mr. Greenwood—Pop-Pop?—was a kook, obsessed with that cat that lived behind the building, pushed to the outer limit of his sanity by that feline’s rejection. Yeah, it was a mean thing; that cat should have been grateful that someone gave half a damn about it at all. Without Mr. G. leaving food and water behind the back-alley door, the dumb animal wouldn’t have been more than a walking skeleton. But he didn’t see why Mr. G. had to bring him into it. Cats were just like that: distant, independent, generally total jerks.

  But what about Noodle? Dunk’s dog skittered into his thoughts as he leapt over some kid’s abandoned tricycle. He considered his own brother’s heartbreak as he charged toward Sunset Avenue, his breaths coming in quick, locomotive gasps. Dogs weren’t like cats. Some of them ran away, but for the most part dogs got attached to their owners. It was weird that Noodle would have been so dead-set on running off; strange that, if Dunk’s story was accurate, Noodle had almost strangled himself in an attempt to escape the yard. Stevie had only ever seen dogs act that way when there was something to chase—a rabbit or a squirrel or a kid on a bike. And he supposed that could have been the explanation if it had happened once or twice, but from what Dunk had said, it was a constant thing . . . at least after the first time Noodle had escaped.

  That’s what Mr. Greenwood had said happened to Max Larsen’s dog, too. It had gotten out, gone missing long enough for Max and his mom to put up posters all over town. And then he just reappeared out of nowhere.

  The weight of that thought hit him head-on as he veered onto Sunset. It was heavy enough to slow him down, as though the concrete had gone soft and sticky beneath his feet.

  Sammy had come back, but had refused to stay. Noodle had done the same thing. Mr. Greenwood’s cat rebuffed the old man’s hospitality despite actually liking Mr. G. And Deer Valley didn’t have a vet, because nobody could seem to keep their animals from running off. Their pets would vanish, then reappear—unharmed yet completely different—never staying, always running back into the trees.

  Into the woods, just like Jude.

  · · ·

  Stevie shoved open his unlocked bedroom window, crawled through, and
landed with a bounce on top of his bed. He gasped for air as the cellophane bag of gummies crinkled beneath his weight. The busted watch dug hard into his leg as he writhed atop his sheets, trying to steady his breathing, to keep his heart from exploding inside the cavern of his chest. Eventually, the burning in his lungs dwindled to a smolder. He sat up, shoved himself off the bed, and careened toward his door.

  He didn’t knock, just pulled open Duncan’s door and stepped inside for the second time that day. Dunk was in the same spot Stevie had left him—half sunk into that ugly old beanbag, his laptop lighting up his face with an electric-blue glow. It didn’t matter how sunny it was outside; the sheets he’d thrown over the already existing curtains kept the room dark, 24/7.

  Duncan’s attention shifted from screen to his kid brother, surprise deviating to leering anger in two seconds flat. “What the fuck? What are you doing in here again, you little shit?”

  “I’m—” Stevie started, but he wasn’t allowed to finish.

  “You think you can just come in here any time you want? Get the fuck out!”

  “B-b-but Dunk, I gotta, gotta—”

  “Gotta get the fuck out. Before I break you in half, you turd!”

  Stevie took a couple of backward steps, ready to flee. But he stopped before turning to go. No, he couldn’t.

  “Dunk, I’m sorry, okay? But I gotta talk and you gotta listen! Okay?”

  Duncan pulled a hand down his face, as if trying to tear the skin off his skull, then slammed his laptop closed. His eyes were still blazing, but he relented. “This better be good, Sack, or I swear to God . . .”

  “That house,” Stevie said. “The one house along that road with the house—”

  “I know what house you’re talking about, moron.”

  “It’s where Jude was,” he said. “I know it was! We were a few minutes away and he said there was a lady, remember? The mother lady, because it’s not abandoned?”

  Dunk exhaled a frustrated breath and fell back, Styrofoam beads crunching beneath the force of his head hitting the bag’s cracked-vinyl upholstery.

  “Before he came back home, I went there to find him. I thought that he had gone there and maybe the cops hadn’t checked—”

  “Why wouldn’t they have checked?” Dunk interrupted. “You think watching all those stupid-ass shows makes you smarter than the police?”

  Stevie stood there, his train of thought derailed.

  “This isn’t Mysterious Mysteries, dude,” Dunk said. “Of course they checked. The cops knocked on every door within a fifteen-mile radius. They checked out that house, too.”

  “Th-then why didn’t they find him?”

  “Because he wasn’t there.” Dunk was growing more irritated by the second. He rolled his eyes and opened his laptop again. Conversation over. “Besides, the Jewd is back. Who gives a shit? Get out,” he said. “I’m busy.”

  “Then how would he know about the lady?” Stevie asked. Dunk may have been getting agitated, but Stevie couldn’t help getting angry, too. Didn’t Duncan understand that this was a big deal? “Dunk.”

  “Oh my God . . .” Duncan was seething, apparently at the end of his rope. “If you don’t get out of my room in the next three seconds, I’m going to take my morning dump on top of your face.”

  “Dunk, stop it!” It exploded out of him as a yell. Dunk’s eyes went wide, not having expected his kid brother to get so riled up. Stevie, on the other hand, suddenly wanted to cry, though he couldn’t tell exactly what was pushing him toward that emotional edge. Duncan’s relentless threats, the name-calling, the obviousness of his big brother’s disdain, the fact that Dunk didn’t seem to care about anything?

  All Stevie wanted was for someone to hear him out, to forget about his stuttering and word salad and listen. All Dunk had to do was sit there and shut up for a second so that Stevie could try to get the words out right.

  “Jesus Christ,” Duncan said beneath his breath. “You’re going to cry now? Fine, what?”

  But Stevie wasn’t sure he wanted to tell him anymore. Because screw him. Why should he tell Dunk anything if he didn’t care? Except, who else did he have to tell? His mom had already proved that she wasn’t interested in his stories. He couldn’t go to Aunt Mandy. That was crossing some sort of line. Besides, she’d been there when Stevie had mentioned the monster; she’d been there when he told her and his mother both about how Jude had taken a bite out of his own arm. She hadn’t believed him, either. Who else was left? Terry? The cops? If he told the police, they’d show back up at Aunt Mandy’s place to ask questions. If they went into the forest to look for Jude and found him, they’d drag him back to the station, and then Jude would be in trouble and really hate Stevie’s guts.

  “I saw something,” Stevie said, forcing it out before he could waste more time reconsidering.

  “Saw something,” Dunk repeated, his tone flat, uninterested. “Like one of your crazy fucking delusions, I bet.”

  “At that house,” Stevie clarified. “W-when I went there by myself to the house. I went there, Dunk. All by myself.”

  Dunk didn’t respond. He just sat there, not moving.

  “It was . . . a thing. On the porch.”

  “On the porch,” Dunk echoed.

  “A creature thing . . . on the porch.”

  “A creature?” Stevie could hear it; his brother’s interest was finally piqued.

  “It was sitting in the shadows, so it was hard to see because it was, it was because, it was behind the shadows, sitting on the porch in the shadows on the porch of that house in the woods on the porch. It was hiding, I think, but I could see a little bit, and it was all curled up and mangled, mangled! Mangle-dangled like how the ape monkey apes sit at the zoo.”

  “Like a mangled ape,” Dunk said, as if considering something, then continued. “A mangled, retarded monkey, and it was hanging out on the porch of a spooky old house.” A beat of silence. “A ghost monkey.” His voice cracked with amusement. “And you’re sure you didn’t take the crazy train to nutso town. Okay, buddy, whatever.”

  “It wasn’t a monkey,” Stevie insisted.

  “A baboon, then. One of those red-assed ones.”

  Stevie ignored him. “You know how I asked about Noodle?” As soon as he name-dropped Dunk’s dog, Duncan’s expression lost all signs of humor. Another invisible line. Another subject that simply shouldn’t have been breached. “I asked because Mr. Greenwood—”

  “The old general store guy?”

  “Yeah! He told me to, and I didn’t see what that had to do with anything, but there’s this cat—his fur is pretty much naked—it lives behind the store and Mr. G. feeds it even though it’s a jerk. He tried to adopt it . . . but it keeps running away, just like Sammy did.”

  Duncan stared at Stevie for minute, as if dazed by his monologue.

  “I mean, Noodle,” Stevie murmured to himself.

  “Coincidence,” Dunk said. “Animals are dumb.”

  “Except that there’s no vet in town. Did you know that? There’s no pet vet, Dunk, because the pets keep running their legs off,” Stevie said. “Unless they’re in cages, I guess. That’s probably why everyone has fish. Or weasels. Because something is out there.”

  “Out where?”

  “In the woods, where Jude is!”

  “Jesus, you’re making my head hurt, you know that?”

  “Noodle ran away with Mr. Greenwood’s cat. There’s no vet because there are no pets to vet, a-a-and Max . . . the dead Max? You remember the dead Max who died, that Max kid? Pop-Pop said Max had a Noodle dog, Dunk. He had a Noodle, too, except it was Sammy. He went into the woods to walk him and the Sammy dog ran, and Max was chopped up. Max,” he whispered the name. “Max got the ax. Jude is screwed . . .”

  Dunk peered at his kid brother through the dim haze of his bedroom. “So, the monkey thing on the porch of the spooky house was Max Larsen’s dog, and it had magically turned into an ape? Or did it turn into the old geezer’s cat?”

/>   Dunk was just messing with him now, but flying off the handle was just going to get the door slammed in Stevie’s face. “Maybe that monkey thing has something to do with it, even though it wasn’t a monkey. It was a creature. Maybe that thing had something to do with Jude disappearing, too.”

  “Except, reality check: Jude is back.”

  “But he’s gone again, Dunk. He’s gone again and not the same. There’s something wrong. He’s different. You’ve gotta see him. He looks like a sicko alien hamburger cow-killer. Why would he go out there again if he got stuck? Why is he going in the dark when there are monsters hiding there? Why?”

  Dunk didn’t reply. Too much to think about, or possibly Stevie was too excited to be coherent. His brain was too messy. He was speaking in tongues.

  Dunk suggested: “Well, maybe if you’re so goddamn interested in whatever’s in the woods, you should wait until Jude goes out there by himself. Follow him, like in your stupid crime shows.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I told you, he’s gone!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Dunk furrowed his eyebrows. “He’s probably wanking it next door.”

  “He’s in the woods,” Stevie insisted. “Back in the woods, he went back.”

  “Since when?”

  “Like an hour ago.” Was that how long it had been?

  “He’s next door, you idiot. I saw him out the kitchen window a few minutes ago. Go see for yourself. And if you’re so worried about what he’s doing out there, follow him and leave me out of it, huh? Now get lost.”

  Stevie couldn’t help himself. He ran across the hall and back into his room to look out his window toward Jude’s house. And there, just as Duncan had said, was Jude. In his room. Staring out the window, as if waiting for Stevie to come looking for him. Waiting, like the purveyor of some nasty prank.

  “So, I still don’t get it.” Stevie jumped at his brother’s voice, veered around, saw Dunk standing in his open bedroom door. “If there really is something living out there—if you weren’t just hallucinating the hell out of your pea-sized brain, and you’re even remotely close to being right and that thing, whatever it is, has been out there since that Larsen kid got shredded—why wouldn’t the cops have figured it out? Why wasn’t the body at the house? And why would Noodle want to go back into the forest? I mean, maybe he was just a stupid dog that didn’t know any better. But if there was something dangerous out there, the last thing an animal would do is run toward it, you know?”