- 6 -
The murder was all anyone at school could talk about. Neck torn open. Bled out on a highway road. It was gruesome.
And when I got home, the police were waiting.
"Just want to ask you some questions," said the sheriff. "Alone."
They must have called my uncle first, because he was home, and in his gruff, no-nonsense way, he stared the sheriff down and didn't move. That was probably the only reason my hands didn't shake when I set down my bag.
"Noticed your stain." The sheriff used his pen to gesture to the darkened spot of carpet. I tried not to imagine Chrissy still lying there. "What's that from?"
"Sheriff," said my uncle, "you can ask your questions, but you try to play games, you're out the door."
"This is police business," said the second officer. "You don't get to—"
He cut off when the sheriff waved his hand.
"Alright, Eddie," the sheriff said. "Late last night, there was a body found on the highway near here. Extensive neck wounds. We received a tip that Chrissy Cunningham checked into the hospital with similar wounds a few weeks ago. Although she survived hers, she seems to have received them right here in your living room. Care to explain that, son?"
I'd thought it would be hard to stay calm, but on the contrary, I felt so calm it was almost paralyzing. It took me a few tries to speak at all. Maybe that was because there was no easy answer.
I finally said, "You'd have to ask Chrissy."
"You weren't home at the time?" He glanced up to include my uncle in the question.
"I work late," my uncle grunted.
"I was in my room," I said. "When I came out here, she was . . . bleeding. I didn't see anything."
The second officer scoffed. "Not even gonna try for a convincing story?"
"What was Chrissy doing here?" the sheriff asked.
"We were hanging out. Is that a crime?"
"Depends on the activity. Tell me—did you ever hang out with this boy?"
He pushed a picture across the table to me. I didn't even have to look at it; it was Fred Benson. The dead kid.
"No," I said.
"Someone else told it to me differently. Said you threatened Fred just before spring break because he was doing an article in the school paper about the championship basketball game instead of your"—He checked one of the lines in his open notepad—"Hell Fire Club."
My calm began to fray at the edges. "I didn't threaten Fred. I wasn't even talking to him. I was talking to Nancy Wheeler; she runs the paper. And all I said was that it was conformist to report on mainstream sports when there were other important things happening at school that are not only ignored but are ridiculed. Like me and my club, which is a club for Dungeons and Dragons. A game."
"We've heard of your game," said the officer. "Heard it's leading kids astray all over the country. Teaching them how to murder."
My uncle said, "One more word, Sheriff, and your officer's out on his ass."
"Officer Callahan, let me handle the questions. Eddie, where were you last night?"
I'd never been so grateful for a night out. "My band and I played at The Hideout. We're scheduled every Tuesday."
He made a note below the others. I thought that might be the end of it, but then—
"Heard you've been known to sell drugs. Is that true?"
Dealing was nothing compared to murder, but still. I couldn't stay silent; that was as good as a confession. But I couldn't lie.
"Might have made some mistakes in the past," I said, regretting every one of them in the moment.
The sheriff gave a very small, very dry smile. He made another note.
"While we check out your alibi," he said, "don't leave town, and don't get into trouble."
My uncle was a silent, brooding type even on the most cheerful of days, so rather than sit in the front room with him where I could feel all the itching under my skin, I went to my bedroom.
"Hey, sweetheart," I said quietly, reaching for my guitar, "I think we're in it deep."
Playing unplugged felt unusually somber, like the whole world was weighing on the music, dampening each note. I was almost glad when the phone rang and my uncle said it was for me.
"It's him," said Chrissy, her voice trembling.
It was what I'd been thinking all day. Chrissy and I had never talked about it except that one day in the woods, but there was a monster in our town, and it had only been wishful thinking to assume he left after attacking Chrissy.
Why kill Fred but not Chrissy?
"Mom pulled me out of school so the police could talk to me," she said. "I didn't know what to say. I just told them it was a man."
"They came to talk to me, too," I said.
"I'm sorry. I got you involved in all of this."
It was true. But so was that cliff thing. Now more than ever.
"Well," I said, "I wouldn't take it back." And then I said something even crazier. "Hey, is it okay if I come over?"
"My mom—"
"I don't care about her opinion. Just yours."
There was a moment of silence before Chrissy's voice cracked as she said, "I want to see you more than anything."
That settled it.
My uncle didn't forbid me or anything; he just said, "I wouldn't go," and that was smart, but I couldn't afford to be smart. If I was smart, I would have graduated on time, I would have avoided drugs, I would already be neck-deep in some job, some life, and I never would have kissed Chrissy.
I was no hero, but since I couldn't be smart, I would have to try my best to be brave.
The Cunningham house was more intimidating than any Castle Ravenloft. Without turrets, it still jutted a black silhouette into the sky, and without an army of undead, there was still a battle waiting inside. And plenty of traps.
I took a quick breath, blew it out even more quickly, shook my hands loose, and then knocked.
Voices stirred inside. I heard Chrissy's pitch but not her words.
The door opened, and I was brought face to face with my boss fight.
"Evening, Mrs. Cunningham," I said.
In response, she said, "You're not welcome here." As always, it was even more evident on her face than in her words.
On my drive over, I'd planned my words as carefully as any campaign, but that didn't make them easy to say.
"I know you don't like me," I said, "but you also don't know me. I think I deserve a chance to prove that just because I'm different doesn't mean I'm evil."
"Well, you're certainly not good," she shot back. "With your tattoos and your . . . your rituals. Do you even know what a church is, boy?"
Breathe slowly, Eddie.
"If Chrissy wants me there, I'll come," I said. "That's my feeling on church."
The door creaked under her grip. She stared me down in silence.
Chrissy stepped into the entryway, visible just over her mom's shoulder. My damsel in shining armor.
"Mom," she said, "he saved my life."
Did she really think of it that way? I stood a little straighter.
"Wait here," Mrs. Cunningham said at last. She disappeared for a moment, and I gave Chrissy a little wave. Some of the color returned to her face with her smile. I'd thought my day was rough, but it couldn't be anything compared to hers.
"Hold this." Mrs. Cunningham was back, and she had a big wooden cross as long as my forearm.
Every instinct in me wanted to take that cross and act like it was electrocuting me, maybe act like I was sizzling at the contact. Everything happening was absurd, and I always called attention to absurdity, always pointed out the injustice of what was labeled normal. How could doing a doorstep exorcism on your daughter's boyfriend ever be considered okay?
With a tight smile, I gripped that cross and didn't do a thing to mock the stupidity of testing me with it.
"No demons," I said, barely holding back the addition of, they're all at home in my good coat.
"Mom," said Chrissy.
Mrs. Cunningham sniffed. "You may join us for dinner. We'll see about dessert."
The Cunningham home was not a welcoming one. My uncle's trailer might have been the most cramped space in existence, but it was warm. Even with old, stained carpet and scraped up walls and peeling countertop edges, it had that "home" feeling, the kind where you could sleep without needing a weapon under your pillow.
I felt like I needed a weapon just walking through the Cunningham place. The carpet was pristine, the walls coated in a floral wallpaper that showed no age. There were crosses and religious paintings, blankets draped on the chairbacks. A coffee table with coasters. And above all else, a feeling of cold that sank down to my bones, like I'd walked into a refrigerator instead of a house. Everything was like a picture in a magazine, and that was how it felt—fake, staged. I wouldn't have been able to sleep there if I tried.
While Mrs. Cunningham finished dinner in the kitchen, I was given the "sit, stay" routine, which put me next to Mr. Cunningham on the couch. Chrissy sat in a chair to my right, the only warmth in the whole house.
"Watch him," Mrs. Cunningham told her husband, who nodded without looking up from his newspaper.
I twiddled my thumbs for possibly the first time in my life. Chrissy was sitting all clenched up, elbows tucked to her sides, fists pressed into her knees. We couldn't have much of a conversation without the kitchen overhearing.
The coffee table in front of me had a Bible and a Sears catalog. I chose the catalog, sifting the pages until I found an ad for a boombox. I lifted my eyebrows in Chrissy's direction, then flipped the magazine up on my shoulder with one hand, the other giving her a "rock on" sign while I headbanged to the silent beat.
She lifted her hands to hold back her smile, but I could see it in every line of her face, even more in the tension relaxing from her shoulders.
I turned a few more pages, came to an ad for pink women's sweaters with the big 'ol puffs on the sleeves. I held the catalog against my chest, flipped my hair back to showcase those big 'ol puffs, flashed my rings.
Chrissy hunched forward in her seat. Despite her effort, half a snort escaped.
I held out the catalog. She took it with a grin, and then she turned a Star Wars shampoo ad on me, her free hand miming the perfect lather against her red hair. I lifted a few of my curls and gestured knowingly between them and the illustration of Chewbacca. When she laughed, her voice in the silence gave me both the thrill of victory and of knowing that girl—that perfect girl—could have laughed for any guy in the world, but she was laughing for me.
Mrs. Cunningham's sharp voice squawked from the kitchen. "What's going on in there?"
It was her husband who answered. "Nothing, dear."
I glanced at him, but he was still buried in the classifieds.
Chrissy's smile was subdued as she replaced the magazine on the coffee table, but at least she didn't have all the tension of before. Not a moment later, her mom gave the dinner call, and we all moved to the dining room.
"Not there," Mrs. Cunningham said when I tried to sit next to Chrissy. "On the other side."
Even then, when I took the chair across from Chrissy, her mother scooted her down a seat. I wound up sitting with Mr. Cunningham on my left at the head of the table and Mrs. Cunningham across from me frowning me down, which was the closest I'd ever come to being trapped in a real-life dungeon.
Or so I thought.
"I'll say grace," said Mrs. Cunningham, and the family all held hands and bowed their heads while she spoke an incantation to an invisible being.
And here she thought I was summoning things.
"Lord we are grateful for our meal and our bounteous blessings. We are grateful for our safety in turmoil. We ask Thy protection on this house, especially as we serve a dangerous stranger. May Thy light be upon him to show him the error of his ways. Amen."
It would have been alright except that last part.
I expected Mrs. Cunningham to give me a pointed look at the end, but her look was for Chrissy. "You didn't say amen."
"Because it was rude," said Chrissy. "You were rude to Eddie."
If I was braving a dungeon, at least I wasn't alone.
"Praying for someone is the most kindness you can ever give," Mrs. Cunningham insisted, but I knew who'd won the victory.
"Pass the butter?" I held my hand out toward Chrissy.
When she handed me the butter tray, I brushed my fingers along hers before I took it. She blushed.
Mr. Cunningham made a decent attempt at small talk—apparently he was familiar with my uncle, at least enough to ask after him and seem to care about his happiness. And when he said, "It was mighty charitable of him to take you in. Wayne Munson's a good man," it didn't sound completely like an insult.
"He is," I agreed. Much better than my dad, but I wasn't about to get into family politics at the Cunningham table.
Mrs. Cunningham did it for me. "Isn't your father in jail?"
But I was prepared for that attack; I'd heard it before. "Since you're only asking to say something about me 'following in his footsteps,' let me save you some time—yes, it sucks being his son, and I know that thing about apples and trees. More potatoes?"
I slid the casserole dish her way while she gaped. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Cunningham give me a look like he was finally seeing me. The cockiest part of me dared to think I was crushing this dungeon.
Then I looked at Chrissy.
"Shit—!" I almost dropped my fork.
She had fangs.
She seemed to realize it at the same moment I did, and she slapped a hand to her mouth. Luckily, my outburst had renewed Mrs. Cunningham's fire and focused it solely on me. While I got a full lecture about language not allowed in a house that served the Lord, Chrissy made a hasty exit to the bathroom.
"If you were my son," said Mrs. Cunningham, "I'd wash your mouth out with soap this instant."
I was too on edge, too worried about Chrissy. "Right, and that torture would—what? Make me adore you? Inspire me to change the 'error of my ways'? God, I'm glad you're not my mom. I would have killed myself already."
Sometimes my mouth just doesn't have my best interests at heart.
The table hung in shocked silence. I knew what was coming, so I pushed my chair back on my own, stood to leave.
But since I'd already dug the grave—
"Chrissy's the best person I've ever met, and you might think I'm the devil, but I think it's you for making her have to be afraid of her own mom."
"Get out!" Mrs. Cunningham hissed, her face as white as her casserole dish.
She didn't have to tell me twice.
Note: Happy Halloween, everyone!