The Creeping

“. . . I said I’d totally go, but only if it was a group thing . . . .” I listen in to Zoey. Michaela responds with something agreeable, Cole giggles, and I tune out again.

The bird circles for another loop. The momentary lapse of the sun’s warmth on my skin as the bird eclipses it sends shivers through me. I peek through my lashes and try to decipher the featureless silhouette in the sky. Long, straggly black feathers that twitch in the wind and a white hooked beak protruding from a head covered in what looks like orange melted wax.

“Ewww,” Michaela says. “A vulture means there’s something rotting nearby.”

Zoey glares at the trespasser. “Nothing dead better stink up our cove.”

“Sooo gross,” Cole whines.

Michaela lets her sunglasses dip down the bridge of her nose and studies the feathered creature. “It’s circling over us, though,” she says matter-of-factly. I shiver again. The bird hovers twenty or thirty feet above. There’s a rustling in the brush behind us and the resounding snap of a branch. I whip around and stare into the gloom.

“Jumpy much?” Zoey teases, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She’d never admit it, but today always spooks her, too. I sense the bird continuing to loop overhead. The shadows are thick in the woods, and it’s impossible to see more than a few feet deep. I keep my eyes trained on the spot where I heard the stick snap. It wasn’t the light crackle of chipmunks scurrying over decaying leaves and acorns, but the heavy footstep of a person.

“Who is that?” Michaela whispers. I reluctantly turn from guarding against the woods. On the opposite shore, a hundred yards away, a figure stands between two tree trunks along the edge of the forest. His face is masked in shadows, but by his jeans and short-cropped hair, he’s obviously a guy. “Is he spying on us?”

Zoey jumps to her feet and yells, “Hey, jerkwad. Stare much? Eff off or we’ll call the cops.” Cole grabs for her hoodie and pulls it over her head. I wiggle on my jean shorts and stand with Zoey. Teeny-tiny Zoey, weighing in at not a feather over a hundred pounds, fists balled, ready to keep us all safe in her string bikini. Dread coils in my stomach. It’s like I swallowed a viper. The stranger takes a step forward.

“What the . . . ?” Michaela mutters. He’s maybe a couple of years older than us and he’s vaguely familiar. The kind of familiar that suffocates you with déjà vu, like recalling a nightmare in gruesome flashes. He isn’t looking at us. Instead his eyes are glued to the vulture circling above our heads. His lips move furiously, repeating something over and over, but the words are only mouthed, not meant to reach us.





Chapter Two


I force myself to unclench my fists. Michaela and Cole frantically pack their things at my feet. Someone shoves me a step forward, and my towel is snatched from the ground. The stranger stands frozen as a statue, a foot from the trees, eyes trained on the sky. Zoey’s shouting. I’m not sure what. She’s livid. This is our secret place. This is her safe place, where she thinks nothing bad could ever happen. I know better. I know bad things happen everywhere. The slope of his cheekbones, the squared jaw, the hooded eyes—they all add to the tension thrashing my stomach.

Zoey claws at my elbow. I tear myself away from staring at him to see that the girls have packed up our cove day, the provisions loaded in their arms. Cole and Michaela stand at the mouth of the woods, eager to escape. I snap out of my stupor and let Zoey drag me from the shore. I slip over the moss-covered rocks. Just as we’re engulfed by trees, I turn to steal one last look over my shoulder. The stranger stares directly at me, angles his head as if he’s studying me, and winks before turning away to be swallowed by a copse of trees. A sly wink that makes me feel like an accomplice. Like we’re sharing a joke.

“Who the hell was that?” Michaela shouts. She never swears, so I know she’s shaken up.

Cole gushes, “I mean, it was sooo weird that he was there staring up at the sky like a zombie.” She’s too excited to be frightened.

“And he didn’t even respond to us,” Michaela adds.

Zoey and I keep close behind them. It’s only a few degrees cooler under the shade of the canopy, but I’m freezing. Zoey is wearing her own backpack with my tote’s leather strap slung across her chest, our beach towels bundled in one of her arms as she reaches her free hand out for mine. I seize it like I’d grab a life raft.