Becoming Read online

  Chapter Two

  After missing a week of school, Michele managed to talk her parents into letting her cousin Laura stay over. Michele’s father said okay, but it was contingent upon the girls staying at the house. Under no circumstance were they to go near the woods or the lake. They agreed, but staying out of the woods was impossible. Michele knew Greg was out there, somewhere.

  Her aunt and uncle dropped Laura off at five.

  “Hey girls,” Michele’s dad said. “I have to head out to Mack Pare’s garage for a bit. He needs a hand with some of his equipment. The guy can’t play bass worth a shit, but he’s got enough gear to go on tour with AC/DC. Your mom should be home by six-thirty at the latest. Something about an emergency team meeting with one of her families. There’s twenty bucks on the table if you want to order some pizza. Do you think you’ll be all right?”

  “Yeah, dad. Can we get a movie off Amazon?”

  “Sure, but nothing that will get me in trouble with your mother.”

  Michele kissed his cheek.

  “Thanks, dad.”

  “Call my cell if you need me.”

  “That’d be a lot easier if I had a cell phone.”

  “Michele,” he said.

  Her parents didn’t agree on much, but of course the one thing they did was her not having her own cell. Something about predators and creeps, and the fact that just because every other kid at school had one, didn’t mean she had to also.

  “We’ll call you if we need you,” Laura chimed in.

  They watched him leave before heading to the kitchen to discuss pizza options.

  “Didn’t your dad used to play in a band?”

  “Yeah. Do you want pepperoni and jalapenos?”

  “Mmmm. Can we get pineapple, too?”

  “Sure.”

  “What kind of music did they play? Your dad’s band. Was it metal? I bet he had long hair.”

  “He used to play in punk bands.”

  “Like the Ramones?”

  “Yes.”

  “Neat. My dad never did anything cool.”

  Michele called in the pizza.

  They finished off the pie and made it halfway through the very not-mom approved Deadpool, when Michele started to wonder where her mother was. It was nearly seven-thirty, an hour past when her dad said she’d be home.

  Dad always got caught up at Mack’s house. He’d roll in after dark. Her thoughts turned to Greg. He’d been officially missing for ten days. He was officially listed as a missing person.

  That was crap.

  Michele saw the glowing green thing in his hand. The way its guts climbed toward his wound. His feet vanish, swallowed by the lake…or something lurking within the dark waters.

  “What’s up?” Laura said, breaking Michele from her thoughts.

  “I want to go out.”

  “Where to?”

  “The woods.”

  “But your dad said--”

  Michele got up from the couch and grabbed her sweatshirt. “Come on.”

  They left Ryan Reynolds slicing away at bad guys and made a beeline toward the last place Greg had ever been seen.

  “I thought you said the woods,” Laura said. “Should we even be going near the lake after…? I mean, whatever happened to Greg, whoever took him could still be around.”

  Michele knew nobody had taken him. He was gone. No body, no trail. He’d vanished somewhere in the lake, or somewhere below.

  Chapter Three

  She was beautiful. He didn’t know her name, but Clint felt he knew her story. Her innocence reminded him of those brief years when he walked on his own cloud where the ridicule and taunts of his classmates and family could not touch him. He longed for those days of naïve wonder. When the world was still an ocean of opportunity. He would escape this town and start anew someplace better. Unfortunately, life was full of cheap shots. The first one he couldn’t ignore was the most significant. His mother’s passing left him alone with the monster that consumed his father and introduced Clint to a shame he couldn’t shake.

  He gazed at his new, horrible face in the rearview mirror. He’d lost four more teeth since the day it happened. He hadn’t stepped foot near the lake or the creature within it since. For all the strange things happening to his body, the creatures gift was preferable to those of his father.

  For a moment, the past swelled like a beast below the sea. He felt his father’s intrusive fingers traveling below his waistband; his rectum clenched at the phantom memory. Jack Truman was evil incarnate. Or had been before the black mass claiming his stomach and wreaking havoc on the rest of his dying body had sunk in. Now the old bag of bones, who most days couldn’t make it out of bed to shit, lay rotting away in the back bedroom of Clint’s childhood home.

  Focus on her.

  He hated the fact that his father still held such sway over him.

  Focus. She’s coming.

  His father’s imprint was undeniable. He was there in the dark, lifting Clint’s bed sheets. He was there when the bathroom door creaked open while Clint tried to clean the foulness away.

  Stop it.

  That’s my good boy, Jack Truman’s raspy voice whispered from the shadows of Clint’s mind. That’s my good boy.

  Clint shook his head clear of his father’s imprint and gazed at his salvation.

  The tall girl with the strawberry blonde hair and prominent nose. She stood out like a model of perfection, an angel amongst the drones of self-obsessed teens. Dressed in a long jean skirt, yellow t-shirt, and a green cardigan, she drifted toward him.

  Just like the last couple of days, she walked past the cluster of teens zoned into their phones, the few that laughed together, and even the odd ones out who stood like shadows, unseen by the world around them. She slipped by them all, an angel too lonely for the lonely.

  He wanted to save her.

  Despite the terrible things that seemed to be happening to his body, there were also benefits. He felt his eyes begin to vibrate, the green glow start to come. He gazed at his hand, as his skin stretched and started to turn dark green. Not now. Not here. It was these benefits he wanted to bestow upon her, even if he wasn’t a hundred percent certain how.

  He knew her story. He’d seen her at the movie theater where he used to work. She was always with her dead-eyed mother–never a friend, certainly not a boyfriend. She’d smiled at him only once, but he held that smile like it was a gift from God. Another time, he’d caught a glimpse of her old man. Clint had taken his lunch outside and was about to go back in when the angel and her mother stepped toward the black pick-up truck pulled up along the curb. The man behind the wheel, red-faced and irate, barked vulgar things at them. When she tried to turn around, he jumped out of the truck and grabbed her by the arm so hard she cried out. Her tear-filled eyes met Clint’s as they drove away.

  He knew the look of the defeated. He saw it every morning in the bathroom mirror. Clint glanced up from the steering wheel, free of his reverie, his hands normal again, clenched into tight fists.

  He’d never been good at anything in his entire nineteen years of existence, but there was no doubt in his mind that the flutter in his stomach was not from the gift forced upon him by the thing that glowed in the lake, but rather the excitement at having a chance to be a savior, a hero. Clint was ready to soar.

  He wiped the brown mucus from the corner of his mouth and smeared it on the side of the driver’s seat of his van. He cranked the ignition and backed the big blue Ford into the driveway behind him. He knew which way she would walk home. He had watched her all week. He turned the corner and took his next left. Vine Street had the least number of houses and a stretch of sidewalk that ran alongside the woods. He parked the van just past his point of opportunity and killed the engine. He grabbed the rubber bat from his passenger seat. Having to take her like this was a shame, but he knew she wouldn’t understand. Not at first. He opened the door, glanced for anyone that might see him–the street was empty–and hopped quick and si
lent into the patch of bushes on the other side of the sidewalk. He ducked down, clutched the weapon in both hands, and waited.

  She never saw it coming as he cracked her behind the ear.

  He dropped the rubber bat and caught her before she hit the concrete. She was light, maybe a couple crackers over a hundred pounds. He held her, his right arm up under her small breasts, and shambled like Igor behind the van. He reached for the handle on the back doors, pulled the right side open, and heaved her top half inside. He gripped her thighs and flopped the rest of her in. Slamming the door, he stepped to the sidewalk, taking his time to retrieve his rubber bat. A blue sedan turned onto the road. Clint smiled, gave the chubby mustached man behind the wheel a nod, and climbed into the van. His nerves were a mess of fear and exhilaration as he pulled away.

  Vine Street was as quiet as the dead.

  Chapter Four

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Michele stepped in front of her cousin. Brenda Cote was not someone you wanted angry.

  “Mom, when did you get home?”

  Her mother stalked across the living room, cigarette in hand. A glass of red wine waited on the coffee table next to their pizza box from earlier.

  “You are lucky Laura is here.” Her eyes sunk into her tight face. “Do you know what it’s like to get home, nearly dark outside, to find your daughter and niece that you’re responsible for, nowhere to be found? Hmm?”

  “I’m sor--”

  “Your Aunt Ginny called.”

  Tears welled up in her mother’s eyes. Her mother rarely displayed anything less than confidence or irritation. Michele’s heart plummeted to the floor.

  “Your cousin Jennifer never made it home from school.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The police are out looking for her along with your father, and your aunt and uncle. They think she may have been abducted.”

  “Oh my God,” Laura said.

  “And you two do this to me?”

  To her.

  Brenda Cote went into full meltdown mode. Tears streamed down her cheeks, cigarette trembling in her hand, and an unattractive shift in facial features going back and forth between rage and sorrow.

  “Laura, I think it might be best if your mom came and picked you up.”

  “Mom,” Michele said.

  Her mother looked away and held up her hand. The conversation was over.

  “Your mom’s probably right,” Laura said.

  Michele didn’t agree. Their cousin was missing and her mom was out there throwing a fit, falling apart because her night was ruined. Her mother was a witch. Michele prayed every night that her dad would give up on their marriage. Then they could leave her to her miserable self. She knew her dad would never walk away. Mom was his high school sweetheart and Grandpa John was his dad’s boss at the firehouse. They were trapped.

  “My mom’s not right about anything. Jennifer’s probably finally run away. I hear the kids in the high school are horrible to her.”

  “Well, my mom said she’d be here in a little bit. I don’t want to get your mom any madder than she already is.”

  “She’ll just drink more wine.”

  Just what Michele wanted—to be left alone, locked up with her mother. She’d had a nightmare this summer that they wound up in an asylum together like in the one on American Horror Story. In the dream, her mother was the evil nun lady, and forced her into the room of a monster, leaving her to be touched and bitten by the creature until she woke up crying.

  Laura placed a hand on her shoulder.

  “You can message me later.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  A horn blew out front.

  “There’s my mom.”

  Even Aunt Lilith stayed in the safety of her vehicle.

  Laura gave her a hug and said bye.

  Michele watched out the window, following Laura and her mother as they drove away. Her attention caught on a set of dim light in the woods.

  The emerald glow faded to black.

  She reached up and shut the shade.

  Her heart raced. She could feel it pounding in her neck.

  She pulled the corner of the cheap white shade and peeked at the spot where she’d seen the green glow.

  There was nothing.

  Letting the shade drop, she plopped down on her bed and reached for her Kindle. There was no way she could concentrate enough to read. She went to Netflix instead and selected a show she’d found by accident. Veronica Mars. It had come out a long time ago, but she loved it. Veronica was cool and smart and brave. And, in the show, it was just Veronica and her father.

  If only.

  Somewhere in the middle of season two, Michele fell asleep.

  She opened her eyes. She was in the room at the asylum. The space lit only by the moonlight shining through the barricaded window, casting claw-like lines on the floor and wall. Footsteps echoed down the hall, closing in.

  “Leave me alone,” she cried out to her mother.

  A green luminance grew behind the closed door, making its way into the room from the slim space beneath to the steel slab.

  The green shadow spilt into five fingers forming into solid tendrils.

  She screamed as they reached out for her.

  When she opened her eyes, she was in her father’s arms. She cried into the shoulder of his sweatshirt and inched her arms around him.

  “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” he said.

  After a few minutes, she managed to compose herself.

  “Did you guys find Jennifer?”

  He dropped his chin and shook his head.

  “They found her books in the bushes on Vine Street. It was along the way she walks home. It looks like somebody took her.”

  She scooted back, cradled her pillow in her arms, and wiped her tears on the sleeve of her shirt. “Mom made Laura go home.”

  He nodded. “I know. And she was right to after what happened to Greg…”

  “Dad, that has nothing to do with this.”

  He reached out and tucked a strand of long, brown hair behind her ear. She shook it free. She hated having her hair behind her ears.

  “I’m not exactly happy that you and Laura went out there tonight after I explicitly told you to not. What the hell were you thinking?”

  She didn’t want to tell him. He would just get that face of disappointment. The one she couldn’t take, especially coming from him. She decided to skirt the truth.

  “We went to Greg’s old fort, you know, just to see if he’d been there in the last couple days.”

  And there it was. Bret Cote’s gaze of shame.

  If he knew she was holding back, he let it go as he stood.

  “All right, kiddo, but I don’t want you back out there. At least not until we get a handle on what’s going on around here. Whether you want to admit it, Greg and Jennifer’s disappearances are too much for me to ignore. Sheriff Davis, too. “

  She knew Greg’s vanishing act was different from her cousin’s.

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead. He smelled of beer and she thought she caught a hint of pot. His friend, Mack, smoked. She’d suspected her dad did, too. At least sometimes.

  “I love you, Cheli,” he walked to the door and stopped. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

  “Love you too, dad.”

  She picked her Kindle up and stared at Veronica Mars’ face.

  Stay out of the woods? Stay away from the lake?

  What would Veronica do?

  Chapter Five

  The big blue van rolled to a stop behind his father’s tattered Pontiac GTO. It was a waste of what used to be a cool car. Now, it collected dirt, dust, and rust. There were leaves poking up from where the hood met the cloudy windshield. It hadn’t been run since before his father got trapped in his bed.

  Clint got out and walked to the back lawn. The lake set out before him, dark, cold, and mysterious. Someone might mistake the glowing specks for fireflies, but he knew b
etter. His newfound gifts came courtesy of what power the lake held. Still, this was as close as he liked to get to the water. Two of his fingernails had come off, just detached from his fingers, and skin was flaking off. And when he scratched it too much, the smelly, brown pus seeped free. While it appeared like his body was deteriorating, he did feel stronger, if he didn’t push himself too much.

  The trick he’d done with his hands made him lightheaded.

  He turned and went inside.

  “That you?” Jack Truman’s death rattle voice reached down the hallway.

  Clint placed the van keys in the basket by the door. He walked past the seldom used kitchen table, pausing in front of the sink. Fruit flies claimed the territory and the piles of dirty dishes cloistered there within.

  You have company now. You should clean this up.

  He thought of the girl in the basement.

  “Clint?”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” he said.

  “Get your ass down here, boy.”

  The dirty knives in the sink called to him.

  Take me, end him.

  Instead, he withered. Despite his burgeoning gifts, he couldn’t break Jack Truman’s stranglehold. He bowed his head on his way down the cluttered hall and walked past shelves of books no one had touched since his mother’s passing. She’d been the reader, and the peace beneath the home’s slanted roof. And apparently, the cage to the monster his father had hidden away.

  He tried to shove the memories down deep, but the closer he got to the back bedroom, the more powerful the swell. He was taken under, swallowed.

  The change in his father began two weeks after his mother’s funeral. Clint sat in his room, fourteen and devastated. He cried while holding the picture of him and his mother out on the lake. A melancholy country song was playing in his headphones. The female vocalist delivered shot after shot to his heart, wounding him over and over. He welcomed the hurt. Rain pounded his window sill, but he was too numb to care as his bedroom floor garnered teardrops of its own.