Chapter One
That October, autumn was burgeoning in all its blazing splendor. The trees had turned brilliant oranges and golds and reds, the days were pleasant, the nights cool. Hay had been harvested in meadows where scarecrows still flapped in the wind, their clothes beginning to tatter, faces once intending to look fierce having contorted into corrupted facsimiles.
Manchester, Michigan, was the definition of a one-horse town. Surrounded by fields and farms and forests, the town, actually a village, with a population of 1,112, had a downtown that was a stretch of only two blocks — a bank, a bakery, a secondhand shop, a dime store, a pizza place, a small bridge overlooking a slow-moving river — with a four-way stop as its main intersection. Not even a flashing four-way, just four stop signs as drivers passed through. Because that’s what outsiders did in Manchester. Passed through. It was detached from the rest of the world, a population caught up in its own turbulent events, a pall cast over it and its citizens. There was a quiet that did not stem from peacefulness. It was as if the townspeople were afraid to make noise, as if that noise would shatter a spell, a protection spell they feared was tenuous.
On lampposts and in store windows were fliers for a children’s scarecrow contest. They vied for space with other notices, those with words in large font: “Missing” “Reward: $$” “Townwide Curfew 10pm” “Have You Seen Me?” On each was a photo of the golden girl from the party, the angel. She was shining in the image but there was a tentativeness to her expression. Did it mean something? Or was it just a fleeting moment captured without her knowing?
On the south side of town, as Main Street became country again, Forest Lawn Cemetery sprawled up a hill forever. Shaded by trees, oak and elm, headstones dated to the 1800s, decrepit and tilted at the base of the rise, newer, less-angled markers leading upward, jumping a small stream where they continued until they petered out at the crest and there was only grass.
From the direction of the country came a powder-blue Camaro convertible with the top down. The 17-year-old behind the wheel, Barrett “Biff” Branigan, had shades and a deep red hoodie on. He had a smug set to his mouth, despite being the only one in the car. The wind tossed his dark blond hair as he passed Forest Lawn on his left. He didn’t even glance at it, his keen green eyes obscured behind sunglasses, having trained himself to tune its existence out. His mind was on the autumn dance that evening. It was boys’ night out, something he hadn’t had since Johnny had started up with Gail. Biff liked Gail. But he missed bro time.
At six feet, he had a sturdy build that came naturally, though he didn’t use it to any advantage. His brother, Aaron, had been the star athlete. Biff was just a guy. Or so he was reminded, every day, by everyone. So instead of even trying, he floated by. He didn’t care. If he didn’t try to match Aaron’s accomplishments, he couldn’t fail. Which was success of a sort.
As he cruised into town, he passed a park and a small market on his right then went through a couple of blocks of a residential area before entering downtown where he saw a handful of homemade scarecrows tied to light poles. He’d never understood the fucking scarecrow contest. Didn’t everyone feel the revulsion toward them that he did?
To his left, in front of the bakery, he saw a disheveled woman in her sixties. Clothed in a filthy robe, she held a sickle in one hand, the other rooting through a trash can. Swampy Susan, the only legend to roam the streets and countryside of Manchester. Rumors were she’d killed her children decades ago, but there had never been any concrete evidence, so she’d never been charged. She stuck to herself for the most part, sequestering herself in a hovel far in the country beside a forest and the swamp that lent her her nickname. Half a mile across open field from where Biff lived.
Of course, that had been a source of hardly sustained terror when he was a child. Aaron, six years older and confident in his place in the world, would regale his younger brother with graphic stories of what she had done to her children and how she hungered for more, how she used the scarecrow that stood watch in the cornfield between their homes to keep a vigil, overseeing Biff and his movements when Susan herself couldn’t. Biff lay awake countless nights, his heart lurching at every creak as the house settled, every branch that scratched at the roof, every step on the stairs, certain the scarecrow had witnessed some transgression and was coming to reset balance in the universe.
Sometimes, when he was feeling a flicker of bravery, when he was still trying to prove, to himself, that he was as good, as strong, as fearless as Aaron, he would get up and step ever so slowly, ever so carefully, so as not to draw attention to himself — though he didn’t know how she could see him, he also knew that she could — to the window and peer out, past their backyard pool, toward Swampy Susan’s, across the field, where her shack leaned as if under a hurricane gale, either shining in the spotlight of the moon or lost in the shadows of the night, and he’d wonder. Wonder what she was doing. If she was there at all. If she had already crept across the expanse of land between their houses, was waiting for him below, if she had somehow gotten in … and was observing him from his closet, from under his bed, from the hall, sickle in hand, salivating at the beguiling prospect of taking another child’s life.
Then, when he couldn’t take the terror another second, when he could feel her gaze on the back of his neck, when he was certain he was about to die, he would turn, eyes shut, and race back to his bed, pull the covers over his head and try to still his gasping breath.
In reality, he had seen her only a handful of times, always in town, generally behaving like most others, running errands, coming out of the bakery, perhaps dropping something in a mailbox, always with her trusty sickle. Through the years, however, she had deteriorated, becoming more and more unkempt, her hair ungroomed, her face grimy, her clothes slowly fraying.
He wondered how much of it was because she had been banished, never accepted by the town again, after the rumors, only tolerated. And mocked. Biff knew the taunt well. He used to chant it with the other boys in grade school. He had put on a brave front, but inside he was afraid reciting the rhyme would somehow manifest her.
He didn’t think about it much anymore. Though sometimes in his room, getting ready for bed at night, he did note her shack on the other side of the field and he’d wonder again if she could somehow see him, either with her own eyes or through the eyes of the scarecrow.
That day, a group of four children, clearly led by one, the bravest and meanest, approached Susan as she rummaged through that trash can. She didn’t notice them at first, focused on her finds. When she finally tilted her head, taking them in, her eyes were rheumy but bright. The kids just stood there for a moment. Biff knew what was coming and, knowing he couldn’t stop it, felt a quiver in his spine for a second.
Finally the kids stepped forward and launched into their litany. “Swampy Susan killed her kids to satisfy an itch. She didn’t have a use for them so she left them in a ditch. She turned and walked away from them as they began to twitch. She don’t miss them anymore. ’Cause Swampy Susan is a witch!”
Susan glared at them with feral intensity. The children trembled but held their ground. And Biff held his breath, all of this taking place in the seconds it took him to drive that one block.
Then Susan let out a guttural roar, raising her arms, and thusly the sickle, into the air, like she was frightening off a bear. The children ran screaming down the sidewalk.
And, the moment passed, Biff could breathe again.
“Git it, Swampy Susan,” he said under his breath, a smile pulling at his lips.
Then Susan turned her attention to him, her focus resolved, oddly laser sharp, and she pointed at him, accusing, her forefinger gnarled, arthritic.
A fear like she could see inside him, his heart, his conscience, disquieted him, and the smile that tugged at his mouth faltered, then fell and then he was past her and he felt safe again.
Chapter Two
Manchester High was a one-story structure in the shape of an H but with two crossing hallways instead of one, creating a heart in the center of the building in which sat the library. The halls were lined with lockers painted alternately in the school’s colors of maroon and gold. There was a lunchroom that moonlighted as the theater, a gym on the opposite side of the premises, and an athletic field out back behind a small parking lot.
Biff pulled into that parking lot still thinking about Swampy Susan, the moment of safety he’d felt after passing her having mutated into a thin layer of anxiety. He had never spoken to her, never taunted her, he didn’t even think she knew who he was, but there had been such judgment in the way she’d seemingly accused him, it was like there was something personal in it. Maybe she had really lost her mind. Maybe she thought he was someone else. Maybe she was warning him.
That she was coming.
“Fuck.” He pushed his sunglasses up and peered at himself in the rearview. He looked great, as he’d expected. You’d never know a witch had just threatened him.
When he started to get out of the car, he spotted Johnny Angel, his bestie of besties, heading toward the school with two other boys, which cleared any residual thought of Susan.
Biff hurried to catch up, shouting Johnny’s name. Then he felt awkward and glanced around to see if anyone was observing him. He didn’t run for anyone. Except for Johnny. Who did not hear him and disappeared into the shadow of the school with his friends.
******
Inside, the halls were loud, kids texting, shouting, banging lockers, yet it was a contained chaos. Like they were goofing off in church. And their priest, Principal Gabriel Marcello, might descend at any moment.
At that specific moment, he stood at one end of a corridor surveying his minions, autumn leaves made from construction paper vying for room on the walls with signs promoting the Harvest Dance that night. He wasn’t handsome so much as striking. Even though his face had started to sag prematurely with age, his eyes were sharp and he missed nothing. Tall, thick, with dark eyes and brows that matched his dyed-black hair, he was often garrulous, having moved to the hamlet of Manchester to get away from the dangers of suburban Detroit. He had grown up in the city and still stood out among the local denizens despite having been at the school for seven years. But he didn’t care. He had never felt more relaxed. His blood pressure had dropped dramatically, his anxiety had retreated — he didn’t even need his meds anymore — and he slept through the night. Single at 54, he had had several relationships but had never found one he felt he could or should commit to. It pained him sometimes, but he also knew he had made the right choices.
That morning, in his standard gray three-piece suit, he watched as the teens filed into the school, found their friends, their lockers, got situated for the day. He knew they could be shits, but they were his shits and he took their welfare seriously. Because he also knew that deep down they were all — well, almost all — good kids.
He noticed Johnny Angel coming down the hall in a powder-blue polo shirt with two other boys. He knew all of the students, of course, but, also like everyone else, he had a soft spot for Johnny. He wasn’t just beautiful, he shone, radiating an earnest kindness. That light had dimmed in the year since Jessica Harding had disappeared, which was true of everyone in the town, but was particularly evident in Johnny. And as much as Gabriel Marcello felt for him, he knew that in his position, he could offer only support within strict guidelines and nothing more.
He gave himself one last moment to take in Johnny’s paled light, then forced himself to turn to the others. “Welcome, kids!” he intoned, in general, to no one and everyone, striving to keep the energy up. School should be challenging, he knew, but it should also be pleasant, so he beamed brighter, a chuckle in his voice. “It’s Friday and the Harvest Dance is tonight! Smile!”
******
Johnny made his way through the sea of students greeting every student he saw, Andy Benton and Joey Keegan in tow. Johnny could bro with the dudes, emote with the dramatics, bop with the cheerleaders, and stand with the stoners, though he had a reliable flask he chose over a vape. Even working at less-than-peak capacity, he commanded attention from guys, from girls, from adults, from strangers. He was vaguely aware of it, but it had never been different, so it was normal to him. He liked people and people liked him.
His smile was wide and frequent, his eyes dark as wet sand, bright yet not quite alive, dimmed by a tiredness he didn’t think he’d lose. His cocoa-colored hair flopped in place in just the right way no matter what he did. While his frame was solid, there was still a slightness. He could play sports but didn’t. And yet he was in shape, making it appear effortless.
When he got to his locker, he spun his lock and swung the door open to be confronted by a gallery of photos of Jessica Harding and him through the years. He had been the devil to Jessica’s angel at last year’s Halloween party. The last night anyone had seen her, alive or dead.
He leaned into his locker, pretending to fumble for something, when in reality he was slipping his flask out of the pocket of a bag, the flask with the Weirdo! inscription. He unscrewed the cap and took a healthy pull before retightening the lid, dropping the container back in his bag, flashing silver, popping a mint in his mouth, and turning back to Andy and Joey in one fluid motion. He was a pro. “All right, boys. As of 3:15 it is the weekend.”
“We own it, bruh.” Joey raised a fist and Johnny bumped it with his own.
Joey Keegan was a stocky, good-natured jock with brown curly hair and a wide smile that could be either wanton or simply warm. Floating at the bottom of the top social rung, he had no aspirations to raising his status. He had no aspirations beyond graduating high school, really. He hadn’t thought about college, a trade school, the armed forces, or anything else beyond prom night as far as Johnny knew. And that was part of his appeal, how he would always go with the flow.
Andy Benton, on the other hand, was eager and full of vigor. Idealistic and somewhat impetuous, his stock had risen among the students over the summer and he was now encroaching on Johnny’s inner circle. The gold ring of popularity in Manchester High. His green eyes were flecked with amber, complementing his lazy, easy smile and his bedhead chestnut locks.
He raised his fist for a bump, too, but Johnny reacted to something else before he noticed, leaving him hanging.
“Scott!”
They all turned to find Scott Harris standing uncertainly nearby. He was dressed in jeans and a Greta Van Fleet T-shirt, a gold cuff with tiny, protruding branches on his wrist. Very punk for Manchester. He had broad shoulders, bright blue eyes and thick, dark-blond hair swiped back and held in place by product. Despite having blossomed, he was still considered an outcast because that’s all he’d ever been to his peers. Of course, Johnny treated him like he did everyone else. As an equal.
Andy and Joey, however, saw him as an interloper and hastily departed as he approached. Johnny fished a folder out of his locker. “It was just about the Hundred Years’ War, which actually lasted 116 years, which is a fuck of a long time to be in a war.” He turned back with his movie-star grin. “Sorry you were sick yesterday.”
Scott accepted the notes Johnny proffered. “Really, I just wanted to play Grand Theft. Don’t tell anyone.”
They shared a conspiratorial laugh, not noticing a pall ripple around them with a murmur.
Biff was parting the kids in the crowd much in the opposite way from how Johnny united them. Some cast censuring looks at him while most simply darted their eyes away to avoid any contact whatsoever. He hardly noticed, though, his own eyes concentrated on Johnny and Scott. He stopped before they noticed him, making the other students flow around him like water around a boulder. When Johnny and Scott shared another laugh, now louder, Biff moved again, pushing a sophomore out of his way without even clocking his presence.
Before he could descend, Scott clocked his presence, chirped a hasty farewell to Johnny and slipped into the stream of his fellow students, his smartphone chiming above the renewed chatter as kids finally started heading to class.
Biff took his spot seamlessly. “John! What up with the weirdo? You and Scott Harris besties now?”
“Weirdos are where it’s at, Biff.”
Before Biff could rejoin, their own phones chimed. Pulling them out, they saw a one-line text from a blocked number: Never Have I Ever, followed by the skull-and-crossbones emoji.
“That’s weird.”
They spoke at the same time then laughed, Johnny forgiving Biff his arrogance.
“Twinsies!” Speaking in tandem again, they laughed harder.
“A hundred percent, John, total twinsies.” Biff’s brittleness had evaporated but quickly morphed into concern as Johnny glanced to the photos of Jess posted in his locker and sighed, like he felt guilty for having fun.
