That thought gives me some comfort, and I hold on to it as I tear through the woods, not caring about moving silently. I keep walking through the underbrush until I make it to the beach, with its view of the lake houses. They rise like teeth, windows gleaming in the sun.
I can smell her, that warm, heady scent drifting above the others. She’s inside, tucked away safely. She’s not afraid.
Oliver’s unhappy, though. His scent is fainter, although I’m close enough to pick up a thin waft of misery. I sense that from him now and then, this quiet, resigned sadness. Always when he’s at home, though. Usually, he shows up on my front porch not long after. He doesn’t say anything about it, and I don’t ask. But he’s not sad when he’s with me.
An idea starts to roll around in my head. I told Chloe she’s not a trespasser. Neither’s Oliver, of course. They’reguests. But I want to make them feel more permanent, like they’re part of the forest. Part of my territory. That way, if this crack widens, if I start to rankle with the need to kill, they’ll be safe. They’ll belong here, and I won’t—break, the way my father said. I won’t hurt them, just like I promised.
An overnight trip, I think suddenly. Oliver has never stayed more than a few hours, and he always leaves well before sunset. But if they spend the night and wake up to the morning sun—and they will, of course—that will mark them as special. Not like the other trespassers.
My thoughts whir excitedly. We’ll camp out, like the hikers who try to pass through here. I’ll invite them as guests, and I can set up a tent outside somewhere. Maybe down near the lakeshore, over on the other side of the peninsula. It’ll be just like the campers do before I kill them. A tent and a fire and marshmallows on a stick. But since I’ll be there, I’ll be part of it, and they’ll be welcome.
I stalk through the woods, rolling the idea around and trying to look at it from all angles. All possibilities. To my relief, the crack from earlier seems to shrink up a little, especially at the thought of Chloe being here overnight, her body warm and soft next to mine.Especiallyat the thought of other things we could do after Oliver’s asleep, deep in the woods where he won’t hear.
Yes, I think this will work.
I look at the lake houses again. I put out my senses until I find them both. Chloe and Oliver: the only humans who matter. The only ones I would do anything to protect.
There provesto be one snag in my plan: telling Oliver and Chloe about it.
I expected Oliver to visit, especially when I sensed that sadness from across the lake. I figured I would invite him and tell him to invite Chloe.
But I never see him. A few days pass with no sign of him. I don’t even see him when I set out my telescope to watch Chloe, who continues on her usual routine: working on her laptop during the day, occasionally bringing food out to her patio to eat, watching TV in the evenings with the curtains drawn shut. But Oliver is elusive. I see his brother on occasion, running around the pier with some other teenage boys. His parents, both themother and the father. I don’t like them—or the older brother, for that matter. They remind me of my four killers from when I was seventeen.
But there’s no sign of Oliver aside from the faint trace of his sadness.
I’m not sure what to think. This is not the longest I’ve gone without seeing him, in fairness. But I’m anxious to carry out my little sleepover. Each night, the moon gets a little bigger, and each night, I feel it more, the ice of moonlight on my skin. Watching Chloe is the only thing that warms me up.
After four days, I consider going across the water. I don’t dare go into Oliver’s house, but I could go into Chloe’s again. Invite her and tell her to bring the boy.
Something stops me, though. I fling open the doors to my basement and stare down into the musty dark, but I don’t drag out the rowboat. It feels?—
Dangerous, I suppose is the word. Not for me. But I look into the basement, and I think of my father telling me about the madness that takes hold if we don’t kill.You’ll feel it in your body, he said, eyes fixed on mine.Deep in the pit of your stomach.
I heave the basement door shut, letting it clang against the frame. I’m not sure if that’s what I’m feeling, this tightness in my belly. But I don’t think I should go across the water.
The moon gets bigger. It sings out to me, although it’s faint, and I mostly ignore it. I take out my knives and clean them again, even if they don’t need it. I sharpen them, too, one by one, telling myself I need to do something with my hands.
But I know. Deep down, I know. The killing moon is going to rise soon. Maybe not this month. Maybe not even the next. But soon. And I need Chloe and Theo to do this one thing, to spend the night, to become part of my?—
My family, I guess is the word for it.
There’s one morning when I’m making my rounds that the killing moon is louder than usual. I swear I hear it in the trilling of cicadas and grasshoppers, a pulsing, rhythmic cry to get ready. I shriek and pound my fists into the trees until they bleed, and that quiets it down. A little.
Then I catch something on the wind. A soft, familiar scent. Oliver.
Relief floods through me, and I tear off into the woods, crashing through the underbrush until I meet him on the path to my cabin. At the graveyard, specifically. He jumps when he sees me, which is unusual.
Something’s wrong, though. I don’t know what, only that he seems paler than the last time I saw him, his eyes sunken in. He blinks up at me through his messy hair, squeezing the straps of his backpack.
We stare at each other. I don’t know what to say.
“I brought you some drawings,” he signs to me. Then, a beat later: “How long can I stay?”
My chest tightens. “How long would you like to stay?”
Oliver hesitates. The overgrown grass of the graveyard ripples around him. “Can I spend the night?”
Immediately, the killing moon goes silent. The insects are still singing, but that’s expected here in the woods. I don’t feel cold. Everything’s back to normal
