How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER TEN

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 21ST
7:28 PM
DIEGO'S ROOM

I'm at my desk sketching a concept for a new character (one of the hundreds I've come up with and scrapped as the potential lead for my eventual comic book) when the phone in my room rings.

I pick it up fast—I know it's most likely Watts, since I haven't given anyone else my number. Still, I'm grateful Mom and Dad let me have my own line like I did back in Houston.

Watts thankfully hasn't brought up his crazy theory again since lunch on Wednesday, but it's what comes to my mind as soon as I put the phone to my ear. I've been trying not to think about it, or anything to do with Greg's death or Pamela's disappearance. Which, given how weirded out most of Vanterbest is, has been pretty impossible.

Most people are boiling it down to some sort of freak accident, but others, like Watts, think it was a murder. I've heard whispers that Pamela's probably going to end up like Greg at the hands of some deranged serial killer. 

Personally? I don't really know. I guess it's hard to make up your mind about something you're trying to drown out. But I'm trying to stay optimistic.

"Hello?" I answer the phone, re-focusing on my sketch. Now that my attention was drawn away for a second, I can easily see some of the mistakes I'd missed before.

"Turn on the news," Watts blurts. "Channel Seven."

My heart sinks. Great. More information on Greg's death, most likely. The TV in the corner of my room is already on, playing some random cartoon re-run—I don't like to be alone with my thoughts much anymore. I reach for the nearby remote and punch in the channel, turning up the volume.

The same newscaster from last time is on screen, standing in front of a line of trees. Flashing lights reflect against her glasses, and several police officers and medics walk into the woods behind her as she speaks to the camera. "Again, just minutes ago, we received confirmation that the body is, in fact, Pamela Henderson, the seventeen-year-old girl who went missing on Thursday night."

I grip my phone tighter. That optimism I mentioned a second ago? Yeah, so much for that.

The newscaster segues into a commercial break, and Watts sighs impatiently.

"She was found just like Greg. Throat torn out by who knows what. And they still haven't released the information about the symbol, but I bet you she had one too."

My heart is beating too fast. I sit back in my chair, trying to breathe. "So... Christ. You think Bradford really does have some kind of serial killer?"

"There's a lot that I think. I've been looking into some stuff and... I was going to show you on Monday, but then I saw the news. Can you come over?"

I hesitate—if there is a killer lurking around Bradford and offing teenagers, biking through the neighborhood at dusk probably isn't the best idea. But Watts sounds stressed halfway to hell, and I have to admit, I'm curious what he has to show me. "Sure. I'll be over in a few."

I make an excuse to my parents about a homework project and leave, realizing halfway there that I didn't even take my backpack with me. I guess the believability of that lie depends on how observant they are. I pedal faster than usual out of both paranoia and curiosity, so it doesn't take me more than a few minutes before I'm knocking on Watts's door.

He opens it in a second, frantically ushering me inside. "You're not going to believe this. I mean, seriously, I barely believe it myself."

His house is quiet as he leads me upstairs, and I guess he notices me looking around because he waves a hand in dismissal.