Hemlock Veils

She ripped her hand away and sat back. Her dry eyes lost the ability to blink. Two years ago, her brother had lured her to an apartment late at night, with the promise that if she would bail him out, he would never ask her for anything again. It was clear who owned the apartment as soon as she’d arrived, since there were at least a dozen people gathered around one young man. Only two women were there, half-dazed and wearing outfits too tight for even their tiny selves. The walls—where there were no holes—were painted dark blue and the air filled with smoke. She’d brought all she could of her paycheck, but that wasn’t what Willem’s lender had wanted from her. He told her there were other ways she could pay him, and while Willem sat back, high and glazed over, Phillo—as he called himself—tried pulling her into one of the rooms. No one helped, like lifeless zombies in the background. She had to fight him off, first by kneeing him in the groin then kicking him in the teeth when he was down. She’d never mentioned it to Willem after that, and Willem hadn’t mentioned it to her, either. She’d always wondered if it was because he hadn’t remembered, or if he’d actually felt a trace of shame.

“Beth?” Brian said, bringing her out of the memory. She met his eyes and he took her hand again. “I know how it is to struggle financially, and this way—”

“I’m not struggling,” she said with a confidence that reminded her why she deserved this. She had too much money, money that was sure to bring her trouble. She pulled her hand away again, sitting back.

He studied her. “Well, the offer stands.”

“You’ll get what we already agreed on.” Fire raged in her core. Just the very words leaving her mouth were too much a reminder. People always wanted more. Phillo, Juan Paddock, Brian: they were all the same. Unsatisfied, greedy, hungry.

Eustace sat beside her then and she released a breath like it was the first in ten minutes, his presence freeing her. She smiled, genuinely. “Morning, Old Man.”

“Young lady,” he said at her. He threw a narrow stare at Brian. “Brian.”

“Bathgate.” Brian nodded, not so politely.

Nicole appeared beside them, pouring more coffee into Brian’s empty mug. How he drank so much of it was unfathomable. He winked up at her—the very same wink he’d shot Elizabeth not even a minute before. Nicole returned it with a smile and rested her hands on the edge of the table, bending in his direction. Elizabeth looked away from her cleavage. “How you doing, Brian?” she said in a tone suggesting a thousand meanings. “You all right after…last night?”

Brian scratched the back of his head, looking around. His eyes stayed on Elizabeth the longest before shooting back to Nicole. “Come on, Nicki. Not now.”

Nicole looked at Elizabeth, who looked to her coffee, wishing to be inside it. “I see,” she said, and left.

A bowl of steaming oatmeal saved the day, gifted to Elizabeth by Regina’s calloused hands. Regina shooed Brian aside. “Move over, boy. I need off these feet a minute.”

“Sure, join me, everyone,” he said to the whole diner, scooting closer to the wall. Elizabeth would have laughed, had he not just tried cutting her a deal. Instead, she took the first bite of her oatmeal. It was surprisingly delicious and creamy, so she took another. Perhaps the coffee was the only thing below standard at the Hemlock Diner.

Brian cleared his throat. “So, did you see…him again last night, Beth?”

“Who?”

“Your beast.”

She nearly choked. “My beast?”

“Yeah, you’re the one who calls the thing a him.”

Elizabeth straightened. It had never occurred to her until now that he was a he, not an it. But he did have a soul, just like anyone else. Before she could answer, Nicole appeared behind Regina again. She felt everyone waiting, ready to hear whatever response would deem her crazier than they already thought her.

Regina rested her elbow on the table. “Pay them no mind.”

“It’s okay,” Elizabeth said. “It just came out that way. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Well, it ain’t no he,” Taggart said at the table across from them, his mustache rolling with his chews. A crumb clung to one of the coarse hairs. “It’s soulless. Just remember that.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath, her need to defend the monster strong but puzzling.

“What, you disagree?”

“I just think making that assumption might not be…fair.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Clayton lower his paper.

Taggart’s brow lifted and Brian sighed, shaking his head. “It’s no assumption,” Brian said. “You’ve seen that thing.”

“And you haven’t,” Regina countered.

“I don’t have to see it to know. I’ve seen Bathgate’s drawing and heard plenty of horror stories. Just ’cause I’m not dumb enough to go searching for it doesn’t mean I don’t know.”

“Has he—” Elizabeth cut herself off, then continued. “Has it ever killed?” She swallowed deeply, hoping her skepticism wouldn’t earn her another lecture, or a swift kick out of town. Really, she was just curious.

“Course it’s killed,” Taggart said. “The deer carcasses Bathgate’s found—”

“Not animals. Humans.”

A short silence, and many looks of deep consideration. Even from the few people at other tables, ones whose names she failed to remember. “Well, no,” Eustace answered. “Not directly anyway. And not that we know of. It could’ve killed without us knowing.”

“Yeah, who knows how many bodies it’s piled up out there,” Brian said.

“Or digested,” Nicole added.

Elizabeth took an impatient breath. “You said not directly. How has it killed…indirectly?”

Eustace leaned closer, resting his elbows on the table. His voice bore a soft reverence. “Ten years ago, there was an accident. Four teenagers from Portland were killed on Mt. Hood Highway, close to where you broke down. Word is, they heard the legend and came this way to track it down. To either prove or disprove it. But the medical examiner found high blood alcohol levels in every last one of them, so it was dismissed as a drunk-driving accident.”

“You don’t think it could have been just that: a drunk-driving accident?”

To her surprise, Mr. Clayton threw his paper on the table, in the same way he had the day before, and stood. No one spoke and every eye watched him, including her own. Again, the way he stood, towering above everyone—mentally and even physically—left her nauseated. She tried not to grind her teeth. “It was no drunk-driving accident,” he said. “They stopped here, drove through town, and on their way out, pulled over on Road Thirty-Two. Most of us heard their screams before they returned to their vehicle and sped away. They crashed into the guardrail out of mere fear, Ms. Ashton, because they were being chased. So yes, the beast is more than responsible. It will always hold the death of those kids over its soulless head.”

“I understand.” Her voice was quieter than intended.

“Do you?” His eyes narrowed as he dissected her. She tried not to narrow her own.

“What I understand is there was a terrible tragedy—one that needed someone, or something, to blame. I don’t mean any disrespect, and feel very badly for the families of those kids. I’m just saying the alcohol in their systems may have had more than just a little something to do with it.”

Mr. Clayton appeared offended. “And that’s exactly how the accident report reads: a drunk-driving accident. No mention of the monster, or the way fear filled their blood as toxically as the alcohol. But here—in the town cursed with it—we know. We know what fear it produces. One that you’re, apparently, not capable of feeling. And we will do everything we can to prevent it from happening again.”

Her mouth hung low, but he went on. “The beast is dangerous, Ms. Ashton.” Something unconvincing broke through his eyes, even amid his compelling words. “You know nothing, just as Ms. Eastwood said yesterday. You are nothing but a passerby, with no rights to give your opinion on anything when it comes to this town. So why don’t you run back to L.A., where such naivety and foolishness are common, before this gets out of hand?”