Incubus, Episode One

March 21st, 10:34 PM

“He did not,” Jayne says for the third time.

Kyle falls back on her bed. “He did.”

“I can’t believe I missed it!”

She tries to tune her best friend out as Jayne expresses her disbelief yet again. The idea of Colter calling Mr. Branscom a fag is apparently so foreign it’s impossible for her to grasp.

“I don’t get what’s so surprising,” Kyle interrupts. “Colter’s a dick.”

The phone falls silent, and Kyle sits back up, nervous anticipation tingling up her spine. She waits for Jayne to say something, but nothing comes. Finally, Kyle says, “Right?”

A soft sigh. “No.” Jayne’s voice is small, so unlike her normal crazy almost-yell. “You didn’t know him before.”

“Before what?”

“Before...before you moved here.”

Kyle hears all the words packed into the meaning of the short sentence: before the women started dying. Before they had to call in the detective from the big city to come relive his family’s worst nightmare.

“Oh,” is the only word Kyle can come up with.

“Colter used to be...really nice. The kind of guy who opened doors for old women and always said ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am.’”

“So, why—” The phone buzzes in her ear, signaling a second call. Kyle glances at the caller ID. “Crap. I gotta go. My dad has a call.”

“You know the point of having a cell is that you don’t have to share a line with your dad, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Kyle hits the button to switch calls without waiting to hear Jayne’s response, then puts the phone back to her ear. “Hello?”

“Detective Prideaux, please.” The voice on the other end is so cold it sends a shock through Kyle. Deputy Andrews has been eating dinner with Kyle and her dad at least once a week since they moved to New Bern. He comes to every art show Kyle enters, and he gives her gifts at holidays and her birthday. Her heart sinks.

“There’s another one, isn’t there?” Kyle asks.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” he says, but his voice breaks, giving him away.

Tears fill Kyle’s eyes. “Okay,” she says, “let me go find him.”

She puts Deputy Andrews on hold and makes her way down the hall to her dad’s room. The door is cracked open, and she peeks through the gap and watches her dad for a moment. He is sitting on his bed, propped against two pillows. His case files are shut, for once, piled on the bedside table. A book is open on his lap, but his head is tilted back, his eyes closed.

He looks peaceful.

Guilt twists Kyle’s insides, and she pushes the door the rest of the way open. The old hinges creak, and her dad bolts upright in bed, eyes wide.

Kyle holds the phone up. “Mike,” she says, and her dad’s face crumples almost imperceptibly.

When she hands him the phone, Kyle’s dad holds her fingers a moment longer than necessary, and she can feel the sorrow rolling off him, crashing into her like erratic waves. Worry lines crease his forehead and the skin around his mouth. He clenches his eyes back shut then erases all signs of grief from his expression and takes the phone. Kyle backs out of the room.

In the hallway, she leans against the wall and listens through the doorway. The words are the same she’s heard every time a call like this has come in—who, when, where, how long, witnesses?—but then the words Kyle has been dreading, the ones her dad and the department have been avoiding saying, echo through the doorway. “Serial killer.”

Kyle sinks to the floor as her dad says, “We’ll need to inform the FBI.” She’s still sitting there when her dad emerges from the room ten minutes later, dressed for work.

“You heard?” he asks softly.

“I knew before I even gave you the phone,” she says.

“Look,” he says, “there’s no guarantee this is the same—”

Kyle bites back a sob. “Please don’t. It doesn’t make it better.”

He nods. Reaches down and squeezes her shoulder. Then he is gone, heading out to face another body, another woman wiped from the earth too soon.

Eventually, Kyle finds the strength to pull herself to her feet and shuffle down the hallway back to her bedroom. Without bothering to get undressed, she slides between the covers and pulls her phone from the charger into bed with her.

There’s been another murder, she sends to Jayne.

The reply comes lightning fast.

Your dad just pulled up. Cops everywhere. I’m scared.

Adrenaline races through Kyle’s veins and she shoots upright, tapping another message out.

OMG at your house?! You okay?

No. Across the street. Colter’s or maybe next door.

Just as fast as it came, the adrenaline rush leaves her, and Kyle’s arms feel leaden. Go to bed,she types to Jayne. I’m sure it’s fine.

That night, Kyle dreams of her mother.

They are standing in the woods together, each on one side of a small clearing, and her mother is beautiful, the way she looked when Kyle was young. All blonde hair and bright eyes and glowing skin. She beckons Kyle toward her, and Kyle takes a step into the clearing.

A man steps out from behind a tree, just to the right of her mother. His black hair blends into the dark of the forest, but his blue eyes, cold as ice, pierce the air between them. Her mother grows blurry around the edges.

“No!” Kyle screams, but no sound comes out. The man smirks, and Kyle watches as her mother’s features distort, twisting into the mask of grief and death she wore the last year of her life.

Kyle runs. As fast as she can, using years of soccer training, she runs to her mother. But no matter how quickly her legs pump, no matter how intense the burn in her muscles grows, she gets no closer. Her mother is still on the far end of the clearing, the man taking slows steps toward her.

Time stops. Kyle’s mother crumbles before her, skin turning to ash and blowing away in a silent breeze, and Kyle hits the ground with tears freezing to her cheeks.

Still the man stares at her, a slow smile playing on his lips.