The Body of Christopher Creed by Carol Plum-Ucci

Standing there in the darkness of the wide-open field, I could hear the wind whip up, making these
whoosh!
noises that made me feel alone. The two streetlights, about a hundred yards off, looked like spotlights on a vacant stage. I could feel the hair on my arms rising, and I turned slowly away from the street lamps, searching through the blackness. That feeling I'd gotten in my basement was with me again. That feeling like somebody was watching me.
    Somebody with ten thousand eyes.
Watching me, patiently watching me. It's Creed, dead but still living somehow,
crawling the woods with some army of Lenapes, to get me to do his bidding. Nobody's holding him for ransom. He's holding me. He's dead
...
He wants revenge...
    I picked up the phone just to keep a grip on reality. Mrs. Creed needed to come out here and meet the bloody other side. I put the quarter in and said "Up yours" to my life.
    A woman's voice answered the phone. I recognized her "Hello."
    I made this gravelly voice and spat out a speech that sounded like and felt like somebody else. "I have some information about your son. If you want it, do
not
call the police. Just bring your husband and come to the ball field. Do it
now.
"
    Reality was setting in major. I was actually talking to another person who could feel hurt, feel pain, feel terror. Maybe what I was saying could kill a kid's mom. I didn't have a clue.
    I stood there gripping that phone like my fingers had turned to concrete.
    "Now you listen to me," she finally hissed out. "Do you know I was a pilot in the United States Navy? Did you know I have friends in very, very high places? I will hunt you down, you coward. You will wish you had never been born. Nobody rakes my Christopher. Nobody takes one of my babies and gets away with it."
    He's not
your
baby. He's not
your
Christopher. He's a human being.
My head banged, though I was shaking so bad my mouth wouldn't move. I wanted to reach through the phone and kill her for making me piss myself. I was—total truth—feeling warm piss run down my leg, and it was making me crazy. It came clear to me what she could do to Chris if she could make me piss my goddamn pants.
    "Shut up!" I heard myself snarl through my terror. My brain jumped to that Hitchcock movie and the rest of the phone conversation with the murderer. "Bring money! Bring lots of it!"
    I slammed down the phone and ran like I've never run before. In football or anything. But you can't run from your own stupidity, and as I flew into the woods, I wanted to scream at my own dumbness. I could feel all those eyes on me still, and it was like they were laughing. I tried not to think about that, to think about what went wrong with that conversation. Something was definitely not adding up, something she had said, I just couldn't think of it right then. I couldn't think of anything except ten thousand laughing eyes, and it struck me like a freight train how unfunny all this was.
    "
Bring money"? Torey, you didn't even give an amount. She will know you're some total moron who doesn't know shit.
I took this dark trail I knew would come out behind the Wawa. I took it in less than a minute, though it was at least a quarter mile, and when the Wawa came into view I stood there huffing and shaking from head to toe. I felt cold and realized I had pissed clear through my jeans, and you could see it plain as day. "
Bring money." Jesus.
    I turned back into the darkness to walk the rest of the way home. There was nowhere else to go with wet jeans.
This is a bad dream. I didn't just make that call. She did not threaten my life. I did not piss myself.
    It was on that short walk that I realized everything that could happen. Mrs. Creed, with all her guts, would probably call the police, anyway. Or Bo would get seen by one of the little kids. Bo wasn't good with planning and might go stupidly back over to Ali's and not run off. He'd be easy to catch there. I had forgotten to wipe my fingerprints off the receiver at the ball