Grandma – you know, the one who was so desperate to see me – still hasn't arrived to pick me up.

The waiting room is bursting with a stifling, sticky heat and smells badly of sweat and old leather from the cracked, worn seats. The fan on the counter is broken and the air wheezes angrily out through the grate, like the constant furious buzzing of a horsefly. I press my nose against the grimy, grease-smeared window and stare out into the parking lot, scanning the road in and out of the bus station. I've called Mama four times already and every time she just told me to wait, Grandma is on her way, stop panicking.

But it's hard not to panic when I've been waiting an hour in a bus station waiting room, where the number of people holed up here is thinning out by the second. Right now, there's just me, a family of four and an old guy in the corner who keeps looking at me over the top of his newspaper. The family – a mother and father and their two small kids – laugh and joke around together and I'm fascinated by them, allowing a momentary break from the unease that sits uncomfortably in my gut.

A car rolls into the lot and I watch with dismay as the family gather their belongings together and head outside, embracing the driver who gets out to greet them. He sweeps the kids up into a big bear hug and swings them around and they all laugh. It's like watching an animated picture postcard and I'm torn between hating them all for being so happy and wishing I could be a part of it.

The old guy is still here. His hair is white and kind of messed-up and tufts of it stick out from his head in crazy angles. Buses and cars have come and gone but still he waits. Every now and then, he makes a big show of shaking the newspaper and it's then when he usually stares at me over the top, almost as if he is trying to catch my attention. I'm trying not to look at him because he reminds me a little of Grandpops and I wonder if his real face is a mass of wriggling worms under that old man mask.

I pull my case closer to my side and keep a tight grip on the handle, as if it contains my whole world and in a way, I suppose it does. Inside the large zipped pocket on the inside of the lid is my scrapbook. I couldn't leave it there for Mama to find. She's planning to move while I stay at Grandma's and said I'm to go join her when summer is done.

She really does think I'm plain stupid. I know that once summer is over, I won't be joining her. I'll be staying at Bitter Creek and Mama will be free to swallow those pills till she pukes and it won't matter none because she won't have no nosey kid watching her every move.

The only problem with her plan is that to stay at Bitter Creek, I've actually got to get there in the first place and right now Grandma is nowhere to be seen. Right now I've got more chance of being abducted by Old Man Worm-Face and making it to Bitter Creek in the back of his kiddy-snatcher truck.

I consider calling Mama one more time when an old Buick station wagon turns into the lot and pulls up a distance away from the building. Grandma doesn't get out but she honks the horn impatiently as if I'm the one who's late.

Behind me the old guy is folding up his paper and tucking into his bag. When he gets up and starts to head towards me, I grab the handle of my case and drag it along behind me, cursing under my breath when it flips and I end up dragging it on its side, scuffing the leather. I keep pulling it anyway because I need to get out, I need to get away before he reaches me and I feel the worms sliding over my skin.

I'm half-running now, still dragging the dang case across the lot as the sun burns the pavement. It's so hot out here that the heat crushes the air out of my lungs and I can already feel my vest and shorts sticking to my skin. Grandma just sits there, staring at me as I struggle towards her. I never expected Grandma to get out and swing me around, but I did expect a bear hug and one of those Grandma kisses you always wipe off your cheek when they turn away. I at least expected her to get out and greet me.

I reach the car and yank open the door. The heavy, suffocating air shifts beside me and Old Man Worm-Face passes by, walking briskly towards a car I didn't see before that's pulled in behind Grandma's. He nods politely and smiles as he passes and I catch a whiff of laundry soap and Old Spice. I stare after him feeling bad about the whole Worm-Face thing.

"Stop lollygagging, girl," Grandma calls out testily. "Put that case in the back."

With a frown, I drag the case a little further and do what she says, struggling to lift it into the back of the station wagon and then I slide into the passenger seat beside Grandma.

"Hey, Grandma, it's great to see you," I say, out of breath.

I flinch as her hand shoots out and she grips me by the chin, turning my head this way and that as she examines me, her eyes narrowing as she does so.

"Ooow, Grandma, stop." I muster up a small giggle but it's a nervous one because Grandma's fingers are pinching my skin a little too tightly and she's looking at me in a way that's totally weirding me out.

"You got skinny, Harlequin Jones," she says, with a frown and I want to say 'so did you, Grandma' because damn, is she ever skinny! I know old people can get like that, but Grandma is half the person I remember her to be. In fact, she doesn't look much like the Grandma I knew. I know it's been eight years since I last saw her and I was just a kid back then and probably looked at life through different eyes, but this Grandma looks way older than I expected. And it's not a good old either. Her hair is salt and pepper grey and is scraped back off her face in a high bun. In places, it's thinning so much that I can see her scalp underneath. Her skin is sallow and wan, and her cheeks are hollowed out and framed above by the prominent sharp contours of her cheekbones. Her face is so thin that it makes her eyes look huge and kind of bulging.

What big EYES you have, Grandma!

"I see your mama ain't been feeding you right, girl," Grandma scowls.

"She's been feeding me just fine, honest, Grandma." But the truth is Mama never cared all that much for what I ate as long as meal-times didn't last that long and she could slink off back to the couch and watch TV.

"You can't pull the wool over these eyes, missy," she sniffs and then breaks out into a grin that startles me because I'm not expecting it and because it makes her look a little like Gollum when he's planning something devious. "Never mind, we'll soon get you fed up good and proper and put some flesh on those bones of yours."

And with that, the grin is gone and she starts up the engine and hits the gas.

***

Inside Grandma's car, it doesn't smell of laundry soap and Old Spice.

Despite the blistering heat, there's a damp, moldy smell and I keep looking around to check there's no spores growing on the mats or the upholstery. I figure Grandma doesn't use the car much. She never did much care for driving, Grandpops drove them anywhere they needed to go in his old Ford 150 but the FBI took that along with a whole bunch of other stuff they said was evidence for the case against him.

The journey has been quiet and uncomfortable. Grandma hasn't said much since we left the station and any conversation I try to make fades away to nothing. The seat feels sticky under my bare legs and without any chat to keep me awake, my eyelids start drooping.

When Grandma claps her hand over mine and lets out a whoop of sheer joy, my head snaps up sending a jolt of pain through my neck and I stare wide-eyed at her.

"Here we are, Quinny," she cries out excitedly. "We're home! Can you believe it? Here it is!"

I'm stunned by her sudden change in mood and it takes me a moment to focus on what lies in front of us, but I have to admit I'm thrilled to see the place. I was only five the last time I was here, yet rolling up the dirt driveway and seeing the way the sun hits the white clapboard of the old farmhouse makes it feel like it was only yesterday.

I hold my breath when I catch sight of the pair of rocking chairs on the front porch. Those were Grandma and Grandpop's chairs and that's where they used to sit together, drinking lemonade and watching me play in the yard, kicking up dust as I ran around without a care. The sun's glare blinds me, leaving white spots on my eyes and for a moment, I think I see him sitting there, rocking back and forth, back and forth.

"Bet you've missed this place, Quinny? You have, haven't you?" Grandma's face is alive with excitement and her bony fingers still grip mine.

"Y-yes," I stutter. "Yes, Grandma, I have."

And I mean it, only until this moment I didn't realize just how much I've missed it. Mama can keep her meds and her booze for all I care, they can be her children now, because I have this and I'm never leaving again.

"I bet you can't wait to go exploring!" Grandma looks fit to explode with happiness. "Well, let's get your case up to your bedroom and some food inside you and then you can go check it all out. I made apple pie. Do you remember how much you used to love my apple pie, Quinny? I made one just for you! Sprinkle more sugar on top, Grandma – that's what you used to say, only you couldn't say the sh in sh-ugar, do you remember that? You used to say soo-gar and your Grandpops and I used to laugh so much."

She's babbling now and a small spot of spittle wets the corner of her mouth, but I don't say anything. Manic-chatty Grandma is way better than angry, quiet Grandma.

***

The apples were sour and the pastry was soggy, but I ate it anyway because Grandma was watching me and I hadn't wanted to upset her.

She's still watching me now as I head out back, down towards the old barn. I turn and wave a couple of times but she doesn't wave back, she just stands inside the kitchen door, watching, watching. When I reach the door of the barn, I look back and she's gone, but I get a strange feeling that she hasn't gone too far.

Tentatively, I push open the door and the bottom of it scrapes along in the dirt. One of the hinges is broken and the door hangs at a slight slant. Grandpops would hate this. He would be here now with his tools, making sure the door was hung just right because he was a real nitpicker for stuff like this. Plus he liked fixing stuff, it was his thing.

Just like killing little girls was his thing?

I frown, pushing the reedy little whisper away and go inside. The scent of car grease still lingers here and I shuffle my feet along the floor, making a pattern in the sawdust that's been ground into the dirt by the boots of too many police officers and the fancy shoes of the Quantico crew.

The barn is empty, but five year-old Harlequin reminds me just where everything was. Grandpop's workbench. The shelves where he hung all his tools. The stack of tires in the corner by the door. The old Dodge he'd been fixing up for months. The radio on the workbench that used to play out fifties music like Elvis and Cash.

The old chest at the back of the barn where he used to keep the clothes and belongings of the twelve girls he slaughtered down at Bitter Creek.

Of course, back then, I never knew what was in that chest but later on, when I read the stories that I eventually cut out and stuck in my scrapbook, I discovered that it was where he kept all their stuff, all neatly folded and organized like they were his most prized possessions. His souvenirs, they said. It was his damn trophy cabinet.

Congratulations Mr. Rheemus Jonathan Jones, you won first prize! Twelve pretty dresses for twelve pretty girls! Twelve pretty ribbons for twelve pretty heads of curls!

I laugh but I don't know why I'm laughing. None of this is remotely funny and I just hate how empty it is in here. I hate how they took all his things and made a shell out of this place. It's like a ghost house, only there's no ghosts making their home in here.

Stomping out into the yard, I glance down towards the picket fence that marks the border of the property. Beyond that line is Bitter Creek. My feet move before my head even makes that conscious decision. The need is instinctual. Or maybe it's them, my Grandpop's girls, calling out to me and making me go there. Whatever it is, I'm over the fence and stumbling down the slope before I can even think of a reason not to go.

The old locals used to say Bitter Creek was carved out of the canyon by an alien meteorite, which gave life to the barren, dry land and birthed the forest and stream that runs through here now. Grandpops used to say that was one big crock of shit but he'd only ever say it when Grandma wasn't around and then make me swear I wouldn't repeat it. We'd pretend to spit on our palms and then shake hands. It was our pact. Our secret. Then we'd break down into fits of giggles that sounded a lot like the gurgling stream that flowed through the Creek.

I can hear that gurgling now as I make my way through the edge of the forest and I turn, expecting to see Grandpops walking beside me, fishing rods in hand and humming Hound Dog real soft. Breaking through the trees, I spot the stream and catch my breath at how beautiful it looks. Whether made by an alien meteorite or not, there's no doubt this place is magical and it looks like it's been held in a bubble for eight years, because nothing has changed. The only difference is that I'm here on my own and Grandpops is gone.

You gotta be patient, Quinny, those little fishies will bite when they're good and ready, they always bite in the end....

I can see him showing me how to cast out the line, see him sitting on the bank eating pie and wiping the soo-gar off his lips.

Nothing's bitin' Grandpops! Let's go further down, it's deeper there.

Grandpops is frowning, his brow crinkled with worry lines.

No, Quinny, we need to stay here, there's nothing biting down there, nothing at all.

But it was a lie. A lie as dirty as the silt he used to shove in their mouths when they screamed, because down there, where the creek is darker and the water is deeper, is where they found them. It's where they found them all. Twelve dead girls in twelve beds of water and worms.

Looking into the creek, I see blood in the water, It flows from upstream, from that place, just faint rivulets of dirty red at first that soon grow thicker until the whole surface is covered in it, like a scarlet oil spill. It's flowing closer and closer and I don't move, I can't. My feet are frozen to the surface as if those dead girls have reached up through the mud and are grasping at my ankles with cold, clammy hands, holding me in place.

If you stay too long, they'll never let you leave.

And that's when I hear the whispers. At first I think it's the wind, but there's no breeze down in Bitter Creek today. The air here is still and heavy with heat and the only thing moving between the trees is something I know I don't want to see. They're coming closer, closer, I can hear them now, clear as day and they're calling for me, whispering my name over and over.

Terrified, I close my eyes tight but the noises just keep getting louder, only this time, something big is crashing through the forest, something bigger than twelve little girls with their curls plastered to their faces and mud dribbling from their open mouths. I clap my hands over my ears.

"It wasn't you, it wasn't you. Your name was Rheemus Jonathan Jones, you were not the Ripper, you were not the Worm-Man and I know it wasn't you," I chant over and over again.

When I open my eyes, the stream is just a stream, nothing more and the whispering has stopped but I run anyway. I run like the Devil is at my back and don't stop until I see Grandma waiting on the back porch, waiting and watching, just like she always does.

***

There's a noise outside in the back yard.

I check the time on my cell and see that it's close to midnight. Struggling out of bed, I stumble towards to the window, rubbing the last remnants of sleep out of my eyes. The window is open and I'm almost right there when I hear the giggling. I freeze because I don't want to look out and see them, those girls running around the back yard. Maybe Grandpops is carrying them around on his back, playing horses like he used to do with me.

But it's not them. It's Grandma.

She's darting about the yard, her long white night dress flowing around her, giving her a ghostly appearance in the moonlight. I almost call out to her but something lodges the words in my throat and I just stand there, watching her as she scurries around. She seems to be looking for something on the ground, every now and then she bends down and scratches at the dirt and I wonder whether she dropped something down there, maybe her wedding ring or some other precious belonging.

I decide to go down and see if she needs my help – or maybe I just want to get a closer look, because she's acting totally weird – so I tiptoe out of my room and down the stairs.

The back door is wide open but I don't head straight for it, instead I head over to the counter and peek out through the window. Grandma's crouching low to the ground and the bottom of her nightshirt is dusty with yard-dirt. The way she moves reminds me of some animal, her head jerks as if she hears something and she turns sharply in that direction, crawling on all fours.

Oh Mama, you gotta see this. Grandma has gone totally freaking loony.

I raise up my cellphone and touch the camera function, zooming in on my crazy Grandma as she dashes about the yard. Grandma is moving closer and closer to the house and I lean further over the counter, desperate to see what she's doing down there in the dirt.

Her head snaps to one side and she whirls around, scrabbling around at her feet, grabbing at something that scuttles by. It's big, so big that I can see it and I shudder when I see her pick it up. It's a wolf spider and Grandma squeals with delight as she raises it to her lips and shoves it into her gaping mouth. It's still struggling as she does so and she uses both hands to push its wriggling legs one by one into her mouth and chomps down, chewing, chewing, chewing.

I want to squeal now. I want to scream. I want to scream louder than I've ever screamed before but I don't. Instead, I drop the phone and it clatters to the floor and Grandma blinks, her gaze snapping towards the window but I'm already falling, throwing myself behind the counter with my hand clapped over a mouth that screams nothing but silent screams.

Suddenly I don't care much for staying at Bitter Creek no more. Suddenly I wish that Grandma had never picked me up from that bus station. But more than anything, I'm hoping that she never saw me watching her through the window.

I hope for that more than anything in the world.