It's a hell of a thing, knowing the Creeping Things are out there. Really knowing, I mean. Everyone knows that there are times when they're alone in a room, but they're not really alone. Everyone knows that sometimes they do things that don't really make any sense and they can't really tell you why. Everyone knows that sometimes they feel nervous or sad or angry for no real reason. That's the kind of way most people know about the Creeping Things. But... it's a lot worse when you really know about them.
You can't honestly say anything about it, for one thing. Oh, every once in a while, I'll catch someone's eye across a crowded room and they've got that same look on their face that I do, and I'll know that they're seeing the same thing I am. We've trained ourselves not to react when we see one of the Creeping Things with their inky-dark bodies slinking through the crowd, long and lanky and dripping shadow as they crouch down behind their victim and smile with mouths too big for their eyeless faces. We know what happens to the ones who shout and scream and holler when they see those too-long arms reach up and caress the back of a person's neck with fingers that look like a spider's legs. But you can't hide the way you stare at a thing like that.
But even if you think someone else knows, that doesn't mean they're safe to talk to. Seeing the Creeping Things, it starts to get to you after a while. I've been living with it for damn near twenty years now, since right about the time I got my driver's license, and I'd be lying if I said I've had an easy night's sleep since then. I must have pulled up stakes and moved a dozen times, I been in and out of trouble with the law, and I'm what you'd call one of the well-adjusted ones. You don't want to start saying to someone, "You saw that, right?" and find out that they think the Creeping Things are what black people look like when they think nobody's looking.
(God yes, it happened. That was one of the times I ran into trouble with the law. Some folks just need to catch a fist or two, even if they do have their reasons for going a little bit nuts.)
And it's even harder when you're talking to someone who doesn't know. I remember one time I was serving drinks down in this little town outside of Tuscaloosa, just trying to scrape up enough cash to move on down the road a spell, and there was this couple flagging me down every five minutes for another round. And goddamn if they didn't have a Creeping Thing on either side of them, smiling those needle-toothed grins and leaning in to nuzzle their heads like leeches. Making her look all lost and weak and simpering, and making him act like a little tin god who thought his cock was solid gold. And I had to take their orders and act like nothing was even happening. God, it was terrible. I went home that night and cried until sunup.
They came back, too. Not the people, the Creeping Things. Every night, they came back until I gave up on the job and hitched my way to the next town. They love people like me. I think they think we're funny. Or maybe we're just better food than the ones who can't see them for what they really are.
