This is part of a serialised novel. Whether you have started it already or not, you can click the relevant button below if you need to. Thanks for reading!
1.
Johnny covered his nose. “Christ, we’re gonna need a hazmat team before we bring anything in. You think this place has asbestos?”
I shrugged. “Not something we concerned ourselves with back then, I guess.”
I moved deeper into the house, my boots crunching on layers of dust. The phone still hung on the kitchen wall, a mystical device unused and forgotten. The box television of which I was the remote, tasked with changing the channel or slamming the top to get it working again. The bathroom was eerily intact, Mom’s hand towels hanging like they were waiting for her to return, and the kitchen had dishes from lunch the day they’d died. It was like walking in a time capsule. And there, on the dining room table, was Dad’s whiskey bottle, the last few drops dried into a sticky amber stain.
“I’m gonna drive to Main Road and see if the old cleaning place is open. You good here?”
I nodded without a word. He left.
Up the stairs, the photos on the wall stared back at me: smiling faces trapped in frames, frozen in moments that might’ve been happy or might’ve been lies. But I wasn’t going to go further.
I made my way out the front door.
My inhaler helped, along with the fresh air. My eyes closed.
“You buy the place?” the neighbour asked as I stepped out on the porch. She was elderly, with curlers in her hair and a cane in her right hand. She ogled me through her spectacles as she pushed them up on her nose.
2.
“Yes, ma’am.” A half-truth.
She nodded slowly. “I knew the people who used to live there, you know.” Her cane tapped the pavement as she inched closer. “They were nice people. That was a long time ago.”
Memory stirred. Miss Faure. Never married, no kids. She would bring us baskets filled with biscuits, muffins, cupcakes—all the things old ladies made in their kitchen when they had too much time and not enough company. I’d greet her on my way to school, and she’d give a cursory nod in my direction. Once, she’d asked me if my father ever hurt me. Before I could answer, he showed up with all the charisma he could muster, and she never got the answer.
“Oh, yeah?” I glanced down the road, hoping Johnny would come back soon.
“Yeah. A young couple with a little boy. Sweet kid. The gentleman was always a bit rough with the boy but didn’t seem to do any real harm. The woman was lovely.” Her eyes softened, lost in some private recollection. “The boy… I wonder what happened to him. The couple died when he was young.”
My jaw tensed. “That’s a very sad story. Anyone moved in since then?”
“No, no one. The state trims the grass now and then, but that’s it. Never saw anyone take the furniture out, either. Is it all still in there?”
“Yeah.”
Just then, Johnny came down the road. “Ah, here’s my brother,” I said, seizing the escape route. “He just went to find a cleaning service.”
Miss Faure gave me a meek smile. “You boys have a good day. And good luck,” she said, nodding toward the house.
Johnny watched her shuffle back to her porch, then turned to me with a low whistle. “Shit, man. She still creeps me out a little.”
I exhaled. “Yeah. Just had a nice little chat about some ‘rough’ guy who used to live here.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. That’s… subtle.”
“What about you?”
“Yeah, we’re set. Clearly Cleaners will be here this afternoon—top-to-bottom scrub. They’ve got a team checking for asbestos, too. Y’know, in case this place tries to kill us.”
“Thoughtful.”
We stood there for a moment, looking at the house, feeling the weight of it. Johnny clapped a hand on my shoulder.
“We should find a bar,” he said.
“Yeah. That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”
3.
Jim Buck’s Bar had already been standing for fifteen years when we were kids. The sign in front looked freshly redone, a proud moose at the center of a circle, his left horn peeking over the edge. Above it, bold block letters read JIM BUCK’S BAR. Below, the tagline: COME HAVE A DRINK. Not exactly inspired, but in a town like this, you didn’t need marketing. It was the only bar for another twelve miles in any direction.
Johnny leaned on the counter, looking at the bar lady. “Jim Buck still running the place?”
She smiled. The first thing I noticed was the way she moved as she came closer—unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. She brushed a stray lock of chestnut-brown hair behind her ear with her right hand as she placed a receipt under the counter with the left. She wore a pair of fitted black jeans with a floral button-up, simple. But somehow, on her, it looked like something more. Like she belonged in an old film, caught between the past and present.
She had one of those faces that made you want to look twice. Not because she was the loudest in the room or the most obviously striking, but because there was something about her, something in the way her eyes lingered on people just a second longer than necessary, like she was reading them. A dimple appeared in her right cheek as she smiled, but it vanished just as quickly as if it had never been there at all.
She nodded to the guy at the end of the bar who was chatting up a woman. “No. Jim passed it on to his son, Junior.” Her voice was slightly husky, but not too much. The slight pause in her voice made it clear: she wasn’t a fan of him. Neither was I. Junior had been part of George Williams’ little bully crew back in school—the kind of kid who threw the first punch and let others take the fall for it.
Johnny smirked, turning to me. “Should we say hi?” The sarcasm was thick. He didn’t wait for an answer before glancing back at the bar lady again. “Two draughts, please.”
“Coming up.”
I watched her move as she went to pour the beers.
Johnny’s fingers tapped against the bar. “So, inspiration struck yet?”
I exhaled, my gaze broken. “Not sure. Nothing springs to mind.”
He nodded, and took a sip as the beers arrived. She moved on to another customer, and I caught myself following her again. I watched as she leaned slightly on the bar, listening to an older man recount a story he’d probably told a dozen times before. She nodded in all the right places, offered a small laugh, but her gaze flickered toward the exit. Like she was somewhere else entirely.
My hands were sweating inside the gloves. The AC wasn’t even that warm.
Johnny’s grin widened as he caught my stare. “I think you’ve found some inspiration.”
“Huh?” as if I didn’t know what he meant. Before I could stop him, he raised a hand, beckoning her back. “No—don’t.” I shook my head. He waved me off with his left hand as she approached.
“Need something else?” she asked.
He offered a polite smile. Not his usual charm, just casual. Johnny never made a move on a girl I was remotely interested in. One of his better qualities. “Your name, if possible.”
Her dimple reappeared. “I’ve never seen you guys in here before.”
“Sharp eye. We just moved to town. Today, in fact.”
Her gaze slid to me. “Now, why would two young guys move to the middle of nowhere?”
A lump formed in my throat. I forced it down with a gulp of beer. “Change of scenery,” I said. My hands clenched inside the leather gloves.
She nodded, considering us. “Will you offer your names in return?”
“Johnny,” he said. I hesitated. Too long.
She tilted her head, her wavy hair dusting her shoulder. “And you are?”
“Noel.”
The dimple deepened. My stomach dipped with it.
“Maggie. Pleasure to meet you both.” She wiped her damp hands on her jeans and moved on.
Johnny chuckled into his beer. “Well, at least you have a name for your character.”
4.
The house was spotless. Mom had always been good at cleaning. She could have run a business like Clearly Cleaners, but I’d never seen this home as pristine as it did now. Johnny had made sure all the large items were cleared out, donated. Only the personal things remained. Mom’s pocket Bible sat on a nearly empty shelf, untouched.
We slipped off our shoes at the door. Johnny had picked up the habit after a trip to Europe last year, and I followed suit. The floors gleamed, the walls stripped bare where the old wallpaper had peeled away. Anything worth keeping had been boxed up and stowed in the attic, out of sight, out of mind. I had no interest in digging through the past unless absolutely necessary, which I didn’t see happening in the foreseeable future.
For now, I needed to write. Something. Anything. But my mind was blank. I was starting to wonder if I was a writer at all or just a fraud riding on borrowed time. Imposter syndrome had never sunk its claws into me before. Now it was rearing its ugly, mythical head.
“All is clear, boss,” Johnny strolled in, waving a sheet of paper. He stopped short. “Shit. It’s an actual house now, not something from The Walking Dead.”
I took the paper from him and looked at it. “No asbestos?”
“Nah,” he said, scanning the room. “Some slow rot in a few floorboards, but nothing that’ll kill us in our sleep.”
“Good enough. Let’s grab our stuff and pick rooms.”
Johnny shot me a grin. “Dibs on the master.”
“Have at it.”
5.
The moving company was late. A traffic jam on the M1 out to Pendova had them backed up for hours. That, plus it was a moving truck, meant delays were inevitable. They finally arrived at 21:00.
My desk went into the spare room, once my father’s hideout, then Mom’s sewing space. The beds rolled in quickly, followed by the rest of our belongings. The truck driver looked like a dead man walking. Looking like he’d been on the road for eight hours after working a sixteen-hour shift. I didn’t envy him.
By 22:30, everything was inside. Johnny and I collapsed into the couches we missed over the last day, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on us. I pulled out my phone, checking UberEats. Maybe, just maybe, someone delivered out here. The app loaded painfully slow, with all the usual places unavailable. The closest place to deliver was the next town over. I sighed and dropped my phone.
“I’ll make,” Johnny groaned, pushing himself off the couch.
I pulled my gloves off slowly. The fabric clung to my skin like old putty, stretching before finally peeling away. It felt good. Johnny returned with two mugs of coffee. He was about to hand me mine when I showed him my bare hands.
“Ah,” he said, placing my mug on the table next to me.
I nodded and took a sip once he was seated.
“Aren’t you curious?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Me.”
I shook my head. When we first met, and I told him about my power I couldn’t prove, we made a deal. I’d never touch him. Willingly or not.
“I know everyone’s beginning and end pretty much,” I said. “Why would I want to know yours?”
He shrugged. “I’m just curious.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for. It’s a curse, John.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
We stayed up talking—about what to write next, the book market, the house. We spoke about renovation ideas, new book releases, and new series we’d found.
We went to bed shortly after midnight.
I slept soundly. I dreamed of Maggie.
6.
The cursor blinked at me. Again. Johnny had left for breakfast at the bar—doubling as some sort of diner during the day—saying he had a few calls to attend with the agency. He promised to bring food and fresh coffee back.
I walked to the kitchen, kidding myself that caffeine would make any difference to my imagination. The almost-boiling dark roast felt good down my throat, though. But while the machine had dribbled into my mug, I realized I still hadn’t gotten out. It was as if I hadn’t moved.
I packed water and a protein bar in the backpack, along with a torch and an extra sweater, just in case.
Stepping out the door like a tourist going on a hike, Miss Faure was standing outside, taking in the fresh air on her porch. She hunched over slowly as she sat on her one-seater couch.
She looked my way and waved. “Everything squared away that side?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I unwillingly began walking towards her so she didn’t need to shout.
“Ah, that’s good to hear. Where are you off to?”
“I thought I’d take a walk. Maybe hike around Tulboys.”
She smiled. “I spent many a day on that trail. You got food and water? Don’t want you getting lost, and there’s not much signal up there.”
I tapped my backpack. “Yeah. Bottle of water and a protein bar.”
She forced her way up out of the chair. “One moment. You wait here.”
She walked inside, and I looked at the mountains. The car was up there. Maybe it wasn’t. It had been a long time since George. He was the first one I tried to save.
“Here you go. Don’t want you starving, dear. I made them fresh this morning.” She passed me a lunchbox. I lifted it up to see what was inside. Her incredible chocolate oat cookies, there was nothing better. I’ve never forgotten them.
“These look great, Miss Faure.”
She frowned. “How did you know my name?”
I panicked. “Locals.” I smiled and she gave me a knowing ‘ah-yes’ smile back.
“You have a good walk now. Come tell me about it when you’re back.”
“Thanks.” I lifted the lunchbox again, “and thanks again for these.”
I started walking as I put the lunchbox in my bag. I knew the trail well.
7.
The weather was perfect. The trail hadn’t been cleaned in some time and wasn’t used as often as it was when I was a kid, but I could tell it was used by at least a handful of people, perhaps tourists begging for something to do on their way to their destination. The trees overhung, blocking the sun as they always had. The drop was on my right. It was slow and peaceful. If I’d fallen, I’d still be okay. The ground went up on my right, with the trail steadily winding around the mountain that hugged the small town of nothing.
I walked for two hours before I reached the level ground on my left. There was a small gap in the trees, heavily overgrown, and no one had walked through it in many years. I pushed my way through the leaves and branches that had fallen over the years, my boots crunching on dried leaves and kicking sticks, which seemed to have found their place to die.
Birds sang in the tree overhang above, branches creating spiderwebs above my head. I pushed through further, ducking my head when needed and lifting my legs higher over fallen trees, trying not to slip on any moss spots.
Ten minutes later, I found it.
A large mound sat in the middle of the forest, leaves, trees, and grass growing around it. Taking over, a thing nature loves to do. I began to pull the branches and leaves off, one by one, revealing the rusted white Ford pickup that sat beneath it.
I can’t believe I drove this thing as a kid. I can’t believe no one found it. I’d hidden it well.
GAH the mysterious elements are woven so perfectly here. I want to know everything at once, but am loving this slow unraveling. I am very excited to see what happens next 💜
I’m really enjoying the trail of mystery! It is so skillfully done! The balance between questions, hints, and answers. So my interest is piqued without ever bleeding into frustration. I’m really looking forward to the next chapter!