The Dead and the Dark

by Courtney Gould

  No more ghosts; she wanted this to end.

  21

  The Jukebox Knows Your Name

  ALEJO: Something wrong?

  [Alejo taps at his phone, pulling up the Scripto8G screen. He watches Brandon carefully. Something is clearly wrong.]

  BRANDON: I just don’t like it in here. It feels off.

  ALEJO: Yeah, it’s haunted.

  [Brandon does not laugh. Alejo moves toward the stairs but stops when his phone screen lights up. He opens the message, moving his shoulder to shield it from Brandon’s view. The camera zooms in to show that the Scripto8G reads ALREADY HERE.]

  ALEJO: Already here?

  [The cameraman gives a muffled response.]

  BRANDON: Let me see that.

  [Alejo hesitates. His hands tremble.]

  ALEJO: It just says already here. Any ideas?

  [The phone flashes again. This time, it reads HERE ALL ALONG.]

  A knock sounded from the door to room eight.

  Logan muted the TV and climbed out of bed, brushing stray potato chip crumbs from her shirt. In the past week, Alejo and Brandon had kept mostly to themselves, coming and going from the motel in near silence. She’d barely seen either of her fathers in days. At one point, she’d worried about Brandon and Alejo hearing her ParaSpectors marathon through the walls, but they acted almost too normal, like they had nothing to hide. Like the entire population of Snakebite didn’t suspect them of murder. Like there weren’t teenagers dropping around them.

  She opened the door. Alejo wasn’t alone. Brandon stood behind him, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his button-up, which she assumed was a strategy to avoid making eye contact.

  “Can I help you?” Logan asked.

  Alejo peeked into her room. “I thought I heard my voice.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Logan grabbed the remote and shut off the motel TV. “It’s the one where Brandon gets possessed and you guys have to exorcise him in the basement. Extremely good TV.”

  “A terrible episode,” Brandon scoffed.

  “I don’t know—I had fun. I wasn’t the one who had to writhe around on the floor for once.” Alejo scanned the room. “I was gonna invite you to a little family dinner, but I don’t want to break up this rager.”

  Logan let out a singular “ha.” The concept of a family dinner in the middle of everything going on was so alien she thought Alejo had momentarily slipped out of English. Even before the murders, and before Snakebite, the Ortiz-Woodleys didn’t do “family dinners.” They did dinner shifts, which usually meant that Alejo cooked a huge batch of picadillo and ate alone, Logan took a serving to her room at some undetermined point in the night, and Brandon came home after everyone was asleep to microwave leftovers for himself.

  But she’d promised Ashley she would talk to them about the cabin, the ghosts, all of it. It was now or never.

  “Sounds fun,” Logan said. “Maybe we could get fancy and push our tables together. We could even microwave a pizza.”

  “Very funny,” Alejo said. He looked back at Brandon. “I think we’re feeling diner food?”

  “You don’t think the mob will come out?” Logan asked.

  “Don’t worry about everyone else. You’ll have us. We know how to take the heat off.” Alejo nudged Brandon, who wordlessly nodded. “As long as me and your dad are there, no one will have time to bug you.”

  “That’s true,” Brandon said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Nothing this town loves more than roasting a couple gays on the pyre,” Alejo said. When Brandon and Logan both went silent, he laughed. “Sorry, that’s a little intense. But what do you say—wanna grab some burgers before they get the pitchforks?”

  Logan shrugged.

  “Okay, fine, the real reason.” Alejo’s expression was somber. “I found my old hat and I wanna wear it in public before I’m banished.”

  He pulled a short-brimmed black cowboy hat from his bed and placed it squarely on his head. It had a musky leather scent, and Logan couldn’t fight off a smile. Alejo dipped his head cowboy style and said, “I’d be much obliged if you came to dinner with us, ma’am.”

  “Oh my god.” Logan laughed. “You’re really gonna wear it?”

  “I wish he wouldn’t,” Brandon said, almost too quiet to hear.

  “Why not? My dad used to wear his everywhere.” Alejo pulled the hat off and ran his thumb along the leather. “Let’s call it assimilation. I’m blending in. Embracing Snakebite culture.”

  “My dad always had his, too.” This was Brandon, forcing himself into the conversation like he feared he might fade out if he didn’t contribute in time. He smiled, momentarily snagged in memory. “I didn’t know he was bald on top until I was sixteen.”

  Logan looked between them and something behind her ribs sank. They were trying—both of them—and she was shutting them down. There was a piece of her that wanted this more than any answers. She wanted something easy—casual family dinners, nights on the town, movie mornings on the weekends. She wanted conversations that didn’t feel like pulling teeth.

  She put a hand on her hip. “Where’s my hat? You guys are really robbing me of my cultural heritage.”

  Alejo plucked the hat from his head and clapped it on Logan’s, immediately mussing her hair. She took the brim between her fingers and tilted it over her brow like they did in old Westerns.

  “Yeehaw—let’s go.”

  * * *

  When Logan and her fathers arrived at the Moontide, it was completely empty. They slid into a vinyl booth near the back of the diner without a word, each glancing over the other booths to make sure they were really alone. The diner didn’t have the piles of memorabilia that the Chokecherry had, but it did have a sense of timelessness. It was at once a diner that could be anywhere and one that could only exist right here. Logan nestled into the booth and sank into the worn cushions.

  A waitress emerged from the kitchen with a rosy smile and an armful of menus.

  “Alejo.” She beamed.

  “Ronda,” Alejo said. He stood and pulled the woman into a tight embrace. He was at least a foot taller than her, but she reached up and hugged him like he was a very tall child and not a forty-year-old man. Without letting her go, Alejo said, “You haven’t aged a day.”

  “I think you say that to all the girls. Or”—Ronda looked at Brandon and her expression sobered—“maybe not.”

  “Good to see you,” Brandon said stiffly.

  “I tell you what, I did not expect to see you in here.” Ronda laid menus on the table and pulled three sets of silverware from her apron. Her expression was hard to read, idling somewhere between curiosity and disappointment. “Still don’t understand why you three are in town, but I’m glad to see you’re all right. Anyway, let’s get some food on the table.” She turned to Alejo. “It’s been a bit, but I think I remember. Regular Moontide burger with no pickles or onions, extra cheddar?”

  Alejo grinned. “You got it.”

  “I’m just glad you’re not one of those California vegan types now.” Ronda took Brandon’s and Logan’s orders and stuck her notepad back in her apron. “Sit tight. I’ll be back with your food.”

  Brandon looked around the diner with a distant smile. He looked like he actually fit in here. Logan had never seen him actually settle into a place. No matter where they were, he always looked like he’d been cut out and pasted in, like he always existed somewhere else. But at the Moontide, he looked comfortable. He leaned against the vinyl booth like he’d spent years in it. Maybe he had. Logan knew next to nothing about Brandon’s life here before the show. She’d gathered bits and pieces of Alejo’s, but Brandon’s was a blank.

  It all felt crooked.

  “Did you guys come here a lot before?” Logan asked.

  Alejo looked at Brandon, who fixed him with a classic straight-lipped frown. “Uh, yeah. I’d say so. Not together, but I think we both came here a lot.”

  Logan wrinkled her nose. “Weird answer.”

&nbs
p; “We didn’t really know each other then,” Alejo said. “Me and your dad could’ve been sitting right next to each other but probably wouldn’t’ve said a word.”

  “That’s not true,” Brandon said. “I knew who you were.”

  “Okay, well, that’s because I was cool.”

  “And I was not,” Brandon said. “I’m sure that’s a surprise.”

  The jukebox, which Logan hadn’t noticed before, started playing John Denver, and Alejo’s face lit up. “Your dad used to be able to play this one on the piano,” he said. He put a hand on Brandon’s forearm. “We should get a piano at the LA house. I bet she didn’t even know you played.”

  “I doubt I’d remember how.” Brandon grimaced at the jukebox, then softened and looked at Logan. “You wouldn’t wanna see me play now. It’d be embarrassing.”

  Logan’s chest felt tight. She thought of the piano in the cabin. It couldn’t be a coincidence that Brandon’s spirit had materialized there, that she’d heard piano music in the woods, that he apparently used to play. But this wasn’t what she wanted to find out—she didn’t want more reasons why Brandon was at the center of all this. She bit back the twinge of hurt in her chest. “How did you guys meet? I don’t think I ever asked.”

  “Oh, uh…” Brandon eyed Alejo. “You’re the better storyteller.”

  “I don’t know,” Alejo mused, “you apparently knew about me way before I knew about you.”

  The held each other’s gaze a moment longer in a silent standoff. Finally, Brandon cleared his throat. “We met here, actually. In the diner. I was eating with my parents and he was here with—”

  “No, we met at the lumberyard, remember?”

  Brandon grimaced. “No. It was here.”

  Alejo’s brow furrowed, searching for the memory.

  “You were on a date?” Brandon tried. “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t a long conversation. I don’t even know why I remember it.”

  “Are you sure you met me?” Alejo asked. “I didn’t meet you until I came back from Seattle. And I didn’t really go on dates. I was…”

  Logan groaned. “You were with Tammy, right?”

  Alejo flushed. “Gracia … that chismosa. I was a different guy back then.”

  “I don’t think you were that different,” Brandon said. When Logan and Alejo fixed him with identical stares, he looked down. “When you came back, I was actually glad you were just how I remembered you.”

  “Oh, because you knew me so well from our one conversation?” Alejo’s laugh was a pointed challenge.

  Ronda came back from the kitchen and laid their burgers on the table, saving Brandon from having to elaborate. Before she could turn to leave, Alejo held up a hand. “Ronda, you have a great memory. Do you remember me and Brandon meeting here? For the first time?”

  Ronda stared.

  “I was in the booth by the door,” Brandon said.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.” Ronda straightened and gestured to the table. “Do y’all have enough napkins?”

  Alejo looked to Brandon and frowned. “Uh, we’re good. Thanks.”

  Logan looked down at her lap. She waited for Ronda to disappear back into the kitchen, then took a deep breath. “Can I ask you guys something?”

  “When have you ever asked permission?” Alejo scoffed.

  Brandon watched her warily.

  “I know you said you’re investigating the weather and sightings and stuff, but … I was talking to Gracia a few weeks ago. She said this weird stuff didn’t start until you got here. And you haven’t been taking any notes or pictures. None of the crew has come out. I took you guys’ gear, like, three weeks ago, and—”

  “You what?” Brandon asked.

  Logan was quiet.

  “What do you mean, you took our gear?” Alejo asked.

  “I…” Logan narrowed her eyes. “No, the point is that you guys didn’t even notice it was gone. We’re supposed to be here investigating, but you don’t realize you’re missing all your gear?”

  “The point is that our gear is expensive,” Alejo said. “And off-limits.”

  Brandon leaned forward. “What did you use it for?”

  Logan looked between them. Alejo was upset, but Brandon was afraid. His hand was flat against the table, eyes wide behind his glasses. Because it wasn’t about the gear; it was about what she’d found. Logan’s heart raced. She felt fire in her cheeks.

  “Logan,” Brandon said, hard and cold. “What did you use the gear for?”

  “That’s what I wanna ask about. The cabin across the lake—”

  Brandon exhaled.

  “I know it was yours. And there’s this grave I saw. It had our name on it.” Logan looked at her hands. “I thought, if you guys could just start at the beginning. If you could just tell me what’s going on here.”

  Brandon sank into his seat and shook his head. Alejo looked at him, then at Logan, and it was the first time she’d ever seen him speechless, unable to mediate. She wondered how the three of them looked, alone in this diner. Country ballads softly filled the silence between them, almost mocking.

  After a moment, Brandon shifted out of the booth. His face was unreadable. He looked anywhere but at Logan. “I’m gonna go take a walk. I’ll be back.”

  He made his way out of the diner into the swollen summer air. Guitar plucked from the jukebox and Logan thought she might be sick. It was Tulsa all over again—hate curdled in Brandon’s voice, cloying and hot. Logan looked at Alejo, waited for him to explain, but he only stared at the diner door after Brandon, lips in a hard, thin line.

  He gathered himself. “Did you put the gear back?”

  “It’s in my room,” Logan sighed.

  “Okay.” He placed his hands palms-down on the diner table and slowly inhaled. “Everything’s gonna be okay. I told you, if you want to know anything, you can just ask. You don’t have to…”

  “Does he have something to do with what’s happening?” Logan asked. “Kids are dying. I just wanna know why.”

  “Your dad has done nothing wrong. Neither of us have. I … can’t get into it right now, but I promise your dad is not responsible for this. It’ll be easier to explain when we’re out of here,” Alejo said. “Until then, how about we make a deal. No more cabin, no more ghost hunting, no more taking things from our room. And when this is all over, me and your dad will explain everything.”

  “So I can’t just ask, then?”

  “Soon,” Alejo said. “I promise.”

  “When?”

  “When it’s over,” Alejo said again.

  Logan leaned back in her seat. This was how it was going to be—she didn’t deserve the truth. She could get close enough to taste it, but she could never have the real thing. She cleared her throat. “I guess it’s a deal.”

  22

  How To Breathe Underwater

  Ashley parked the Ford haphazardly across three of the slim parking spots at the Bates Motel and climbed out of the truck. On most summer nights, she heard the distant moan of cars far down the highway, but tonight it was only the flickering bulbs of the Bates’s fluorescent sign and the crackling of the Ford as it cooled down. Even at night, the heat was blistering and moist. The parking lot smelled like fuel and mildew.

  She made her way to room seven. In the window, Logan’s string lights glowed warm and gold through the blinds. Ashley knocked twice, and the door thumped as Logan pressed her eye to the peephole.

  “Just me,” Ashley said, waving.

  The door opened. Logan’s hair was pinned up in a messy bun. She wore an all-black sweater and skirt combo with black ankle socks. For the first time since Ashley had met her, Logan wasn’t wearing any makeup. She almost glowed in the low light.

  “How are you wearing a sweater?” Ashley asked.

  “Beauty is pain.” Logan leaned against her doorframe. “What’re you doing here? Did you miss me?”

  “I told my mom I’m staying at Bug’s,” Ashley said, ignoring Logan’s comme
nt. She wrapped her arms around herself. “She’d be pissed if she knew I was here. No offense.”

  “A secret meeting.”

  Past Logan’s shoulders, Ashley caught a glimpse of the motel room. It was nicer than she’d imagined—Logan used string lights in lieu of the murky fluorescent bulb in the ceiling, and she’d carefully arranged canvas paintings of landscapes and skylines around the room like windows to better worlds. Ashley motioned to the door. “Can I come in?”

  Logan paused. “I don’t know. You’re here way after office hours. Kinda unprofessional, to be honest.”

  Ashley rolled her eyes. “Ha.”

  “Unless…” Logan trailed off. “Is this for business or pleasure?”

  Ashley’s eyes widened. She shoved Logan’s shoulder and muttered, “You’re an idiot.”

  “Thank you for that.” Logan smiled and lingered just a moment too long in the doorway before gesturing into the motel room. There was something off about her. Her humor was too sharp, too deflective. “You can come in. No judging, though.”

  Ashley stepped into the room. It was bigger than it looked from the outside, but it was irrefutably a motel room. The wallpaper was a sickly shade of green, chaotically patterned with brown roses. Ashley hadn’t spent much time in the Bates, but Logan had clearly rearranged the furniture—the breakfast table was fashioned into a makeshift desk, the minifridge acted as a second end table, and a potted plant was precariously draped over the mounted TV, drooping sadly across the screen.

  “It looks great,” Ashley said.

  “It looks okay,” Logan corrected. She shut the door behind them and leaned against it, arms folded over her chest. “Not my fault, though. It’s a million times better than it was when we checked in.”

  “It’s gotta be expensive to stay this long.”

  “I think Gracia’s charging my dads monthly rent? I’m not really the family treasurer.” Logan shrugged. “Anyway, what’s up?”

  Ashley swallowed. She hadn’t fully thought through why she was here. After the fight with Fran, it felt like the sky was closing in on her. She was like a tire stuck in the mud, spinning, trying to get free. Snakebite had never felt like this before. Now, it was like she’d forgotten how to breathe. She hadn’t planned to come here—common sense said Logan would just make things worse—but it was like she was on autopilot. She couldn’t have landed anywhere else.