Brighter, a supernatural thriller

by V. J. Chambers

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Brass Frog was packed. People were lined up three to the bar to get drinks. Outside in the garden, where Ramona sat alone at a table, nursing a beer, conversation was a roar that almost drowned out the sound of the crickets and the clock tower striking twelve. The air was humid and a little sticky. Ramona couldn't see the stars in the dark sky because it was blanketed in a thick carpet of clouds. Ramona knew that she should go home. She had to work in the morning. But she hadn't been home today. Oh, she'd stopped in to change clothes. But pretty much right after work, she'd come to The Frog and started drinking. Maybe it wasn't the healthiest thing to do, or the right thing to do, but she couldn't handle being alone. Oddly enough, however, she couldn't handle conversation either.

  Brighter Roan, the band that was playing at the bar, was on a fifteen-minute break. Brighter Roan was a popular local band. They drank pretty heavily. Their fifteen-minute breaks usually lasted a half hour. They never started playing on time either. If Ramona's life hadn't been what it was, she would have been with the rest of the kids in Elston, packed in front of the band, dancing until her hair was pasted sweaty to her forehead. It was an activity she usually engaged in. One that brought her joy. She loved Brighter Roan, whose music sounded like a cross between Nirvana and the Traveling Wilburys. Raw and powerful, while at the same time folky and easy to connect to. But she couldn’t dance tonight. She couldn't talk. She couldn't be alone. All she could do, it seemed, was drink. And, having been drinking for nearly six hours, Ramona was quite inebriated.

  Her beer was empty. Ramona didn't relish the idea of fighting through the crowd at the bar to get another drink, but she also wanted more beer. She'd been lucky enough to snag this empty table. If she left it, it would be taken by the time she got back. She'd have to stand somewhere or sit on the ground. Ramona considered for a little while. She really liked having somewhere to sit. Eventually, however, she stood up, swaying a little bit on her feet. She really was quite drunk.

  She staggered more than walked to the front of the bar, wondering if she looked too drunk, if the bartender would cut her off and send her home. But when she got to the front, he didn't even give her more than a glance, just got her another beer. Ramona paid, but she didn't know if she could handle the walk back to the garden, so she stayed at the bar for a few minutes, clutching it to keep her balance. Eventually, she turned around and rested her back against the bar.

  This way, she could see the rest of the room. The empty stage was in front of her, but Brighter Roan was actually climbing back onto it, slinging on their guitars. Eager dancers swarmed the area in front of the stage, cheering. Ramona attempted to clap, but she was holding her beer, so she just ended up spilling it. She needed to go home. She was way too drunk. She was going to be far too hung over to function at work the next day. But the voice in her head that was telling her this was getting fainter and fainter. Ramona thought the music would drown it out once the band started playing again.

  On the outskirts of the crowd in front of the stage, Ramona spied Garrett. He was with Blair. He had leaned down to her, and she was whispering in his ear. Over Garrett's shoulder, Blair caught Ramona's eye. They stared at each other for a moment. Garrett straightened, and Ramona could see Blair more clearly. She smiled at Ramona. Waved. Then she grabbed Garrett by the neck and pulled him down to her face to kiss him.

  Ramona faltered and grasped the bar for balance. Where was Owen? He was Blair's boyfriend. Her eyes swept the crowd, but she didn't see him. And Griff had said Owen hadn't been at the coffee shop this morning.

  Someone put a hand on Ramona's shoulder. Ramona turned, sloshing a little beer onto the person's shoes. It was Olivia. "Sorry," said Ramona, struggling to keep her voice from slurring. "I'm a little drunk."

  "Yeah," said Olivia. "I can see why. That bitch."

  Ramona nodded. "Yeah."

  "I don't believe her. She does this smear campaign on the guy, saying he's a rapist and that we should run him out of town. And now she's making out with him?"

  "She's not really a person," mumbled Ramona.

  "She doesn't act like one," agreed Olivia. "Look, sweetie, I'd offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you've taken care of yourself in that area. How about you just call me sometime, okay? When you feel like shit about this after the sting is fading into an ache? And we'll make a dart board out of their faces or something, huh?"

  Ramona felt like crying out of gratitude. Sometimes people were so nice. "Thanks," she said.

  "You were right about Blair. I thought she was a victim. I thought she was my friend. But she's clearly just fucked in the head."

  "Where's Owen?" Ramona asked.

  Olivia nodded thoughtfully. "Forgot about him. Yeah, where is he? I thought he and Blair were living together."

  "They are."

  "Bet he's pissed."

  * * *

  "Absolutely not," said Rick.

  Heather was draining potatoes over the sink. She jumped at the force of his words and almost spilled boiling water on herself. Several potatoes fell out of the pot and into the sink. Heather swore and set down the pot. She reached for one of the potatoes in the sink, intending to wash it off and put it back in. It was hot. She recoiled, swearing again. She turned on her husband. "What is your problem?"

  "What is my problem? I get home from work, and you tell me I have to leave. And I'm the one with the problem?"

  Heather turned on the cold water, dousing the stray potatoes. "That is not exactly what I said."

  "Yes, it is. I walk in the door, and you tell me that I need to get the fuck out."

  "No, I said that Tom has been calling you to hang out, and you could go see him this evening, because I know you said you wanted to catch up with him—"

  "Yeah, because you don't want me to be here."

  Heather tentatively touched a potato. It was cooler. She picked the potatoes up and put them back in the pot with the others. "No, it's not that I don't want you to be here."

  "I can't believe you're cooking."

  She rolled her eyes and went past him to the refrigerator for some cream. "Occasionally, I do cook."

  "Yeah, for Ramona."

  "Oh, God, Rick. She's my best friend. I've been trying to get her to come see me for months, and she's coming over for dinner. What do you expect me to do, feed her Ramen noodles?" Cream carton in hand, she went back to the stove.

  "I just think it's fucked up that you never cook for your husband, but when your best friend comes over, you're preparing Thanksgiving dinner."

  She poured cream into the potatoes. On the way back to put it into the refrigerator again, she said, "I'm making chicken. Not turkey."

  "You never cook for me."

  "I work."

  "I work too."

  "And you don't cook either." Heather began to mash the potatoes as if they were Rick's face. She could not believe he was being such a dick.

  "Sometimes I do."

  "Well, sometimes I cook too. Like now."

  "But I'm not even allowed to stay. I have to go see Tom."

  "I just didn't think you'd want to be around while we were talking. I thought you'd be bored. Jesus!"

  "The one night you're off. The one night where you and I could actually spend some time together, you invite Ramona over."

  "Oh fuck you. That is not fair. We spend lots of time together."

  "I never see you. I never see my own wife. And she doesn't even cook dinner for me."

  "Welcome to the goddamned twenty-first century. Women have jobs and friends and their lives don't revolve around their husbands!"

  "Don't pull that shit. That feminist shit. Because that's not even what this is about."

  "Right. It's about the fact that you're a big baby." Heather opened the oven and pulled the roasting pan that contained the chicken out. She dropped it on the stove.

  "That smells really good."

  "You can stay. I don't care if you stay."

  "Fine."
<
br />   "Good. Just stop being such an ass. She's gonna be here any minute."

  "I'm not being an ass. How is it being an ass for me to just want to spend some time with my wife?"

  "I don't know. If you were always this charming, I'd want to be around you every second of the day."

  And there was a knock on the door. Heather wiped her hands on the towel on her stove. "Be good," she said to Rick. She crossed the kitchen, went through the living room, and opened the door. Ramona was standing there, looking sheepish. She hadn't heard the two of them screaming at each other, had she? Damn it. Ramona pushed out the bottle of white wine she was holding like a peace offering.

  "Hi," said Ramona.

  "Hi," said Heather, taking the wine. "Come in."

  Ramona came in, but she didn't follow Heather back into the kitchen, probably because she could see that Rick was still in there. Ramona and Rick had never really gotten along. In some ways, Heather thought that was good. It meant she'd never have to worry about her husband and best friend having sex. In other ways, it kind of sucked, because whenever the three of them hung out, there was always a little bit of tension. Tonight, because Rick was angry that Ramona was here, the air was thick with it.

  Wonderful. Heather had invited Ramona here so that she could console her best friend. Ramona was going through some really tough shit. And now Rick was going to make her uncomfortable, and Heather wasn't going to be able to help Ramona at all. Why couldn't he just leave, for God's sake? Why did he always have to be so difficult?

  "Ramona?" called Heather from the kitchen. "Would you open the wine you brought for me?"

  "Sure," said Ramona, starting forward.

  "I can do that," said Rick sullenly.

  Ramona stopped walking. "Um," she said. "You know, I didn't mean to—"

  "You're fine," said Heather. "I want you to be here. I've been trying to get you here. Don't feel weird."

  Heather turned back to the stove. What else did she have to do? Oh yeah, she had to get the green beans out of the microwave. She went to do that.

  Rick was struggling with the corkscrew. Didn't the man ever open wine, for God's sake? Of course not. He always drank beer. Heather snatched the bottle from Rick and easily pulled the cork out. "There," she said. "Thanks, Rick." She handed the bottle back to him.

  He glared at her. "I had it," he said.

  "I know you did, sweetie," she said. This entire evening was turning into a nightmare. Not for the first time, she wished she'd never gotten married. Somehow, she managed to get all the food on the table, and everyone sat down. But they just munched on their salads silently and sipped at their wine.

  "This is really good dressing," said Ramona. "What is it?"

  "I made it," said Heather.

  "Wow," said Ramona. "That's awesome."

  "Thanks."

  More munching sounds. Heather had never realized how loud people sounded when they were chewing. God. This was a disaster. Why was her life always like this? Well, she wasn't going to let Rick destroy her night with Ramona. She'd talk to her about what was going on if it killed her.

  "So," said Heather, "I saw Garrett yesterday."

  "You did?" Ramona asked.

  "I had to return a book to the Elston library, and he was working. He seemed..." Heather didn't know how to explain it. "I don't know. Creepy."

  "Well," said Rick. "The dude's a rapist."

  "Yeah, but he didn't seem creepy before," said Heather.

  "You believe me?" said Ramona.

  "Believe what?" said Rick.

  "Shut up, Rick," said Heather.

  Rick put down his fork. "That was kind of rude, Heather."

  "I don't have time for your delicate emotions right now," said Heather.

  Ramona scrunched down in her chair and became very interested in her salad.

  Heather sighed. "I'm sorry," she told Rick.

  "It's okay," sighed Rick. He picked up his fork again.

  "I don't know what I believe, Ramona," Heather said, "but he was different."

  "Can someone tell me exactly what you guys are talking about?" Rick said.

  "You'll think I'm nuts," said Ramona.

  "Is this more of Heather's spirit stuff?" Rick asked disdainfully.

  "Not exactly," said Ramona, "but it's just as weird."

  "Hey," said Heather. They were ganging up on her. "My 'spirit stuff' is not weird."

  "Sorry," said Ramona. "That's not what I meant. God knows I have no right to say that whatever you think isn't real."

  Heather was finished with her salad. She reached for the serving platter that had the chicken on it and put a few pieces on her plate. Then she passed the plate to Rick.

  "Fill me in," Rick urged, serving himself some chicken.

  Ramona began to talk as they passed and dipped their food. "Well," she said, "it's kind of hard to explain. You know Mason right?"

  Rick nodded. "I used to, anyway."

  "Well, one night, I hung out with him while I was tripping on mushrooms, and he told me that he thought he was a falling star."

  "Wait. Who was tripping on mushrooms?"

  "He said that he was an ancient being that came into existence when the universe exploded and created our universe. And he said that he wasn't Mason. He said that he killed Mason."

  "That dude was on drugs," Rick pronounced.

  Ramona shrugged. "That's what he said later, but at the time, he swore he wasn't. Anyway, so then last Halloween, I saw Angelica Murdock on her porch. Hours after she'd been killed. I thought she was a ghost. But then I started hanging out with Garrett, and he told me that the night that he supposedly raped Blair, what actually happened was that he saw a group of river hippies kill her."

  "And you bought that?" asked Rick. "That's a pretty lame story. I can't believe he tried to tell you that."

  "He wasn't lying to me," said Ramona. "On top of that, I found a picture of Dawn Trimbley from the 1950s, and she looked exactly the same as she does now. There's also a missing person investigation going on for her in Texas. She went missing in 1989, and she looked exactly the same as she does now."

  Rick laughed. "So, somehow all this stuff fits together?"

  "Yeah, I think so," said Ramona. "I think that Mason was telling me the truth. He and Blair and Dawn and who-knows-who-else really are some kind of ancient beings of some kind. And they fit into our society by..." Her voice got very quiet. "...stealing our bodies."

  Rick looked at Heather. "And you believe this?"

  Heather shrugged. "I didn't say that."

  "What do you mean?" Rick said to Ramona. "How do they do that?"

  "I don't know. I guess they have like power or magic. But I think they have stock identities or something. Like Dawn. Maybe she stole that body in the 1950s. Maybe earlier. But after a few years, it would be suspicious if she didn't age or didn't change, so she stole someone else's body. They've probably been doing this for a really long time. And a college town is perfect, because people come and go after just a few years. And people change in college, so no one gets too suspicious when one of their friends suddenly starts acting strange. They kill the real people, and they assume their identity. That's why I saw Angelica. Someone had assumed her identity, but they fucked up, because Angelica's body was found."

  "Wait," said Rick. "Earlier you said that Garrett was different, Heather. You aren't saying that this is what happened to him?"

  "Yeah," said Ramona. "They got Garrett. He's dead. Whatever looks like Garrett is the same thing that looked like Owen, I think."

  "Owen?" said Heather.

  "He hasn't been to work since Garrett got different, and last night I saw Blair and Garrett making out," said Ramona.

  "Blair was making out with Garrett?" said Heather. "That's weird. Rick, you gotta admit that's weird."

  "Yeah," said Rick, "that's weird."

  "And you said that you thought Mason got different," said Heather.

  "Yeah, but that doesn't mean I think that some mons
ter took over Mason's identity," said Rick. "I'm sorry, Ramona, but what you're saying is really just totally crazy. It's like you're living in a horror comic or something. Of course, I could say the same thing about some of the shit Heather thinks about ghosts."

  "Rick, just because you don't believe in the supernatural, doesn't mean it isn't real," said Heather.

  "Just because you do believe in it, doesn't mean it is real," he responded.

  "It doesn't matter whether I'm right or not," said Ramona. "Not really. It's not like I can really do anything about it."

  "Well—" started Heather, then stopped. "Maybe you're right. So, you're just going to drop it? You've been obsessed with this."

  "I think I just wanted to know what was going on," said Ramona. "I know now. I'm gonna leave town."

  "What?" said Heather. She didn't want Ramona to move. If Ramona moved, she wouldn't have anybody but Rick. "When? Where?"

  "As soon as I can get another job," said Ramona. "And I'll just go wherever another admissions department will hire me."

  Ramona was going to move? And far away from the sound of it. Heather found herself not liking the idea at all. It was funny, because she'd expected Ramona to be a sort of basket case, since she was thinking all these crazy, paranoid things. But Ramona was very calm and very rational. She didn't act like a person who'd gone nuts. In fact, she almost seemed really...grown up. More grown up than Heather felt, and Heather was married, for Christ's sake. Suddenly, Heather felt frightened. If Ramona left, then she would have to grow up too. She and Rick would have to act like a real married couple. Hell, maybe they'd have to have children or something. It wouldn't be fun and games anymore. It would be adulthood. Serious. And Heather needed Ramona to be her tie to youth. Ramona couldn't go. "I don't know," said Heather. "Maybe we could try to stop them. The river hippies."

  "Oh Jesus, Heather," said Rick, "you don't think what she's saying is actually true."