please forgive me.

“I don’t care about my reputation.”

Kaz strode forward with purpose, confident that he was not going to be left behind on this. Jamie may have been the one who stuck to this investigatory work throughout the years, but it didn’t mean he could do it by himself. There was value in a team. Maybe Jamie had forgotten that. Maybe he’d never really understood it, since he’d grown up awkward and lonely while Kaz flourished in the world of athletics. But this was their first significant progress on any case and they had done it together. Kaz knew that meant something, even if Jamie couldn’t see it yet.

The junkyard was far to the southeast of Gravewood. It was a hike from Marie’s, but neither Jamie nor Kaz owned a vehicle. They made decent time, but it was still late in the afternoon by the time they reached their destination.

“We really gotta get a team bus,” Kaz mentioned, sizing up the rusted barbed wire fence as they approached. “Maybe we’ll find something here that’s still got four wheels.” 

The lot behind the gates was filled with clusters of garbage that nobody but scavengers wanted. Mostly the husks of broken down vehicles, now only good for scrap metal and parts. There was a furniture section, too, that had largely been crafted into a homeless community. Another corner was saved for random detritus that citizens of Gravewood no longer wanted but couldn’t fit into their regular trash cans. When times got rough financially for Kaz’s parents, they would sometimes search this section for useable items. His mother had always been assured that diamonds existed in the rough. As Kaz gazed upon the pathetic sight of the junkyard, he wasn’t sure how much he agreed with her.

Through the gates, the boys approached the unmarked concrete structure that was the junkyard’s main office. 

“What’s our play?” Kaz asked, pausing in front of the door. “Good cop, bad cop? Or maybe you can pull some crazy Law and Order moves… you know, confuse him so much that he accidentally confesses without realizing it. If he bolts, I got us covered, but I’m not a pro at the interrogation stuff just yet.” 

The smell of rusted metal and unwashed tarp alone was enough to unsettle him but the unnerving familiarity of it all made Jamie’s senses prickle on edge. It smelled like childhood and despair, hopelessness and Frank. He had to get this over fast. 

“Just let me do the talking. Cops don’t get very far around these parts,” Jamie said before pounding on the door. When no one answered, he tried again with a little more urgency.

“I’m looking for Tod. Friend said he could help me with my sinuses.”

There was another beat of unresponsiveness before the lock clicked on the other side of the door. It cracked open and a man peeked out at them.

“You look awfully familiar,” the man said. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

Jamie stared at him. “Are you Tod?”

The man paused before leaning into the crack, the light catching onto a gold-capped tooth. “Hey, ain’t you Ward’s boy? You know, yer old man owes me a whole lot of money. If he thinks sendin’ you is gonna make me forget about his debt, he’s got a whole ‘nother thing comin’.”

“I’m not here for Frank. I just wanna pick up. Are you going to open the door or not?”

“What makes you think I wanna do any more business with a Ward?”

Jamie stuck his foot into the doorway, wedging the crack open wider before shoving his shoulder into the door. It flew open far easier than he expected it to, but it was apparent as to why once they entered.

The man looked like a college dropout in the middle of a mid-life crisis, face aged by bad habits, but impeccably groomed for someone who dealt in a junkyard. He was thin and wiry, his baggy tank and gold chains a desperate scrabble to look relatable to today’s youth.

“You must be Hot Toddy.”

Tod brushed off his stumble with a kind of awkward bravado of someone who had manufactured masculinity in their own bedroom. It wasn’t hard to see why the guy attracted teenagers, aside from the fact that he was scummy enough to take their offers. Anyone old enough could see that the dude was nothing but a weasel.

“All you Wards are the same,” he scoffed, rubbing his chest under his chains. “So whaddaya want? I ain’t got no money to loan ya if that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

Jamie entered the office. There wasn’t anything professional or clean about it, the junk lining the walls making it seem as if the owners couldn’t control the waste lurking outside. “What are you carrying? My friends told me you gave ‘em some good shit recently. I want more of that.”

Tod looked suspicious. “What friends?”

“This cutie I met at Gravewood High. Vanessa Birkinshire. Know her?”

Tod relaxed when Jamie said her name, laughing as if it were some kind of inside joke. “Pft, she’s out of your league, little dude. Saw her with some of them cads from the academy. They wanted to meet lucy. I was like, what era is this?”

“You mean, LSD?”

“Yeah yeah, whatever you wanna call it. I’ve got some but if you want fresh print, you’ve gotta wait ‘til next week. I ain’t gonna see my guy ‘til Saturday.”

Tod walked around the desk buried under paperwork and began scrounging around for a metal tin. He hauled it onto the desk and opened up the box. It was filled with baggies of drugs. Rocks, powder, paper. It wasn’t an excessive stash, but Jamie didn’t assume that what he saw was all of it.

“You notice anything about them?” Jamie asked.

“Like what?”

“The boys?”

“I wasn’t payin’ any attention to the boys,” Tod said disparagingly while giving Jamie a look like he’d heard a thing or two about him. Jamie furrowed his brows and looked at Kaz before taking a step forward. He put his hands down onto the desk, bracketing Tod’s box. He wasn’t particularly intimidating alone, but Jamie got the hint that Ward wasn’t a name he looked forward to hearing.

From looks alone, it appeared as if Hot Toddy was yet another unfortunate soul who withered under Frank’s demands. The debt, the job, the paranoia. It all came together like a puzzle. The mystery as how to Frank Ward managed to retain a job anywhere was solved.

“You know, my old man’s got a pretty foul temper. I’m sure you know all about it. That old bruise healing on your temple. Where’d you get that?”

Tod swallowed, grew defensive as he covered his box. “What the fuck are you gettin’ at?”

Jamie shrugged. “I’m just saying. Frank’s got a bad temper and that shit spreads like wildfire. I’d really hate it if something happened at home and set him off.”

Tod glanced between Jamie and Kaz, suspicion growing. “What are you really here for?”

“I just wanna know if you remember anything about Vanessa and her friends when you met them. Anything distinguishing features? They say anything?”

“They were rich kids with expensive cars, whaddaya want me to say?”

Jamie gave him a look. For a moment, it looked like Tod was at a loss until a glint on Jamie’s neck caught his eye.

“One of them was wearing a symbol just like that one. It was on a t-shirt. Didn’t think much of it, just thought it was some teen cult shit.”

“Did they tell you where they were going?”

Tod looked visibly irritated. “Kids come to me all the time lookin’ for a good time. What they do afterwards ain’t my problem.”

Jamie deliberated whether that had been enough information. A group of teenagers looking for drugs while wearing a satanic pentagram. It was another stretch, but he felt confident that perhaps this had been the missing piece he was looking for.

“I suppose I could just do this at home,” Jamie mused, flicking his fingers across Tod’s stash, causing him to double-over the tin protectively. “I’m sure Frank would partake if he knew it came from his good ol’ friend, Hot Toddy.”

“Do it at the quarry! That’s where everyone else goes,” Tod said.

Jamie pursed his lips, staring down Todd as if he were debating on whether to eat him whole. “Hm. Okay.” 

He straightened and nodded at Kaz to head out, suggesting that they’d gotten what they’d come for.

“Wait, aren’t you pickin’ up?” Tod called after them, holding up a flap of stamps.

Jamie gave Tod a pitiful look over his shoulder. “Does it look like I have any money?”

“If you think yer just walkin’ out of here like that--”

Whatever had silenced Tod’s threat, also towered in the doorway, its shadow sucking up all the dusk light pouring in. By the stench of whisky alone, Jamie didn’t need to turn around to see who it was.

Frank Ward was an impressionable man for more than just his size and girth. Although he hadn’t had a single accomplishment to his name aside from being the worst thing to come out of of trailer parks, everyone knew to stay out of his way. A drunken wrecking ball of a person that destroyed everything in its path, and Jamie just happened to be in it.

Frank glowered over Jamie and the scene before him, scrutinizing the situation before he laid eyes on Kaz, the boy who hung out with Johnnie on the team. The air grew tense, even with Tod who suddenly lost the nerve to speak.

It was Jamie who decided to try and squeeze past Frank as if he hadn’t brought dread upon all of them. Frank caught him by the jaw, squeezing his cheeks between his fingers while while looming dangerously close, his acrid breath a toxic fog above his face.

“You better not be doin’ any of that shit, boy,” he warned as he passed. Jamie broke free and darted out of the door, scrubbing his sleeve over his cheeks as the white prints of Frank’s fingers turned red.

Jamie walked ahead without looking back, a surge of humility threatening to bury all the bravado he’d displayed back at the trailer. He had to keep his eye on the mission, and so far, he’d gotten the job done. 

“Wiccans,” Jamie announced before Kaz could say anything about what had transpired between him, Tod and his uncle. The thought of having to address the untimely reveal of the unsavory parts of his life to Gravewood’s Golden Boy wasn’t a thought he wanted to have. 

Despite his charm and the love that entire town had for their small town hero, Kaz had been shooed out of many places in his time. For most of his life, his friends had all been unruly jocks - including Jamie’s own twin brother Johnnie who was perhaps the most unruly of them all. And now that he was hanging out with the other Ward twin… well, the detective schtick was probably cuter when they were kids. So Kaz didn’t miss a beat as they were (gently) tossed out of Marie’s diner.

“Charlie said Vanessa is a party girl. Or at least her friends are. And they were hanging around with some dude who works at the junkyard. I dunno about you, but that sounds shady to me. Like if anyone is gonna be a kidnapper, it’s the guy in the junkyard who buys drugs for high school sophomores. Right?” Kaz looked to Jamie hopefully, like a player searching for the ‘atta boy’ from his head coach.

“His name is Todd uhh… Todd… something.” He was stumbling on his words, his memory getting foggier the further they walked from Marie’s. He suddenly understood why Griffin and Jamie were always insisting on keeping files and notes. “Hot Toddy,” he said confidently. “It doesn’t matter what his last name is ‘cause they call him Hot Toddy.” 

Jamie thought about it for a second while scanning the receipts. Kaz was right, but the junkyard was one of those places he hated. Aside from Frank’s insistence that he should be taking part in the new family business, the junkyard composed of all the kinds of people that everyone else expected him to be associated with. Drug dealers, gang bangers, degenerates looking for a warm place to sleep. It was where they deposited trash no one wanted enough to hold onto. He hated himself, sure, but not enough to dispose of himself like the rest of his clan. 

Jamie finally looked over at Kaz, who was bouncing beside him with big shiny eyes like a retriever waiting for headpats. He frowned and shoved the wad of papers into his hands and marched ahead while explaining.

“R. Birkinshire bought $60 worth of food from Marie’s at 03:22 on the first. Either Mr. Birkinshire got the munchies or our girl was picking up for a group. Honestly, this is starting to sound like what I thought it was going to be but I suppose we could check out the junkyard.”

It wasn’t like the jaws of life were going to open up and ensnare him in scrap metal and expectations. The risk of running into Frank was higher than he’d like but he needed verification more than ever. As Griffin quoted, ‘once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth’ and the possibility that he was right was still probable as long as he could just find the missing piece.

Kaz stared at the old school letterboard menu for a moment longer. The twisted feeling in his gut was no longer the pang of hunger. Another missing girl meant they were doing this too slowly. He wanted results and he wanted them before anybody else got hurt. He wanted his brother back before it officially became a serial kidnapping. 

“I just really wish you’d said it was the early bird special thing,” he commented lowly, Heelying out of the line to a booth of jocks by the window. He didn’t even need to put on a charming grin for them; they all cheered as soon as they saw him roll over. 

He recognized one of them immediately by the fiery red of his hair. Charlie North. He used to play for Alberione, Gravewood’s bougie private school, before the most epic fight that went down in Kaz’s entire four years of high school left him benched. He went to St. Roch’s University now and he was a total party guy. Charlie knew the residents of Gravewood like he personally printed the phone book every month, because it was more likely than not that they’d passed through his house for a rager.

“What’s going on, dudes?” Kaz greeted, accepting a spot in the booth as Charlie scooted over.

“Oh, you know. The usual. Shooting the shit, fuckin’ around,” Charlie replied. He wasn’t looking at Kaz, however. He had curious eyes only for Jamie, watching him on his mission to question the woman that ran the diner. “What’s with Thackery Binx over there? I thought you’d grown out of collecting strays.”

Kaz chuckled, even though he didn’t quite get the reference. “Actually, he’s helping me out,” Kaz admitted. “The Sheriff did a hack job on my brother’s case so we’re picking up the slack.” 

“Ain’t it been like months since–” There was a short commotion under the table as Kaz felt Charlie’s leg jolt out, kicking his friend Nico. “Ow, Christ. I mean, yeah, it was an epic fail. Fuck the cops.”

Charlie turned to Kaz and smiled. “If you ask me, this town’s due for a pig roast anyway.”

Kaz laughed, but it didn’t feel good. Nothing about this conversation was funny. It was hard to feel joy or humor when three missing people were involved. “I dunno if you’ve heard but there’s this other missing girl now. And I bet you we get the same story. I already know Cassidy is gonna do the absolute least. I feel like I should warn her family or something.” 

“Yes. Vanessa Birkinshire,” Charlie said, overpronouncing the B in her name like it was a fun new word he’d learned in class. 

Kaz perked up. “You know her?”

“No, not really,” Charlie answered casually. Kaz deflated. Charlie frowned at him in what looked like a mocking way, but Kaz didn’t have time to take offense before he was offering something helpful. “I met her once. She was with a group of kids who were all looking to score big. I turned them away, naturally. Told ‘em I like my meat a little more well done.” 

“Score what?” 

“Well a little more than a touchdown, Baller.” 

It took him a moment, but Kaz’s brain finally landed on the point. He nodded quickly to indicate he’d caught up. “Do you remember her friends’ names?”

“No. Like I said, they were all kiddos. But a couple days later, I did sell to this older guy who had some of the same chicks in his Camaro. It was definitely her friends because I remember feeling sorta proud that I wasn’t such a lowball scuzz. And that guy… his name I do know.” 

Kaz was practically vibrating with the excitement of finding useful information. He sat with his spine rigid, looking at Charlie with rapt attention. Charlie was utterly apathetic in comparison, leaning back in the booth, watching Kaz’s face like it was a funny TV show.

“Well?” Kaz asked, trying not to sound too rude or impatient. 

“What’ll you trade me for it?” 

In an instant, Kaz understood why Dean had broken this dude’s arm back in high school. Intense football rivalries aside, he was the king of the douchebags.

“I… I dunno, man. I don’t have any money. You’re like mad richer than me. I’ve got, uh…” Kaz sighed in frustration as he patted his own pockets down, feeling around the nothing that was inside them. Charlie just continued to watch him, while his pals looked on at the exchange uneasily. “There’s fifty bucks or so in my back account, I can go withdraw it right now.” 

“I don’t want your money,” Charlie answered immediately. “How about an IOU?”

“Yeah, cool, sure. I’ll owe you one.” 

Charlie smiled, slowly. “Todd Powell. His friends call him ‘Hot Toddy’ which is… stupid as hell, but that’s how you’ll find him. He works at the junkyard.”

Kaz slid out of the booth without much hesitation, eager to get back to Jamie with this name. “Thanks, Charlie,” he said sincerely, despite the annoying way the facts were delivered. “Seriously, this is… thanks.” 

“It’s nothing,” Charlie answered, waving off the gratitude. The other guys sent Kaz off with a few rounds of ‘good luck bro!’ before their jovial gestures were distant and drowned out by the sound of Jamie’s voice.

Kaz appeared behind him, politely refusing to interrupt the conversation he was having with Marie despite the fact that he was bouncing on his heels with the info that sat right on the tip of his tongue. 

Once Kaz left his side, Jamie headed towards the end of the diner counter and slipped in through the swinging doors in search of Marie. 

The kitchen looked the way it’d always been. Outdated, pea green and suspiciously gritty. Although he was certain that Marie cared enough to keep it clean, the tile grout didn’t care to lie about its age. 

Jamie gravitated towards a half-eaten plate of food as if it’d been placed there just for him and helped himself to a french fry. 

“Don’t you think I’ve fed you enough?" a voice asked. Jamie looked up to find Marie coming in with a handful of dirty dishes, her usual friendly face furrowed into a disapproving frown.  “Shouldn’t you be in school? I thought you finally went to college.”

“Academic institutions and I have irreconcilable differences,” Jamie replied, scarfing down a chicken finger.

Marie dumped the plates into the sink before turning to watch Jamie eat, hand on hip. 

The first time Marie had caught Jamie in her kitchen was when he was nine years old and starving. It hadn’t been the first time he’d snuck in and stolen leftovers from old plates, but it was the first time anyone had ever seen him. A scrawny kid with a lop-sided haircut and bruises along his temple, feasting off of scraps like a stray animal. Marie had taken pity on him then and all the times after in hope that her generosity and encouragement would spare him from falling down the same path as the Wards of her time.

When Jamie was cast out of Alberione, he couldn’t bear showing face for weeks before he came crawling back for a job. By then, he’d already tripped and fallen into an obsession. Not with drugs or alcohol or sex, but with monsters. Marie couldn’t help but think that he’d always been a lost cause.

“You know, you wouldn’t have to eat after others if you’d just get a job,” she said.

“I have one, actually,” Jamie told her, licking salt from his fingers before wiping his hand on his jeans. “It’s why I’m here. I was wondering if you’ve heard or seen anything regarding Vanessa Birkenshire.”

“Oh Lord,” Marie groaned and promptly spun back around to wash the dishes, determined to ignore the oncoming tirade. 

She’d heard it a dozen times by then. It was always something new. A moth man. A ghost. A missing girl. A missing boy. Her frustration poured out into spraying down the dishes until she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“All this time running around and chasing windmills could be spent in other ways. If you’d just put some of that effort into applying yourself, I’m sure the dean would reconsider your application. It’s better than running around playing detective and stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong. Hell, I’ll bet Sheriff Cassidy would love to take you under his wing if you insist. Teach you a few things about catching real perps and none of this... Ghostbusters affair you’ve got going on.”

Marie spoke as if she begrudged every word, moving on from furiously washing the dishes to furiously scrubbing the counters while Jamie watched her with a vacant expression. He too had heard it a dozen times from her by then.

“Sheriff Cassidy and I also have irreconcilable differences, seeing as how he’s at best an utter moron who can’t do his job and at his worst, a negligent bigot,” he replied smartly, to which Marie returned a scolding look.

“What? It’s true. Look, I just want to know if you’ve heard or seen anything about her recently.”

“Do you know how many people come in and out of here daily? It’s impossible to keep track of everyone,” Marie replied, nudging Jamie out of her way with a hip before taking his plate and cleaning under it. 

“What about card transactions? Do you have a record of those I can look at?”

“Child, that is private information.”

Marie stopped and served him a look that told him that he was toeing a dangerous line.

Jamie blinked and said, “If I was going to steal credit cards, I don’t think I’d have to ask.”

The woman rolled her eyes and tossed the plate into the sink before making her way back out into the diner. Jamie followed behind her with triumph and poked his head over her shoulder while she tended to the cash register.

“I swear on great gran’s grave, if you come lookin’ for anything more from me after this, I’m going to turn this place vegan,” Marie said, handing over the receipts. When Jamie grabbed them, she held onto them a little tighter and insisted sternly,  “I mean it.”

“Okay, okay,” Jamie replied before taking the receipts. He began combing through them before turning around and bumping into Kaz. He wasn’t given much notice before a shove from behind ushered them towards the end of the counter and out of the swinging door.

“Same with your friends too,” she warned before pausing to smile at Kaz. “That includes you, sweetie.”

Jamie collected the scroll of paper spilling from his arms and furrowed his brows at Kaz for his inconvenient placement. 

for forever ➙

Kaz rolled up to Marie’s on a set of Heelys that nobody could convince him he was too old for, skidding to a skillful stop next to the town gargoyle, who also happened to be his buddy.

“It takes a while to leave the house these days,” Kaz said in a vague, unapologetic tone. He shrugged, a forcibly nonchalant motion. “Mom always wants to know where I’m going, who I’m gonna be with… I gotta spend an extra twenty to convince her I’m not gonna… y’know, disappear or whatever.”

When they entered the diner together, patrons that had previously turned their noses up at Jamie Ward were now smiling in their direction.

‘Hey Caldwell, great game last week!’

‘Oh, it’s good to see Kaz out and about. I sent his family a casserole when it happened, you know.’

He waved at a few friends, looking like a prince venturing out of his castle for an afternoon with the townspeople.

“So what’s up?” he asked Jamie, automatically wandering toward the line. Everyone knew that you couldn’t step foot into Marie’s without ordering something. A burger, a milkshake, a basket of fries… It was the best diner in all of West Virginia. Definitely the best place to eat in Gravewood, aside from Kaz’s own house, that was. “‘Meet me at Marie’s’ doesn’t really tell me a lot. Like are we two dudes just hanging out, splitting the Tuesday early bird special or is this a mission?”

“A mission,” Jamie answered tonelessly, determined to ignore all the hoopla in the diner upon Kaz’s arrival. It was the first time he’d ever felt dread stepping into a place that smelled like french fries and burgers but the attention was unnerving. 

He’d seen how lively Marie’s could get after spending nights lurking in the back booths and nursing a milkshake that’d gone warm, but it’d never involved anyone within such close proximity. Gravewood was an old fashioned place that put way too much weight in athletics and puritanical values. Between the football field and the church, Jamie couldn’t decide which one was the greater bane of his being. Right now, he supposed it was the church because the football field was finally becoming of use. 

Kaz’s reputation as the town hero was bound to come in handy.

“There’s a girl that’s gone missing recently. First missing person’s case since Alfie. Her name’s Vanessa Birkenshire. She was a sophomore at Gravewood High,” Jamie explained.

“Chances are that she’s just run away to a city but we’ve got to make sure, which is why we’re here. Can’t leave town on an empty stomach and with the amount of people that are here right now, someone’s ought to have seen her if she was on her way out.”

Ace had always been the easily distractible sort. His attention was like a powerful magnet, everything else in the world a polar attraction. Duck had gotten used to it in their youth; Ace would turn to look at something midsentence, only for Duck to follow his gaze and find nothing there. It was an eccentricity. That afternoon, it looked more like a burden.

Duck frowned. Ace had gotten more into drugs and alcohol since their friendship faded out when they were teenagers. There was no mistaking his bloodshot eyes behind those frames. Whatever he was doing those days, it was clearly not doing him any good. No matter how he tried to cover it up, Ace looked twitchy and depressed.

So Duck smiled. Even though the mention of church camp made him want to bolt. Even though all of this, this reconnection, terrified him more than the creepy crawlies that Jamie promised were lurking around every corner in Gravewood. If Duck’s intention was to feel good about something again, then maybe Ace could be part of that. Alfie’s search and rescue party would be something to focus on. It was something to wake up for everyday, beyond whatever chemicals Ace had been dousing his system in. 

He pulled his phone out, scrolling through his contacts until he got to Jamie’s number. He paused with his thumb over the call button. 

“No takesies backsies,” he said, raising his eyebrows. It was a joke, but when Ace smiled in return, it somehow felt like something real had been set into motion. A path they really could not reverse.

With the way the club was progressing, Jamie’s hopes didn’t rise but rather plummet to new depths. The manpower he had hoped for ebbed and flowed like a leaky faucet with various obligations getting in the way that weren’t there when they were kids. Jobs, hobbies, familial debt. In a way, Jamie was glad. For all the leadership classes they forced him to take at Alberione, he never thought much about delegating tasks or taking time to teach others when he managed to do most things on his own and from the looks of how far they’d gotten together, he was right to do so.

Kaz had been the only one persistent on abandoning his responsibilities during a weekday afternoon. Although Jamie would’ve argued that he needed the schooling more than any of them, claims of a sports scholarship and something about touchdowns made him acquiesce before he got an earful of sports jargon.

‘Meet me at Marie’s’, Jamie’s text read. He added a burger and shake emoji in case Kaz had trouble reading it. 

The old diner had always been center of town, smack dab in the middle of the north and south of Gravewood with it’s garish, neon pink sign reading ‘MARIE’S’ in bubbly cursive. History had it that the place was erected in the late 50s by a black family in hopes of diminishing the class discrepancy during a time where the townsfolk were less tolerant of each other over things more petty than God. Now, Marie’s was a landmark that persisted against time. A place that stood as the backdrop to many milestones, whether it be a birthday, date or a missing person’s investigation. 

Jamie waited outside by the door, looking like a troll who’d begrudgingly come out from under his bridge. The bags underneath his eyes were especially heavy under his eyes in the daylight. It’d been a while since he’d been awake during normal people hours. 

Patrons who came in and out of the diner gave him wary glances before insisting that  they had no change, to which Jamie responded by giving them the bird. 

“What happened to lightning fast feet?” he asked, when Kaz finally arrived. He narrowed his eyes at the brightness that he brought with him in proud Ghoul green. 

“This is just the first place, pal. We’ve only got ‘til sundown before the others all close.”

Duck waited for the point, but it never came. Instead, Ace chased a gust of dead leaves into the middle of the street.

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” Duck hesitated briefly behind his post, too anxious to abandon it. But the driver of the car was getting out, a burly construction worker who looked five seconds away from pummeling Ace into the asphalt. Snatching the box of chocolate cupcakes from the table, Duck jogged over as quickly as his awkward feet would go.

“Hello, sir,” he greeted, putting on the smile of a pastor’s son. “Sorry to stop you like this, but we’re out here raising funds for Sheriff Cassidy and the boys.”

The man blew out air like an angry bull, still sizing up Ace who was staring into the distance like he’d had an acid flashback. “Y’all shouldn’t be runnin’ out into the street all willy nilly like a couple of fuckin’ retards.”

Duck offered over the cupcake box, a conciliatory action that distracted the man from Ace. “It was reckless, but what’s important to remember is that the boys in blue risk their lives for us every single day. Sheriff Cassidy has been working overtime this year, especially with all that has happened in town, and I, for one, think he deserves more of our support.”

“Hmph…” The man relaxed somewhat, accepting the treats. “He has been takin’ a whuppin’ from those fuckin’ liberals in the paper. I been sayin’ they should arrest anyone who’s got the balls to shit talk our Sheriff in front of God and everyone. I seen somethin’ in there the other day from that little pissant Ward kid… not like it’s a surprise one of Frank Ward’s crib lizards grew up to be such a disrespectful faggot, but it should be illegal to publish that.”

Duck smiled brightly. “Yeah… well… you’ve said it better than I ever could.”

This was the part where Duck was supposed to goad the man into discussing Alfie’s case, but he was fine with letting this be the one who got away. After the man grunted and told Duck to keep up the good work, he got back into his car and peeled off. Somewhere in between, Ace had sat down on the curb, still staring at nothing with an odd expression on his face. Duck sat down next to him, even though he was wearing his nice Sunday clothes.

“Running into the middle of the road is a really dumb last resort. Like, seriously, you could’ve spent at least ten more minutes trying to talk me out of it before resorting to the suicide mission.” 

Ace couldn’t get the image of Alfie out of his head. It was surely Alfie Caldwell. The more he thought about it, the worse the feeling in his stomach got. He had seen Alfie when none had seen him since the summer. There was no amount of optimism that could’ve spared him from the icy realization that what he saw couldn’t have been anything other than a ghost.

He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, desperate to rub out the image of messy, dark curls and skinned knees. Maybe it’d all been just a hallucination, a cruel trick of his imagination after all the talk of the club and finding Alfie. Maybe he had just wanted a reason for it to go away and leave Duck without an obligation outside of repairing the bridge of their friendship. 

The satisfaction he wanted to feel when Duck sat down beside him didn’t come. Instead, all he felt was the burden of knowing that Alfie had passed.

“Did it work?” Ace replied, the cheerful lilt of his voice dulled in the recovery. He took a deep breath, shrugged his shoulders and smiled too wide for the situation. Duck’s blank stare was enough to blow the wind out of his manic sails, his grin diminishing with the weight of responsibility. 

If Alfie was dead, it meant that whatever they were chasing was still alive. Whatever it was, it’d do the same to the others too. Chills ran down his spine at the thought of seeing the others, bloodied and gargling, scarped up and broken. Trapped in limbo. More lost than they were then.

“Y’know, if there’s really nothing I can do to convince you otherwise, maybe I’m just gonna have to come along after all,” he blurted, paused, and then smiled. A genuine smile hinging on the thinnest silver lining.

Duck may have been a talkative type, but Ace still somehow managed to talk circles around him. It was embarrassing that even all these years later, he was so easily flustered by it. His cheeks warmed considerably against the brisk air, his eyes flickering from side to side like one of the nearby elderly churchgoers might be listening in, ready to report back to dear old Reverend Dad that Duck was consorting with a silver-tongued snake. 

Cute. How could Ace always just say things like that, like it was something totally normal that he said every day? 

It was tempting to accept the offer. Duck wanted very badly to catch up with Ace. He wanted to erase the years of distance that he himself had been the one to wedge between them. He had always wanted this. Ace had always been the hardest thing to leave behind. 

But that’s not what this was about. He set the box of cupcakes on the table, resolute in the fact that he was a person who could withstand temptation, even when it stood inches away, looking at him with those big brown eyes. 

“I know that it’s a long shot,” he said. “I’m not an idiot. I know that what Griffin said the other night is probably true. We’ve all barely spoken to each other in what feels like an entire lifetime. I dunno how we’re supposed to magically come back together and Scooby Doo this all out. But it’s Kaz… 

“Remember when I wanted you to join the club in the first place? And Jamie wasn’t going to let you in, because he didn’t trust you. But Kaz… he didn’t even know you and he vouched for you. He had your back. Kaz taught me how to throw a football, he showed up at every church charity event I ever ran, he’s… the best of us. If miracles really happen, then Kaz is the guy they happen for.” 

Duck took a breath, straightening his shoulders and nudging the cupcakes closer to Ace. “I have to believe that good things happen. And I have to believe that if they do, I can still be apart of them. So thanks for the offer, but I’m staying right here.”

“That’s right. That’s exactly right. Count on good ol’ Griff to be right. You know, I’ve always known he had an edge on Ward. Somethin’ about the amount of bags under a guy’s eyes just tells ya he’s right, y’know?” Ace said, nodding his head eagerly as Duck appeared to be agreeing with him.

Perhaps he’d spoken too soon. Too quick to seal the deal before Duck could get out his spiel. He didn’t really want to hear the rest, considering that had an idea of exactly where it was going to go.

Kaz Caldwell really was the best of them. Maybe too good. Ace wouldn’t have gone so far as to say that he resented the guy, but the dude had it all. Sports, friends, family. In some way, it almost felt like karmic retribution for all the luck he had, but that was cruel and cold and not even Ace could bring himself to believe it.

Ace deflated over the table, hanging his head in defeat. “Aw c’mon, man, don’t-- Don’t do that to me, bro. I like Kaz as much as the next guy but what exactly are we supposed to do? A couple cupcakes aren’t gonna solve anything. Whoever did it is probably long gone by now and we’re just gonna be chasin’ our tails like a bunch of idiots. Or worse! We’ll be the ones ending up in jail! You know how much Ward likes breaking into things.”

He gesticulated wildly as if perhaps his flailing would convince Duck otherwise but Duck seemed to stand resolute. Some things really didn’t change, did they?

“Look, I’m not saying don’t help, but like...” You hadn’t even returned my calls, and now you’re ready to risk B&Es with the Mystery Club?

Ace’s mouth hung open, palm open like a red carpet for his grand point but it never came. Instead, a shadow on the corner caught his eye. It was a little boy who looked to be in a hurry to get home, his mop of curls in disarray and his body out of breath. He was dressed oddly in a t-shirt and shorts, like he’d been clinging onto the last dredges of summer...

Pulling his glasses off, Ace stared. The boy looked familiar, the dirt on his face doing nothing to conceal the boyish dimples in his cheeks that he’d seen Kaz flash a million times. It was Alfie.

The boy looked conflicted on whether it was safe to cross the street, looking both ways even though the coast was clear. It was only when a car began to turn into the lot that the kid decided to step off the curb.

“Hey! Stop!” Ace sprang into action, dashing towards the curb only to be met with the screeching of tires and a blaring horn. He looked for the kid around the car. Then, across the street. A chilly breeze rustled past him. Nothing was there.

when you were young ➙

There were two people that Duck had spent a lifetime of study on: Jesus Christ and Ace Palmer. So even though Ace walked like a person who had nowhere to be, Duck did not need much time to pick him out of the crowd. He was an authority on the loose waves of chestnut hair that blew easy in the new November breeze. Big, brown eyes behind an eccentric pair of shades. Feet that were a lazy river on a Sunday morning - trickling slowly over stones and gravel below, without a care for where they were headed or when they would get there. The lingering scent of whiskey and weed. Duck would have known him even in the dark. 

For many years by then, this education had been done at a distance. But when Duck joined the newly reformed Mystery Club, it came with the chance he would have to talk to Ace again. Perhaps he even hoped for the excuse. Now that it was walking across a parking lot in his direction, he wasn’t entirely sure he was prepared. 

What if he opened his mouth and nothing came out? Their friendship had been in a coma for so long, there were muscles that no longer worked properly. Then Ace called him Ducky in that casual croon of his and it felt like 360 joules of electrical energy right against his chest.

“He’s down in Costa Rica sipping wine slushies with Paul the Apostle,” Duck joked in return, burying his own discomfort and marking the grave with a polite smile. “It’s chilly, so…”

He anxiously tugged on his sweater, fixing the way the collar of his undershirt poked through. When Ace raised his eyebrows and motioned toward the cupcakes, he remembered there had been a second part to his greeting.

“Oh! Um… You can just have them,” he offered, proceeding to box up two cupcakes for Ace. Chocolate, heavy on the frosting. “Raising money for the Sheriff’s office is a good cause and all, but I’ve actually got other motives. Griffin Baxley - you remember Griffin? - yeah, he’s back in the search party for Alfie and he texted me at like 6 o’clock this morning to ask for my help. It was ultra mega last minute, but I had this old bake sale setup from a charity event back in the Spring, so it worked out.”

He presented Ace with a neatly folded box of his favorite cupcakes. “I’m supposed to be chatting people up, seeing what the popular theories are. I dunno why Griff thought I’d be better at this than… like… Kaz, but… I dunno, he’s the brains, I’m just the baker.” 

Before Ace could take the box, Duck tightened his grip on it. “I am gonna need to take your official statement though. Going back to that crew empty handed is not exactly at the top of my Christmas list this year.”

The awkward response and nervous shuffle were a relief. It almost felt like no time had passed between them, like it was just yesterday that they’d been talking about leaving town on a bus and heading to the beach somewhere. Maybe things hadn’t changed. Maybe he’d been too quick to write him off.

Ace brightened when Duck packed him a box. It was a small victory, considering how Duck hadn’t spared him a look for years. His triumph was short-lived, however, when Duck continued to explain. It was impossible for him to conceal the dismay on his face, his large gestures often broadcasting his emotions to the world.

“Is it a good thing, though?” came the question before Ace could stop himself. Sure, he’d made the argument that Sheriff Cassidy knew what he was doing but it wouldn’t have been the first or last time he’d desperately scrabbled for an excuse to get out of responsibilities. What came after was the part that was really concerning. Ward was one thing but Ward and Baxley together was a solar powered laser canon, and if he’d gotten Griffin, that only meant that the others would surely follow, lest they be bludgeoned by SAT words until they submitted.

Ace had to think fast, which was admittedly difficult with a pounding headache but this was a window of opportunity if he saw one. Both to get in good graces with Duck again, and save him from whatever mischief the old club was up to this time. 

It wasn’t that he hated their little adventures, only that he thought that maybe their time and energy could’ve been spent on other things. Fun things. Like taking an adventure up the hill and basking in the sun until dusk or sharing a doobie over truth or dare like normal kids. The mystery club was a thing Ace thought was better left in the past. At nine, the world seemed big and full of mystery but now? Ace learned that perhaps the world looked small to most for a reason.

“My official statement is that I’ve got better things to do. And so do you. I can think of a dozen other purposes for that cute little face of yours besides buttering up the locals for nonsense,” he said, with an emphasis on cute. “I mean, it’s real sad about Kaz’s little bro and all but do you really think a bunch of hungover people-- myself included-- know anything about a kid who went missing months ago?”

Ace visibly softened like a car salesman who was about to go in for his pitch. “Look, it’s been a while. Why don’t you and I go and catch up somewhere? You can tell me all about what they’ve got on you and we can figure it out from there.”

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. 

Griffin repeated the mantra over and over in his head as he took the napkin to wipe up his muddy feet. He couldn’t allow himself to fall into paranoia or panic. There was a logical reason for everything, so this whole experience… the nightmare, the sleepwalking… it was all a symptom. It was born from a combination of lifelong insomnia and the sudden nostalgic shockwave that had been seeing his old friends together in a room again.

He was glad for the stack of folders to rifle through, so he could redirect his focus. As he shuffled through the ‘evidence’ inside, it all felt very random and disconnected. It was like Jamie, Duck, and Kaz had no clear point of view. They were each grasping for straws, which meant that all they’d produced was a handful of trash.

Griffin made a disapproving hum. Though it had been many years since they’d sat together in studious research like this, he knew it would inspire a glare shot his way from across the desk. 

“It’s messy,” Griffin explained out loud, glancing around the shed like perhaps that was what he meant instead of this ‘research’. There were a few areas that had been rearranged since the last time they’d all gathered there; clearly Duck was nesting, little by little and at whatever pace Jamie would allow. Griffin took note of it as he gathered his thoughts before delivering them to his fellow amateur sleuth. 

“I understand the intention of the work,” he said. “Gather whatever looks like possible evidence until a pattern emerges. But I think you’re looking at a picture that’s too big. For a moment, we have to forget everything else. Forget tap dancing dogs… forget Jesus bagels… forget ancient disappearances.” 

The photo of Dean’s ex-girlfriend stared woefully at Griffin from her spot on Jamie’s corkboard. Ever the stoic detective, he soldiered on despite the sad blue of her eyes.

“Let’s focus on what we know to be absolutely true,” he suggested, sliding his chair closer to the desk. He set the stack of folders back down, moving them off to the side and placing an empty notepad in between Jamie and him instead. “Once we settle on the hard facts of the case, we can list the theories. All of the theories - what the Caldwells think, what Sheriff Cassidy has gone on record saying, what you’re leaning towards. Then we work on eliminating them. ’Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ Arthur Conan Doyle.”

He looked up at Jamie. In many ways, it all still felt like a hazy dream. Back when they were kids, Griffin had gotten a kick out of sitting across from him, picking apart his wild ideas and arguing over semantics. Jamie Ward had been the only other person in town who could match wits with him. He was the only other person in town who had ever particularly liked Griffin. A friend. Then, it was gone. Griffin had quickly learned to tell the difference between what was real and what he was only imagining. 

To be back in this seat was not something he was prepared for, but it was necessary. If it would stop the ominous dreams and whatever this new sleepwalking development was, he could get through it. He just needed to play along until Kaz woke up and realized his brother was never coming home.

The first time Ace saw a real ghost was when he was ten. It was an old lady who lived on the end of the block in an old, crooked house with cardboard windows and a long, skinny chimney. Ace had thought that the chimney looked a bit like a witch’s hat and told her so. She seemed to agree and they parted ways. Later, he’d overheard his parents complaining about the new renovations coming down the block, for old Mrs. Miller had finally passed.

Since then, Halloween had become a night full of  dread. It was the busiest time of year next to Christmas for his parents business. There was no shortage of mourning relatives or wily pranksters, looking for a scare. When he was younger, it had been a fun ritual to relay the garbled mutterings of an old plumber to the curious masses. That was before he realized that there was no way a person could hold so much water in their mouths.

Like most things, as he got older, things began to change. Now, bustle of restless phantoms during Hallow’s Eve left him wanting nothing more than to drown in a spirits and bong water.

That morning, Ace added to the ghastly train heading to Marie’s for the Sunday Morning Special. It was a clever marketing ploy, he thought, to bank on both the regrets of Saturday night and the buttoned up early birds on their way to Church. He’d have to remember that some time, when he finally inherited the family business. Morning After Special at Palmer’s Readings, connect with your late Tinder hook up now.

He stopped before the cursive neon sign outside of Marie’s. Of all the ghosts he’d seen, he hadn’t expected to see this one outside of Church on Sunday. It was Duck, set up outside by a little table covered with pamphlets, cupcakes, and a little donation box. Also a clever ploy, luring the weak in with sweets.

Ace had been one of the weak before, lured in by a sweet smile and an offer of banana bread at the ripe age of seven. He thought of himself a better man now after conquering puberty alone. Had finally gotten a clue when Duck refused to look at him in the eyes in the hallways at school. That had been a lot to navigate, but he was better now. He didn’t need Duck when he had much needier ghost friends.

Still, the opening was there. Duck had always been one to be anchored by obligation. There was no way he could dodge him now and after the meeting at Jamie’s shed... Duck wouldn’t have shown up there, right? If anyone was going to eat that up, it’d be Duck who had always toddled after Jamie’s insane ideas like he was the second-coming of Christ. 

Suddenly, the awkwardness of seeing an old best friend evaporated in the concern that Duck had been recruited by the only thing worse than Jesus camp: Jamie Ward.

Ace approached the booth was a careless swagger, aided by the headache of last night’s indulgences. The shirt he wore was offensively vibrant for the weather, flapping open down the middle and exposing yet another too-bright shirt. It gave him confidence, like a bird in the midst of a mating dance. 

“Hey Ducky. Whatcha got going on over here?” he asked, leaning too-casually onto the table as if there wasn’t a chasm of space between them. His Elton John sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, his bloodshot eyes peering out from under them. “You’re here early. Jesus on vacation or somethin’? I don’t think a couple cupcakes are gonna cover the admission to heaven but I’ll take one-- two, actually, if you can cut me a deal. Y’know, for an old friend.”

Jamie had all of his limbs. His skin was in tact. He was wearing an expression of mild contempt. Griffin noted all of these things and used them to determine that this time, he was actually awake. 

Relief coursed through him like flood water. He stared at Jamie for a moment longer, if only to make sure. After all, to know the difference between dreaming and living was important to Griffin beyond all else. He’d personally witnessed what happened to a person when their nightmares followed them into the daylight.

“It’s my new thing,” he said, his voice cracking like someone who’d only just woken up. He lifted his feet, casually inspecting the mud and gravel stuck to his bare soles. “Gone are the days of the starving artist. Cottagecore is the new Griffin. I run wild and free throughout the wilderness.” 

Now that the fear had subsided, fatigue settled back in its place. He sighed, finding a seat on the nearest available surface - a shitty metal folding chair placed before Jamie’s desk, making Griffin feel a lot like he was in the principal’s office. Particularly with the look Jamie gave him in turn. It was sharply disapproving. A silent way to communicate that Griffin had not been invited to sit. 

“I, uh…” Through the fog in his brain, he began to realize that he was supposed to have a reason for being there. 

He’d been sleep walking. He had never done that before. It freaked him out and it was more honesty than he was willing to share with Jamie that night. He needed time to think about it himself before he handed it over to the town’s biggest conspiracy theorist. Jamie would probably diagnose him with demonic possession and send him off to Duck’s priest for a good old fashioned exorcism.

The dreams, too, were forbidden territory. Griffin could not possibly know what they meant, especially the one tonight… Clearly, his psyche had some unfinished business with these old friends of his. 

“I haven’t been able to sleep much lately,” he finally confessed, in a careful tone. “My insomnia is getting worse. It’s always been bad, but… I think the guilt is exacerbating it.” He ran a hand through his hair in an arbitrary attempt to tame it. “I thought it would be better not to be involved, but I’ve seen you this week, with Duck and Kaz, and it’s… I still want it on the record that I believe this is a bad idea, but if you’re going to do it anyway… well, it really seems like you’re going to need a little help.”

Jamie squinted at Griffin’s demeanor. It didn’t look normal, per se. Griffin had always looked like a sleepy hobo but there was something about him that made it seem like he’d just woken up in front of the shed and ambled inside. Was that strange? He’d witnessed the members of his family doing the same things at various odd hours of the morning, but they often brought with them somebody and the sour stench of alcohol. Griffin just smelled like autumn.

“Okay...” Jamie replied unconvincingly in response. He leaned back in his chair, gauging Griffin like he was trying to spot the seams in which someone had zipped up his skin.

Their relationship had been disintegrated by distance and betrayal. They had once been the two sharpest tools in the shed, tied together by a friendly rivalry that kept them rotating for the top ranks at every spelling bee. When it had come time for high school, they had planned to attend Alberione (separately), only disaster had struck Griffin’s family. 

From the whispers around town, it had been bad, but it was Jamie who had made the choice to ignore it. He had ambition after all, and a small town to get out of. Ultimately, Jamie had made a selfish choice and he had prepared himself to take the brunt of the repercussions.

Which was why, as Griffin continued, his skepticism only grew. The whole scene was odd and he couldn’t figure out which part of it was weirder. Griffin rushing over in the dead of night, so fraught with panic and regret that he forgot his shoes or the fact that he was offering a concession to his club and Kaz’s cause? Jamie was internally grateful for another brain amongst them but there was certainly something awry about the moment. Right?

Jamie tipped his chin down, casting a look at Griffin from under his lashes. “You really deleted my number, huh? Frosty.”

Once he said it, he realized that it was a pretty cold remark for someone who looked and sounded so pitiful. Jamie furrowed his brows as he continued to try and parse an answer out of all of it before he decided to relent. He should’ve been grateful that someone had the balls to come forward first, shoes or not.

“Well, I’m sure Kaz will be very grateful,” Jamie corrected quickly. “I suppose if you’re not going to be sleeping anyway, you can take half of this and try and pick out anything useful. Can’t say either of them have gotten any smarter, but every bit counts right now. All I’ve got are a couple rabid dogs.”

He plucked a single napkin from under a pile of empty fast food wrappers and held it out to Griffin while shuffling through the papers on the desk. Griffin was met with a sharp glare when he didn’t take it.

The Gravewood Curiosity Shoppe was the least neglected building on Psychics’ Strip - but that wasn’t saying much. Many of the supposed seers who lived on the block considered decrepitude part of the aesthetic. The more a house was falling apart, the more accurate the Tarot card reading. 

Boris Andreyez, the proprietor of the Curiosity Shoppe, did not deal in fortunes, however. He sold artifacts - evidence of the existence of cryptids, ancient relics from tribes long gone, cursed jewelry, anything demonically possessed. A spooky storefront was unnecessary for this; before moving to Gravewood, Boris had traveled the world. His stories alone were enough. 

Despite his strong belief that his salesmanship would prevail over cheap gimmicks, he couldn’t deny the allure of atmosphere. It was why Autumn was his most profitable season. The town Halloween festival his very best day. Regardless of any roaming imps who wandered near to play tricks upon him. In fact, the obnoxious band of college boys barely crossed his mind at the end of the evening, when he returned to the Shoppe with pockets full of gold. Metaphorically, at least. 

“It was good this year,” he said in greeting to his nephew, a gangly boy with messy hair sitting behind the front desk marking up a notebook. Griffin did not so much as glance up, scribbling something fervently on the paper. 

“‘Good’ is incredibly non-descript, Uncle. It sounds dull to me.”

Boris smiled warmly, a sparkle of humor behind his tortoise-shell glasses. “Hm. Profitable, then. It was a fantastic capitalistic enterprise. I sold the entire lot - including every issue of your magazine.” 

Griffin looked up at this, as Boris had known he would. Kick Rochs, the literary ‘zine Griffin spearheaded at school, was his pride and joy. He peered at Boris for a moment, as if to determine the veracity of his claim. When his mouth twitched, it appeared he’d decided to believe. 

“The Halloween issue always does well,” he reasoned. Ever the reasonable boy, Boris’s nephew. 

“Logical. It is Gravewood’s favorite holiday. I even saw your friend out and about… uhh… what’s his name? The Goliath with skin like a coloring book.”

“Dean Grady is not my friend. Not anymore, anyway.”

“Oh? Shame. He’s a good boy. He would come in handy whenever we have jars we need opening.”

Griffin slid off the stool he’d been sitting upon, finally closing his notebook so that he could help Boris pack away the Shoppe’s booth setup. He had not been asked, but he never had to be. Griffin was a dutiful boy. He shouldered every nearby burden like he was born magnetically attracted to responsibility. He was, perhaps, every parents’ dream child. But Boris had never planned to be the caretaker of a child - or a man, now, he supposed. The ever-present crease of anxiety in Griffin’s brow did not so much fill Boris with pride as it did melancholy. 

“There will be many parties tonight,” he said as they carried a table in from the truck. 

“That is the trend these days,” Griffin replied sarcastically.

“Why not attend one? Perhaps Dean Grady will be at one, you can reconnect.” He swayed, singing a tune. “Make new friends, but keep the old…” 

Griffin huffed, stumbling as he attempted to keep up with his uncle’s impromptu dance. “One is silver but Dean Grady is coal,” he finished, letting the table fall to the floor with a thud as soon as they reached the foyer. 

“Sourpuss. Where’s your holiday spirit?” 

“I seem to have been born without the gland for that.”

“Preposterous. Your mother loved holidays more than anything. She even celebrated Arbor Day with vim and vigor.” 

Griffin froze. With the pained expression now on his face, he looked like a companion piece to the Bigfoot in the Shoppe’s front window. Like he’d been attacked. Boris, for the first time that day, felt nervous. Because it was not a group of rowdy, privileged boys that frightened him. It was this one, wrapped in a thrift store sweater and claiming more than his share of sadness.

“Loves, of course. Celebrates. She’s not… Poppet, you know I know she’s not… The brains of us elderly folk, we lose our aptitude for tense with the years. Time becomes an unknowable concept.” 

Griffin glanced at the Bigfoot statue, as though it were the cause of his torment and not the fact that his mother was somewhere, but not there. 

“I’m tired,” he said, speaking directly to Sasquatch. “I’m going to call it an early night.” 

Boris watched his nephew retreat upstairs to their apartment, feeling helpless and inept. 

sweet dreams (are made of this) ➙

Griffin stood on the street outside the festival. It was over, the sun having gone down hours before. Only remnants of the day’s entertainment remained; stray candy wrappers, abandoned jack-o-lanterns, glitter clinging to the grass like morning dew. The park was empty… except for one figure. They were cast in shadow, the street lamps not bright enough to reach where they stood near the jungle gym. 

Griffin’s heart beat solidly in his chest. Something was wrong. He could feel it, like prickles creeping up the back of his neck.

“Hello?” he called out. His voice disappeared across the cool evening. The silhouette did not react. It stood unnaturally still. 

Of course. It wasn’t moving. It wasn’t a person. It must have been one of his uncle’s ridiculous store mannequins. That was why Griffin was out there at the park, after all. Wasn’t it? 

He strode forward with a sigh… only to stop dead in his tracks when the light at last angled over the figure in the park. It was not a statue. 

It was Dean Grady.

And he was looking right at Griffin.

“What are you doing out here?” Griffin asked.

“What did we do?”

Dean’s voice was quiet and low. It was always quiet and low, but that night, in the park, it was also… afraid. Dean was the tank. He was the fighter with the iron fists. Griffin had grown up knowing his anger. Never his fear. 

Griffin was about to ask him what was going on, but then Dean continued. “What did we do?” he asked, louder now. “What did we do? What did we do?” He was frantic, his voice raising in volume with every question. Griffin shook his head, confused, until he realized that Dean was not looking at him. He was looking through him. 

Griffin spun around. And there was Ace. Ace, who never left the house without that pesky smirk of his, looking inconsolable.

“I never meant to hurt you.” 

Were Ace and Dean in a fight? Some sort of weird lovers’ squabble? Griffin turned back to see Dean’s reaction, but he was no longer there. He’d been replaced by a young man nearly a foot shorter than his predecessor. Duck. Duck who was smiling in an absent daze. Duck who was absolutely covered in blood and guts.

“I’m so glad we’re all friends again,” he said. “Hey! Do you think Griffin would let me braid his hair? I learned how to braid hair when they put me in charge of the girls’ bunk at church camp last Summer. I think he’s got enough of it. It’s really not that hard, you just have to…” The normally neat and organized Duck threaded his fingers through his own hair to gather it up, spreading something’s - or someone’s - innards all throughout. 

Griffin’s heart had started pounding again. The wrongness had crept back in. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the macabre sight of a blood-soaked Duck Bettencourt. Until something bolted in the space between them. 

It was Kaz, running. Not with a football in hand. Not in his jogging shorts. Running from something. An invisible pursuer. He stopped next to Griffin, so close that Griffin could hear his labored breaths. But Kaz didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes were open wide, peering through the darkness for signs of whatever monster was chasing him. 

“Holy shit I’m gonna die, holy shit I’m gonna die,” he was muttering.

“Alea iacta est.” 

The sound came from behind them, and Griffin spun around once more. There he stood. The last, and first, of them. The Mystery Club’s esteemed leader and most loyal member. Jamie Ward. 

It was then that Griffin was thrust into the reality that this was a dream. Because he had dreamt about Jamie before. 

It was always the same. The Latin, spoken in a too deep voice. Jamie, standing before him as a mist rolled in. He began to raise from the ground, his arms slowly spreading out to his sides. He hung in the air, suspended above Griffin.

Jamie looked down at him, meeting his eyes. 

“Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.“ It was Jamie’s mouth that moved, but again, that too-deep voice. Then he smiled. Something that looked both foreign and fearsome on Jamie Ward’s face. 

Griffin woke up just as an invisible force began to rip Jamie limb from limb. 

He sat up with a start, heart racing. He could hardly catch his breath, blinking rapidly as though it might help vanquish the lingering image of Jamie’s body being torn apart. The bones cracking, the skin tearing. Blood pooling from his veins as his joints and sinews snapped apart. 

It took several moments before Griffin even realized he was not in his bed. His hands felt the soft Earth beneath them and he finally saw something other than the gory destruction of his once friend. 

He was in the cemetery. Back where he’d been a week ago at Kaz’s behest. Sat right in front of the door to Jamie’s shed. The raw fear coursing through him did not dissipate. He was too afraid the dream wasn’t over. Terrified of what he’d see if he opened the door. But Griffin knew enough about these nightmares by then to know they always ended the same way: with Jamie. Jamie who was most certainly in that shed.

Griffin really wanted to wake up. So he opened the door. 

Halloween had always been Jamie’s favourite holiday, for any occasion that allowed him to be anything other than poor Jamie Ward was a good one in his books.

That Halloween, he was a grizzled and hardened detective, flanked by mountains of papers and manila folders. The team had not come together the way Kaz had anticipated but that only meant Kaz would make up for the lack of bodies with spirit. With doubt in his mind about the success of the newly reunited club, Jamie had given very simple instructions to the two who remained: find anything that seemed out of place in town.

And so throughout the week, Duck and Kaz did their part. Yearbooks with circled names, newspapers, a stack of missing posters, video clips of dogs walking on their hindlegs, a Hot Topic advertisement, a list of all the names of the local police department and a strange snapshot of a bagel with sesame seeds on it that arranged a lopsided Jesus. 

By the end of the week, they’d accumulated a hefty pile of garbage in the shed that was left up for Jamie to sift through. His doubt doubled and tripled with every meager piece of ‘evidence’ the ragtag crew had come up with. Jamie hit the play button on another video of a supposed haunting at the movie theatre only to find the logo of SLOTLIGHTS.COM smashed onto his screen before the climax. 

He started losing hope. Not only in his old friends but in himself for having taught them so little about what constituted as ‘strange’. Jamie picked up an article about an animal attack that occurred at the local pet shelter where Duck had spent his time volunteering at during winter break last year. It didn’t look particularly interesting at first glance. Animals did what they did, after all, but the attack had come from the outside.

Were the wolves in the forest so desperate for food? Why? Jamie grabbed a pen and marked that down before a noise outside froze him.

He listened. The crunching of autumn leaves suggested weight and the staggered steps...

Jamie’s eyes flicked up a the door when the knob clicked. It was Hallow's Eve and he was in a graveyard. What were the chances that someone would transcend death to visit him on a night where he wouldn’t have minded to stay alive? (What were the chances that his uncle had found him there?)

His heart quickened with both anticipation and anxiety as the wood croaked. He tightened him grip on his pen like a dagger. The door opened and a fluffy-headed ghoul stumbled through. 

“That thing needs a lock,” he said, giving Griffin an unimpressed look as he sank in his seat and tossed his pen back onto his desk. “Candy’s all gone, pal. You’re four hours too late.”

There was a long and odd stretch of silence between them while they stared at one another. Griffin looked like he’d been drowning, his bloodshot eyes searching for purchase and only finding it when they’d come upon him. Jamie couldn’t put his finger on the expression on Griffin’s face. It almost looked like relief.

When Dean’s hand jabbed into his shoulder, Charlie’s gaze shot quickly to the spot like the bolt of a crossbow. Grant chuckled, amused by the tension between the two boys. He watched Charlie to see what would happen next, an audience member gleefully hoping for the fight to commence. 

Charlie hummed a small tune as he turned his eyes to Dean, swaying lightly from side to side. “Humpty Dumpty lay in a beck, with all his sinews around his neck; forty doctors and forty more could not place Humpty as he was before,” he sang, his voice lilting, teasing. A smile finally stretched across his face, but it did not hold the jovial humor he’d always been known for. Instead it was sharp. Pointed. Mean. “You touch me again and I’ll string your intestines in the trees like toilet paper.” 

Grant laughed at this - loudly, in a clear means to officially interrupt - and swung an arm around Charlie’s shoulder. 

“North, you’re a little intense,” he warned. His tone was light, but he touched Charlie’s chin with one hand, nudging him until their eyes met. Something silent passed briefly between them. Then Charlie visibly relaxed, his face morphing into genuine humor.

“I totally fuckin’ got them though,” he said, his icy tone replaced with boyish flippancy. “We’ve been watching slasher flicks all week, so I had to practice my Freddy Krueger. Marie, come on…” He held an arm out to her. “I’d never be that cruel to the prettiest thing in town. Maybe we haven’t seen each other in a while, but you know you’re always my girl.” 

Dean stared at Charlie, hands balling into fists at his sides and betrayal running through his veins. He’d seen Charlie do a number of ridiculous things during their childhoods for the sake of a laugh but there was nothing fun and light-hearted about his old friend now.

It was chilling how quickly Charlie’s expression changed, causing adrenaline to pump through his body in preparation for a fight. His threat sounded anything but friendly and Grant’s laughter did nothing to help. In fact, the way the boys eagerly watched him like spectators made him think.

Dean narrowed his eyes at the interaction between Charlie and Grant, spine prickling at the sight of hand-on-face like Charlie was some kind of dog. Dean was the last one to give into conspiracy theories but something was amiss. Perhaps Jamie had finally snuck a tendril into his ear and fiddled with his brain but Dean refused to believe that Charlie was capable of being so callous, even if he’d imbibed a bottle with molly. Charlie was petty and childish but loving and warm.

Marie looked at Charile, eyes swimming with uncertainty until Dean tucked her under his arm protectively. She shot a worried look at Dean whose face hadn’t eased up the same way everyone else’s had.

“Not funny, North,” Dean said in response in lieu of Marie’s speechlessness.

The boys howled again, mocking Dean’s bravado as he retreated with Marie in tow. As they left the heart of the festival, Dean stole a glance back at the boys laughing up a storm so loudly that the crowd had cleared a circumference around them. Among them, Mr. North, who had always bullied his way into  Charlie’s business, looking like he no longer knew his son.

funny ➙

For a small town like Gravewood, October was a sacred month. It was a time when the community could gather together, honoring the Autumn season with caramel apples and scary movies. At the end of it, the mayor blocked off the streets surrounding the public park for a day of jubilation. The annual celebration had historically been a harvest festival where local farmers brought their crops to sell, but in the modern era, it was all about Halloween. Jack-o-lanterns lined the streets, ghosts made of bedsheets hung from the trees, and mischievous imps in the form of college students roamed the park, terrorizing anyone who might cross their path.

Charlie North had always been a prankster. He was notoriously up to no good, but often forgiven for it whenever he insisted that all he wanted to do was make everybody laugh. Laughter was the sound of happiness, after all, and thus Charlie considered himself the purveyor of joy. 

Excuses like that were unnecessary now. One did not need charm when one walked beside Grant Gravewood VII, son of the town’s mayor and sole heir of its founding family. Charlie, Grant, and the rest of their pride strutted casually through the Halloween festival as though they owned everything the light touched. Once Grant spotted a potential victim, he strode toward them with his boys dutifully following behind. 

“What do we have here?” Grant drawled, his accent haunted by the spirits of the old Virginian elite. “They’re just letting anyone have a booth these days, aren’t they?”

Charlie recognized Boris Andreyev from the shoddy little tourist trap he ran at the tail end of Psychic’s Strip. With a 12-foot Sasquatch statue in the window, he purported to own the world’s largest collection of oddities and magical items. It was a load of bullshit, but people ate it up. Especially around Halloween.

“Grant, don’t be rude,” Charlie chastised sarcastically. “You of all people should recognize authentic town history when you see it.” He reached out, his hand brushing over all the objects neatly laid out for display. It was clear that Boris had taken his time to arrange everything precisely. Charlie swept his palm through it like a tornado, grinning at the chaos he left in his wake.

“Please stop touching the merchandise,” Boris said calmly. “The oils of your hand threaten to ruin the integrity of each item.” 

Charlie was not satisfied with such a boring reaction from the man. He let out a grunt that was almost like a snarl as he grabbed the nearest item - an urn labeled “dust of the Mothman.”

“Can’t know how real something is unless you get your hands on it, Pops,” he said, juggling the fragile urn as Boris looked on unfazed. Their eyes met. The apathy in Boris’s gaze was met with a flash of vibrant anger in Charlie’s. He tossed the urn high into the air, holding eye contact with the merchant as Grant caught it on its downward arc.

The group began to play hot potato with the urn, sharing jokes and jabs at Boris’s expense all while Charlie stared. And stared. And stared. 

Even when a young girl in an Ariana Grande costume grabbed hold of his arm, Charlie stared. It was only when Marie squealed his name that he slowly turned to face her.

“Marie,” he said simply, no warmth in his tone despite the familiarity of her face. Once upon a time, he had loved to tease her for the crush she had on him. Encouraging the way she would trail after her brother, hoping to get a flirtatious wink from his handsome best friend. That afternoon, he spared nothing for her. His expression as cool as an October breeze.

“Charlie, Charlie…” Grant had caught sight of Marie and moved closer, his finely-groomed eyebrows raised in interest. “Now who is being rude? I believe proper introductions are in order.” He stuck a long, elegant hand in her direction. “Grant Gravewood the Seventh, of the Gravewood Gravewoods. And you are?”

Marie was taken aback by the one-two punch of ice and fire she was met with. Charlie’s iciness was shocking, to say the least. Maybe Dean was right and he really had changed after high school. She stared at his friend warily and slowly extended a hand as if he might save her from the cold tide of Charlie’s attitude.

Before she could introduce herself, Dean was there like a brick wall between them. For once, Marie was glad that her brother was there, his imposing height making even the snottiest of them take a step back. She’d grown to love boys and all of their attention, but the illusion of being worthwhile had been built around Charlie’s approval, only now Charlie didn’t seem to approve anymore.

“My sister,” Dean interjected tonelessly, his words injected with enough warning that it made Grant laugh politely and retract his offer. He didn’t look so much phased but rather slightly inconvenienced as if a fly had landed uninvited on his spoon.

The boys moved in like hyenas hungry for a meal, their attention moving from Boris to their new target.

Dean moved swiftly but justly, yanking the urn from the last boy’s hands and placing it firmly back onto the booth and breaking their circle. He was bold enough that no one dared interject, instead falling back on immature howling as if his feat was anything but another thing to laugh about.

“Turns out they really can’t put humpty dumpty back together again,” Dean shot at Charlie, jabbing him in the shoulder. He knew better than to lay hands on Charlie again but his lack of response was provocative. Marie tightened her hands around Dean’s arm.

It’d been years since Stella’s disappearance but she hadn’t felt so present until he was reminded that someone was still looking.

Dean hadn’t wanted to attend the Gravewood Halloween festival but his mothers had caught scent of him retreating and found an opportunity to thrust him back out into the world by means of Marie. He argued that she was old enough to be at the town festival by herself until he saw exactly what she'd been hiding under her baggy sweater.

“What are you even supposed to be?”

“I’m Ariana Grande. Duh,” Marie answered, popping a sucker from her mouth and gesturing at the bunny half-mask she wore over her face. She looked like a Bratz doll in lace and patented leather. He couldn’t recall how she’d grown up so quickly.

“Did Mom buy that for you? You showed her, right?”

"You are such a buzzkill. Why don’t we just meet up later and I’ll tell Mom you were with me the whole time.”

Dean made a face of disapproval and Marie rolled her eyes.

“Come on. I’m not a little kid anymore! Besides, Jake is having an afterparty and I want to go-- without a chaperone,” Marie complained. “Don’t you want to hang out with your friends?”

"My friends have midterms to worry about,” Dean rebutted, to which Marie groaned and marched away. He followed, triumphant until she stopped in the middle of the path.

“Hey. Isn’t that Charlie?”

Dean looked at what Marie was pointing at across the town square where a flock of boys had circled around a booth like vultures and started passing around an urn. Their primped hair and shiny shoes might’ve spoken of prestige and nobility, there was nothing noble about the kids who’d graduated from Alberione. Despite having long grown out of their uniforms, there was an attitude among them that couldn’t be scrubbed away in the laundry.

It was hard to make the connection between what his eyes were looking at and what he’d known as Charlie North. Charlie had always been brash and bold but the way his eyes glinted wickedly at the urn in his hands was... different. It was strange.

“I guess that’s what happens when you go to private school,” he said unconvincingly, determined to turn away. Who was he to deny Charlie the right to grow away from him after what he did. For better or for worse, he supposed.

“I dunno, he looks like he’s having a blast to me. I wonder what party he’s going to after this.”

Dean shook his head. “Whatever. It’s none of our business.”

“I’m gonna find out!”