Chapter V: Only nightmares never die

  He wiped his eyes and stared at the screen, barely breathing. It had been so many years. So many bitter, lonely years. He never thought he’d get the chance to hear from her again—let alone like this. Nathaniel sat frozen, the low hum of his monitor the only sound in the dark room. The message blinked back at him.

  She still typed the way she used to—frantic, unfiltered, like the words were pouring out faster than her hands could keep up:

  I need your help, I don’t wanna talk about it over message but I need you to pick me up please. Now I need your help. Like I’ll send you the address right now. Please, Nathaniel.

  He leaned back in his chair. The springs creaked beneath his weight. His heart felt like it was caught in his throat. After everything, after all the time and silence and guilt, she had reached out. He should be angry. He should feel betrayed. But he didn’t. Not even a little. He just wanted to see her again, in whatever shape that took.

  Alright. Address?

  The drive north took two hours, slowed by winter traffic and roads glazed with black ice. The air outside was sharp enough to slice through bone, and for the first hour his car’s heater wheezed uselessly. Nathaniel wrapped himself tighter in his coat, fingers trembling against the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the road and the horizon. By the time he pulled into the parking lot of the Starbucks—part of some gaudy Golden Age strip mall laced with Christmas lights and cheap holiday cheer—his breath had begun to fog the inside of the windshield.

  He parked beneath a string of plastic reindeer strung up across power lines and waited. Jingle Bells piped down from a speaker overhead, tinny and distant. He didn’t care about the music. He didn’t care about the time. All he could feel was the thrum of anticipation beating in his ribs.

  What would he even say to her? After all this time?

  Would she recognize him? Would he recognize her?

  The early morning sun was just beginning to burn away the frost. It was quiet. Still. A few blonde baristas in black skirts and dark green collared shirts darted around inside, prepping for the day. The parking lot held maybe five cars. Easy to spot her if she arrived.

  He took a deep breath. The air was wet and heavy, smelling faintly of mildew and frozen dirt. Then he saw it—a black, old-fashioned Mustang rolling into view. It glided to a stop at the curb, and the passenger door opened.

  A figure stepped out, tall and lean, with pale skin that shimmered faintly beneath a curtain of fire-red hair. Green eyes. Black Vans. Jeans. A hoodie pulled up half-heartedly against the cold. Freckles, like constellations across her cheeks. Her face was older now, more refined, but it was her.

  It was Sarah.

  She looked like a dream he didn’t want to wake from.

  Another woman—shorter, older, darker—exited the driver’s side but walked off without a word. Nathaniel didn’t even register her. His focus narrowed to the one thing that had haunted him every night since she left.

  Sarah bent down and whispered something to the driver before the Mustang pulled away. She turned. Her eyes locked onto his. She smiled.

  He was out of the car before he knew it, moving on instinct. She was walking too—briskly, then running, and so was he. They collided in the middle of the lot like the world had gone still around them. She wrapped her arms around him, pressed her face into the crook of his neck. Her breath was warm against his skin. He closed his eyes.

  She felt small in his arms. Fragile. Like something you could lose again if you weren’t careful.

  They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

  The universe had granted him one good thing.

  And he had no idea how wrong he was.

  Now, inside the coffee shop, Nathaniel moved through the quiet, half-lit interior with two drinks and a warm chunk of banana nut bread cradled in his hands. The chairs screeched softly as he slid into the booth by the window, the world outside still wrapped in a gray, frozen silence. He placed the caramel nut frappe on his side of the table and the green tea chai in front of her. The banana bread—its scent sweet and buttery—rested between them like an offering.

  Sarah tore a nut from the top and popped it into her mouth with a smirk. “If I get fat, I’m blaming you,” she said, giggling behind her tea.

  Nathaniel smiled and looked down at his drink, taking a long swig to buy a moment. She hadn’t changed. Not in the ways that mattered. And somehow, that steadiness made the air feel even heavier.

  They sat in silence for a time, eyes locked across the table, her fire-kissed hair catching bits of morning light. There was wonder in his gaze, disbelief softened by a decade of longing. In hers, a measured curiosity, as if trying to confirm he was real. That he’d stayed the same—or changed enough.

  “You’ve gotten bigger,” she murmured, running a finger down the outside of his right bicep.

  “And you’ve gotten taller,” he replied smoothly.

  She arched her brow. “Are you calling me fat?”

  “What? How? Why?” he stammered, half-laughing, caught off guard.

  Her expression cracked, then split into hysterical laughter. He joined in, watching her double over and try to stifle herself with a hand to her mouth. She still did that—laughing with her whole body, like it bubbled out of her whether she wanted it to or not.

  “I was like—where’d you pull that out of?” he said, grinning.

  “Had to make sure,” she said. “You know how it is. Had to check if you still pull that funny shit.”

  “Funny? So now I’m ugly?”

  She gave him a look—half-challenging, half-warm—that dissolved into another laugh.

  “I’m so confused,” she said, shaking her head as she sipped her drink.

  He chuckled quietly. “I have that effect. Might be the Matthew McConaughey look. Or the award-winning comedy.”

  “Someone’s modest.”

  “Oh God, now what are you calling me?”

  They both laughed again, the tension cracking like ice in spring.

  And then came the quiet. She stared at him. Not through him, not past him. At him.

  “How have you been?” she asked softly. “What’ve you been up to?”

  He looked away, out the window where frost clung to the glass and the morning sun hadn’t yet warmed the sky. For a second, he felt calm. Then the panic crawled in, quiet and insidious. He snapped his eyes back to her.

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  Don’t look away.

  Don’t lose her again.

  “I mean… the usual. Still studying. Living by myself. Same place—Skyline.”

  Her lips curved upward. “Wow. Still in Skyline? Nice to know some things don’t change.”

  “Still a little underdeveloped. But it’s built up some now. Neighbors are nice. Quiet.”

  She twirled her straw in the last inch of her tea.

  “So, what else do you do? For work?”

  He exhaled. “Sheriff’s office. I’m kind of like a prison guard. For now.”

  Her eyes lit up with interest. “So like… a cop?”

  “Yeah. Basically. Just stuck inside the jail at the moment. Trying to promote the road.”

  He tried to make it sound better than it was. To anyone else it might have sounded respectable. But Nathaniel knew the truth. His work was piss-soaked cells, pepper spray, and mentally ill men screaming until their voices gave out. Not duty. Not justice.

  “Hmm.” Sarah smiled, biting her lip. The heat that rushed into his chest was embarrassing. He felt his pulse rise, his skin tingle.

  “That’s kind of hot,” she whispered. “You got handcuffs?”

  He leaned forward over the table, matching her.

  “Baby steps, doll face.”

  She laughed again—flushed and alive—and drew back, glancing down at the table. Her fingers came up to her mouth, nibbling at a nail, the shift in mood sudden and jarring.

  “It’s good you’re a cop,” she said, voice quieter now. “I need one right now.”

  He reached out and took her hands. She was cold. Fragile. Her body looked smaller in the oversized hoodie, like she’d spent the last few years curling inward.

  “Now,” he said gently. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

  “After the accident, things got progressively worse—for me, but for Mac too.”

  Sarah’s voice was quiet, almost fragile. Nathaniel watched her trace the rim of her tea cup with a chipped fingernail, her gaze fixed somewhere between the table and the past.

  “He showed up to class less and less.”

  “He never showed up to class,” Nathaniel replied, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

  Sarah smirked faintly. “Yeah. I guess he never did.”

  Nathaniel leaned back in his seat, the last dregs of his coffee bitter on his tongue. Come to think of it, he hadn’t really seen Sarah in class either—not consistently. Maybe they’d both been ghosts, orbiting the same place but never colliding. He shrugged off the thought.

  “Eventually, he just… stopped going. I think the word is truant, right? When someone skips too much school and the parents start getting in trouble?”

  “Basically,” Nathaniel said, setting down his empty cup.

  “My parents couldn’t get him to behave. The government started stepping in—sending people to the house. So they moved us, thinking it would help ease the pressure.”

  Nathaniel clenched his jaw. Fuck you, Mac, he thought. It’s your fault she had to leave.

  Sarah stared up at the ceiling, as if trying to read the truth in the plaster.

  “They moved us to Whittaker. There was this strict prep school they thought would keep him out of trouble.”

  “Let me guess. It didn’t?”

  She shook her head. “He started stealing, using drugs. Got locked up a few times. Said he was crazy to get out of it.”

  Nathaniel stiffened. Pleading insanity. He’d seen that game before—perfectly sane men pretending to be broken just long enough to slide past justice. It made his stomach churn. The courtroom memories—the screaming, the filth, the performative madness—rose up again, unbidden.

  Sarah’s voice softened. “He rarely called. And when he did, it was always quick, vague. Said he was in a halfway house. Then he said he got kicked out and was staying with a friend. But the problem is…”

  “He never gave you an address. No locations. Nothing you could follow up on.”

  She nodded, pulling her hoodie tighter. “My parents are worried sick. But they won’t do anything. They can’t. And I get it. But he’s my brother. I can’t just leave him out there.”

  Nathaniel understood. Blood was blood. Even if the ties frayed, they didn’t break. And Mac—despite everything—had always been decent to him. Hell, more decent than most.

  He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “There are a million holes in this, Sarah. But… have you tried calling the Whittaker police? Maybe asked for a wellness check? Friends or family nearby?”

  “I’ve tried. The local department won’t pick up. The county, the state troopers—everyone says it’s out of their jurisdiction.”

  Nathaniel frowned. “All of them?”

  “Yeah.”

  Something twisted in his gut. That didn’t sound right. Not at all.

  “Do you have their number?”

  “No, but it should be on Google. Hang on.”

  She reached across the table and took his phone, her fingers brushing against his. The warmth of her skin jolted something in him—something soft, something buried.

  As she typed, Nathaniel’s eyes drifted past her, to the counter. The blonde baristas were still there—but now they were motionless. Staring at the wall. Their backs rigid. Their limbs are unnaturally still.

  He squinted.

  They didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stood there, locked in place.

  “Here!”

  Sarah shoved the phone back into his hands. Nathaniel nearly dropped it.

  The screen displayed the Whittaker Police Department’s page—basic info, a number, a directions button, a barebones website. No reviews. Not one. That alone was eerie. Every precinct had reviews, usually written by angry locals or trolls. But this? This was just… empty.

  He looked up. The baristas were gone. The counter was deserted.

  No comfort in that.

  “Let’s head to my car,” he said. “I can turn on the heater. Play some music.”

  Sarah nodded and slipped her hand into his.

  They stepped out into the morning chill. The air stung with cold and silence. Not a soul moved inside the coffee shop. Not a car stirred in the lot. Nathaniel scanned the parking lot, his eyes darting back toward the building. Still nothing.

  They slid into the red Honda. The ignition turned with a roar. Warm air poured from the vents, and Sarah angled them toward herself, rubbing her hands together.

  Nathaniel reached into the back seat and offered her a grey cotton sweater.

  “You’re cold. This one’s cozy.”

  She smiled, slid out of her jacket to reveal a fitted white tee, then pulled the sweater on. Even bundled in layers, she was radiant. More real than memory had dared to make her.

  She lounged back in her seat, legs curled beneath her, seatbelt clicked in place. Her eyes found his.

  He couldn’t help but smile back.

  Then he turned—and froze.

  The baristas were back.

  They stood at the front of the coffee shop, pressed against the glass. All six. Still. Staring.

  He couldn’t see their faces.

  Their hair hung forward in greasy clumps, obscuring every feature.

  Nathaniel swallowed and turned back to his phone. His thumb hovered over the call button on the police department’s site.

  He pressed it.

  The phone buzzed.

  The dial tone rang.

  He shifted the car into reverse, glancing at the rearview mirror.

  They were directly behind the car now.

  Still motionless.

  Only now, he could see the blood.

  Their faces—what little peeked beneath the hair—were caked with dried crimson. Their khaki pants stained, their green polos torn and smeared with black streaks.

  They didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

  They just stood. Waiting.

  Nathaniel’s hand inched toward his sidearm.

  Sarah stirred beside him, her brow furrowing as she noticed his tension. Then she saw the gun.

  “What?! What’s wrong?”

  She twisted to look behind them.

  Then paused.

  “There’s… there’s nothing there.”

  Nathaniel blinked. Looked again.

  The road behind them was empty.

  Nothing. No one.

  He adjusted the rearview mirror. Same result.

  Empty.

  He let out a shaky breath and eased the car back into gear. The phone call was still connected.

  Then came the voice.

  Distorted. Inhuman. Rising and falling with static like some broken radio.

  “Thank you for calling the Whittaker Police Department—THERE’S NO ONE HERE TO HELP YOU. ALLLLLLLLLLLLLL STAAAAAAAFFFFFFFFF… If this is an emergency… RUUUUUUN.”

  The voice cracked, devolving into shrieks and garbled nonsense. Nathaniel lowered the phone to the floor, the volume unbearable.

  Then—

  “Thank you for calling the Whittaker Police Department. THE LIED GATES ARE RED AS BLOOD.”

  Silence.

  Only the hum of the heater. The ghost of Sarah’s breath. The tremor in Nathaniel’s hands.

  Something was very, very wrong.