Page 3 of Some Kind of Haunted

I pull one of the earbuds out of my ear. “We don’t need gas.”

“No, but I can’t seem to get a good read on the directions to the house.” I know this because he keeps scowling at his phone. “Maybe it’s the signal. Maybe this place doesn’t actually exist.”

“Wow, Logan, that’s a comforting thought this many hundreds of miles from literally anything.”

“Plus, I’m starving.”

I glance dubiously at the small, squat building that looks like at least five decades of dirt and grime have built up on the outside. It just looks sticky. “And you imagine this is an establishment that offers a selection of delicacies, do you?”

He shrugs. We both understand that he will now, upon pain of death, come back to this car with the most revolting road food item he can find and eat it merrily, like he doesn’t get takeout from the City’s world-famous restaurants delivered to his desk in the law firm nightly. We love nothing more than behaving like we’re still ten, not twenty-eight. “You want something?”

“Do I want E. coli with a side of hepatitis and a smattering of botulism? I think I’ll pass.”

I win points in our eternal game of one-upmanship because he cracks a smile at that. “Your loss.”

Logan gets out of the car and goes inside. I sit there, one earbud in, one earbud out, as I watch Logan move through the interior of the convenience store. I watch as he strikes up a friendly conversation with someone I can’t see from my vantage point.

Because Logan Darling has the inexplicable ability to find someone to talk to no matter where he goes, even this outer borough of hell. I sink deeper into my seat, feeling sorry for myself.

Something I usually excel at, but right now I feel an alarming prickle at the back of my neck. I rub at it, but it only gets stronger. I hit the power lock button on my door. Then, neck still prickling, I sneak a look around the dim parking lot.

There’s no one else here, save one vehicle at the lone gas pump. I call it a vehicle because I honestly couldn’t tell you what it is. Definitely not a tractor—not that I’m some great expert in farm equipment. But it doesn’t look like any photograph I’ve seen of the heartland. It’s got four big wheels, but also handlebars that look like they belong on a motorbike of some kind.

As I’m looking over, a man—presumably its driver—looms up out of nowhere.

I make a squeaking noise, despite myself, even as my mind catches up and tells me he was likely on the far side of one of the battered-looking pumps. Right before he climbs up into the contraption, he spits a stream of brown liquid right onto the concrete below. His jeans look like they’ve been on his body for approximately a decade, and the tattered T-shirt he’s wearing is about as brown as that liquid, though I have the queasy feeling that it was originally white. His hair is chin length and scraggly, a man in desperate need of a shower.

He happens to glance up, and we make unfortunate eye contact. He brings his fingers up to his forehead in a kind of salute I think is meant to be friendly, but he smiles and for a moment—just the strangest split second—it looks like a forked tongue sneaks out between the missing teeth in his smile.

I blink and it’s gone. Then he roars away and I am left breathing over hard in this suddenly hot rental car. My stomach lurches, and I breathe through it, reminding myself this is just for a few days.

How delightful that I’ve been out of my routine for less than twenty-four hours and I’m already cracking up.

Almost cracking up, I correct myself.

Just because it’s crazy inside doesn’t mean I have to act crazy on the outside. That might not sound like a mantra to you, but it’s gotten me this far. I repeat it a few times and try to settle myself down.

I have nightmares some have called night terrors and I see things sometimes. There are clinical names for that, conditions that get discussed in grave tones by unlikable doctors, but I prefer a less clinical approach. The sanitarium option has always seemed less than desirable.

Not really the vibe.

So I tell myself that this Midwest road-trip shit is new, that’s all. I’ll probably settle. And if not, well, I can handle a few days.

Probably.

Chapter Two

When Logan gets back in the car, he hands me a can of sparkling water, but I can only stare at what he’s holding in his other hand.

I knew he would go for gross, but . . . “You’re not going to eat that.”

He lifts the piece of pizza to his mouth and takes a big bite. “Delicious.”

It’s positioned on a little tray of flimsy cardboard like it’s just been sitting out. Likely under one of those heat lamps that look like ninth grade biology experiments. “You are going to die of food poisoning. Gas station pizza?” I point at the grimy building in front of us. “That gas station’s pizza?”

Logan looks smug, likely because this sounds like actual concern from me, which means he’s winning the points. “I told you I was hungry. It’s surprisingly good. Want a bite?”

“No, I do not want a bite. I want to live to see our next birthday.”