Page 2 of Ghosts Don't Cry
I adjust the bag once more, and start walking. Seven years is long enough for everything to change … or for nothing to. From what I’m seeing, this town chose nothing.
There are storefronts I remember, and others I don’t. Sullivan’s Bar on First is gone, replaced by a place trying too hard to look new. The cracked glass on the door hasn’t changed, though, and it catches the neon lights from the diner across the road like a broken mirror.
The diner still has its flickering sign, and half the letters are missing, peeled away by time and neglect. I used to press my face against that window, checking to see how busy it was, when I scraped enough change together for coffee. The memory makes my jaw clench. I could walk in and buy a full meal now, if I wanted to. My stomach twists at the thought. Money doesn’t erase hunger. It just changes what you’re starving for.
Everywhere I look, I see signs of a town slowly rotting from the inside out. Paint peels in long strips from doors. Gutters sag under the weight of years of neglect, and boarded up windowsshow how many businesses have given up. This place is dying. It has been for decades, but the people who live here refuse to admit it. And so, it just keeps on going, the same way zombies do in the movies.
A car rolls past, its tires hissing against the wet road. A second-story window glows faintly above a shop that wasn't there when I was last in town. A curtain twitches. Someone is up there, watching.
Every nerve ending fires to life. My shoulders tighten, and I lift my head, refusing to hunch into the shadows. Back then, the eyes belonged to people who saw an outsider, someone who made them uncomfortable. Someone dragging down their town. I wonder what they see now.
The kid who stole food and slept rough? The one who proved every terrible thing they whispered about me was true? Or something worse. The ghost who dared to come back.
I don’t stop or slow, and I don’t try to see who’s watching through that window. I keep my pace even, my breath steady, and my hands loose at my sides instead of curled into fists. I’ve learned that much, at least, in the years I’ve been away. I know how to walk through a place without looking like prey.
When I reach the road where the old motel used to be, I’m relieved to find it’s there and still operating. The sign matches the bus station’s, half-dead like everything else in this place. The neon vacancy sign flickers between red and nothing, like it can’t decide if it wants customers or just wants to give up.
The parking lot is mostly empty except for a rusted pickup truck and a sedan that’s seen better years. Weeds push through cracks in the asphalt, and the whole place has an air of a business hanging on out of pure stubbornness rather than profit.
The tension in my shoulders eases slightly.ThisI can handle.
I push open the door and step through. Inside, the air is stale, smelling of old cigarette smoke and mildew that catchesin my throat. The carpet is worn down to the backing in places, threadbare paths marking where thousands of feet have walked before mine. The wood paneling on the walls looks like it hasn’t been updated since the seventies. A small TV behind the front desk plays some late-night talk show, the volume turned down so low it’s nothing more than shapes moving across the screen.
The woman on the desk doesn’t even look up when I ask for a room. She just points to the price list taped to the counter, yellow with age and curling at the edges. Her fingernails are bitten down to the quick, with chipped red nail polish on what remains of them.
I drop enough cash for one night. More than the room is worth, but I’ve learned the value of not asking questions or drawing attention.
She mutters something about checkout times, and slides a key toward me. Anactualkey, not a card. Then she goes back to her book.
Fine by me.I’m not one for pointless conversation either.
My room is on the second floor. The metal stairs outside are slick with rain, and the handrail wobbles under my hand, rust flaking off against my palm. The lock sticks before it turns, and when I step inside, the scent of cheap detergent and water damage hits me. I dump my bag on the floor, kick the door shut, and look around.
The furniture is scratched and dented. There’s a cigarette burn on the nightstand, despite the no-smoking sign. None of it matters. I’ve stayed in far worse places than this.
Moving deeper into the room, I sit on the edge of the bed. The bedspread is stiff and rough, but I don’t care. Sleep isn’t something I’ve ever been good at anyway. The springs squeak under my weight as I lay back. There’s a brown stain on the ceiling that looks like it’s been there for years, spreading slowly like a bruise that won’t heal.
The silence crawls under my skin. For years I’ve been used to noise. Conversations through walls, footsteps, the hum of fluorescent lights. The constant background noise of people living on top of each other. This quiet is different. The weight of this town is pressing down on me. It’s in the walls, in the floor, in the chipped paint and the buzzing motel sign leaking red light through the thin curtains. It’s in every breath I take.
I drag a hand down my face, and release a heavy sigh. It doesn’t help. The exhale just fills the room, then disappears, leaving me alone again.
The quiet makes room for thoughts I don’t want to have, and space for memories that should stay buried. It forces me to remember the last time I was in this town. The desperation that clawed at my throat then is different now, but it’s still there.
Still waiting for me to fall again.
But this town doesn’t catch anyone. It just watches them hit the bottom, then sweeps away the debris. I’ve seen it happen. Hell, Ilivedit. I still carry the reminder of what happens when you let yourself believe someone might reach out and break your fall.
I roll onto my side. The mattress is too firm, the blankets too thin. The old heater rattles to life in the corner, each whirr sounding like it’s gasping for breath, but it’s better than the silence. The sound reminds me of another night. Another place. A different version of me. One trying to stay a step ahead of the past before it swallowed me whole.
I survived it then. I'll survive it now. It's the one thing I've always been good at. But surviving and living aren't the same thing. One is breathing. The other is having a reason to.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to hold back the anxiety that threatens to rise. My heartbeat drums against my palm in the kind of rhythm that used to wake me in the middle of thenight, and send me pacing until dawn because staying still felt like drowning.
“He left something for you.” The lawyer’s words echo in my head. Like it’s supposed to mean something. Like it’s supposed to be enough to bring me back.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to find here. Past experience tells me that I won’t like whatever it is. But I’m here. Even if it’s through no desire of my own. I’m here because some ghosts refuse to stay buried, and some debts demand to be paid.
Outside, the rain picks up again, drumming against the window. The sound should be soothing, white noise to ease me toward sleep, but instead it makes me think of all the nights I spent listening to rain on the factory roof, trying to convince myself that tomorrow would be better. That somehow, somewhere, there was a place for me that didn’t involve running, or hiding, or pretending I wasn’t slowly fading away.
