They drove with the radio off, the ticking of Christopher’s turn signal the only sound for long stretches, like a metronome set to “funeral dirge.” Charlie kept his hands knotted in his lap, trying to not look like he was about to vibrate out of the seat. The world smeared past the window: Nebraska in late November, all scrubbed fields and the angry bones of old farm equipment. His head pulsed at the temples, a slowburn migraine that had started in the mausoleum and refused to take the hint.

Christopher barely looked at him until they’d left town. Then, at a four-way stop with nothing but flatland in all directions, the priest finally spoke. “What did I fucking tell you about going to infested places without me?”

Charlie realized, with a creeping horror, that the answer was “don’t.” He felt like a lectured toddler, minus the dignity. He pressed a thumbnail into the meat of his palm, making a crescent harder with every mile marker they passed. He could have lied. Or at least tried to dodge. But with his head throbbing and half-dried grit in his mouth, all he could manage was the truth, like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

“I didn’t- I wasn’t- I just wanted to walk,” Charlie muttered. His voice sounded small, like it had been filtered through one of those voice-changer apps. “It followed me. I wasn’t even looking for it.”

Christopher made a noise that, for a priest, sounded a lot like “bullshit.” Maybe it was just a Scottish grunt. His big knuckles danced in the steering wheel leather. “You’re a magnet for bad luck,” he said. “You have to stay by me in places with ghosts or high emotion, you could have been fucking possessed and then I would hear it for three MORE years from your father about the exorcism I would have to do.”

“OUR father.” Charlie spat, with more venom in his voice than intended.

Christopher bit back an insult, grimacing so bad his teeth bared. “He stopped being my father when he got enraged that I- from… tch.”

Charlie swallowed any sort of comeback, leaning back into his seat and trying not to cry. At the next stoplight, Christopher gave Charlie a look. Quick, but sharp enough that it could have stapled him to the seat. "You think I want to be saddled with you for the rest of my life? If I hadn't intervened, you'd have been dead three times over by now."

Charlie wanted to say something back, maybe something biting, but the words skidded around his brain, refusing to catch on anything. The ache behind his eyes was starting to spread into his jaw. He pressed his face to the window, letting the glass leach some of his blood-heat away.

After the adrenaline of the incident, he was pulled into a dissociative state, not realizing when he'd walked into his hotel room and started packing for his impromptu flight.

He came back to himself three quarters through stuffing a change of socks in his backpack. There was half a bag of bar mix on his nightstand, and his phone charger was already knotted into a travel knot. Somewhere, his muscles had internalized the gentle trance of get-out-quick, as if muscle memory outclassed consciousness. 

He slumped down on the edge of the bed, backpack slack around his knees, and let his breath scrape out in a slow, thin line. The hotel room was ugly: brown carpet, a weird, almost green wall, the smell of last week’s fast food chicken tenders seeping from the hallway. 

He thumbed on his phone. The screen glared at him, too bright for two in the morning. He had twenty-three missed notifications, all various pings from group chats and a few from. He paused, the name "Baba" and then a mass of notifications from "Dad" which made his stomach squeeze up into his chest.

He scrolled up, thumb skipping over the blue bubbles:

Dad: Christopher pick you up yet? 

Dad: Where are you? Are you okay? Please reply.  

Dad: You come HOME after two days with Christopher. No more.  

Dad: iho

Dad: I heard something happened. You’re safe? Is Christopher with you?  

Dad: Don’t make me call the police. I will be SO MAD

Charlie thumbed away the text conversation, going through his other apps with no real regard for what was on the screen. His mind was… elsewhere.

He was angry. Upset. Frustrated. A bitter mix that filled his mouth after any interaction with Christopher, especially ones like that. 

Instead, he flicked toward the search bar, tapped, and typed Risto.

The list loaded slowly, his hotel Wi-Fi throttled by everyone streaming sitcom reruns. But eventually, the thread appeared. Old messages. Old fights. The priest had texted him far more often than he remembered.

Charlie scrolled.

Risto (3 months ago, 2:17am): You think the spirits don’t see you slacking on your schoolwork? 

Charlie: lol do they grade me??

Risto: Don’t mock me. St. Peter's doesn't accept half assed. Fix yourself so you can get in.

Charlie remembered that night. Reading it again now, he almost felt the iron bar of Christopher’s voice, lodged between his ribs. His insistence of going to that stupid University he worked at.

Scroll.

Risto (1 year ago): Pack a coat. The walk to your work will freeze the skin off your bones.

Charlie: I have coats. Stop being weird.

Risto: I’ve seen your wardrobe. Hoodies aren’t coats.

Charlie actually laughed, but it was a dry little sound that stung his throat. He’d worn a hoodie to the funeral today. Maybe Christopher had been right about that much.

Scroll.

Risto (4 years ago): Lee, are you okay? You didn’t come down to dinner and Dad's worried.

Charlie: I’m fine.

Risto: Are you sure? It's the third night in a row...

The words sat there like gravel. He tapped the screen once, highlighting them, then let his thumb fall away.

There were other messages, when Charlie was barely thirteen. Worries from a brother he felt he hadn't seen in years. Things Charlie had taken for granted back then.

He scrolled down, back to the present.

The last message Christopher had sent him before the funeral was short.

Christopher (yesterday, 5:06pm): Don’t wander the cemetery. 

Charlie stared at it until the letters seemed to burn. Then he shut off his phone, the screen blacking into his faint reflection. Purple ringed eyes, skin baked-peanut brown, a face he didn’t want to see.

His stomach twisted. Christopher had been right. Again.

And Charlie hated him for it.

He dropped the device beside him, face pressed into the pillow, but his body didn’t loosen. The funeral sat in his chest like a riverstone, and Christopher’s prophecy ringed in his ears like rippling water.

It was late. His eyes stung from the glow of the screen, and exhaustion pulled harder than hunger or grief. He let himself go slack, the hotel heater’s rattle sinking into the background hum. Sleep caught him the way it always did: sudden, heavy, unkind.

The dream came on quickly.

He was standing in the cemetery again, frost cracking under his shoes. Fog swam low across the ground, winding between graves like something alive. The air was wrong. Too cold, too sharp, stinging his throat when he breathed.

Charlie turned. A figure moved through the fog, tall, limping. For a moment, he thought it was Christopher, coat trailing. But the closer it came, the less it looked like him at all.

The man’s face flickered in the mist, features half-formed, as if memory couldn’t hold them steady. One eye burned too bright, the other gone completely.

“Run,” the voice rasped.

Charlie’s skin snapped cold.

“Run,” it said again, closer now, the word cracking like splintered wood.

The fog curled tighter around his ankles, dragging him down, thick as tar. Charlie’s chest clenched as he tried to move, tried to tear himself free, but his legs wouldn’t answer. His breath hitched high in his throat.

The figure raised a hand, and the mist surged.

Charlie woke with a gasp, the hotel ceiling swimming above him. His shirt clung damp against his chest. He scrambled for his phone without thinking, thumb smearing sweat across the screen.

One new message. 6:34 am.

Risto: Come out with your bags. I need to have the rental at Enterprise by 8.