Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For three months, Michael has been listening to nothing but Jimmy Buffett, and it's becoming a problem.

There was a lull around August, when Amanda implemented a strict Buffett ban whenever she was around. Which was most of the time.

But now she’s off at Horne, and the house is empty. Meaning Buffett hours 24/7 are back with a vengeance.

Jimmy Buffett has always been Michael’s wallowing music. This new association with Joseph is pure coincidence. Sure, he was sad about Joseph when it first happened, but he’s moved on now. He’s sad that Amanda’s gone. That’s all.

That’s a load of horseshit, coming from the man who’s had “Boat Drinks” playing on repeat for the last hour.

He mumbles the words as he lays prone on the sofa, staring blankly at his book of word jumbles. He hasn’t actually done a single jumble today—for some reason, he’s not in the mood.

He sets the book down on his chest and cranes his neck so he can see out the window. From here, only the side of Joseph’s pristine white house is visible, along with its pristine green lawn. If he watches long enough, he might spot a flash of that perfectly coiffed blonde hair passing by a window—

Joseph’s hands on his skin, pressing down on his hipbones, gripping the backs of his knees and hoisting his legs up—

Michael groans, and his head falls back on the pillow.

You’d think after three months, the sex flashbacks would stop.

But no. They just keep coming.

“I think I got cabin fever,” he sings, slapping the open book on his face. “Somebody sound the alarm.”

The house is quiet. The cul-de-sac is quiet. Everything is so. Damn. Quiet. Usually, Michael would welcome the quiet. But now that he’s daughterless, friendless, and Joseph-less, the peace he would have once welcomed has become suffocating.

Things were easier when Alex was around. Before they met, Michael wasn’t a man of action. He was happy keep to himself and watch others live the kind of life he always wished he could. Then Alex came along, and everything changed. She was so vibrant and sharp, always pushing Michael, keeping him on his toes.

If she could see him right now, she’d say, “Babe. It’s time to turn off the Buffett and get your ass up off the couch.”

She kept things interesting, and she was relentless in everything she did. Even as a parent, she always strove to be the best version of herself. She led Amanda by example and taught her never to settle for anything less than what she deserved.

“It’s fucking gorgeous outside, Mikey. Let’s carpe this diem, okay?”

Michael smiles, but it quickly fades.

She was his muse. She knew that.

Two years ago, she disappeared. Then everything got quiet.

Michael hasn’t written a single book since Alex was declared missing. It doesn’t feel right. She was, after all, his inspiration for the Addie Striker novels. Without the real Addie around, bringing home snippets of local scandal and political corruption, spouting off about how “the world of investigative journalism is being smothered by corporate greed”, the character just feels lifeless. Hollow.

He’s tried to write other things. Historical Fiction. Young Adult Dystopian. He even took a whack at Erotica, once. But nothing’s stuck like Mystery has, and his publisher doesn’t want anything else.

So now, here he is, with no Alex, no Amanda, and no Addie Striker.

And as far as his social life goes, the whole Joseph thing pretty much killed that.

That’s not to say people have been rude to him or ostracized him. In fact, most of the neighborhood has been exceedingly nice about it. That’s what Michael can’t take. The niceness. It’s like everyone can feel the shame radiating off him, so they treat him like a heartbroken schoolboy.

Which he sort of is. But that’s beside the point.

There’s only one person Michael would trust not to judge or coddle him about the fact that he essentially tried to break up a marriage. Only, it was that person’s best friend’s marriage he tried to break up. Moreover, it was that person he almost slept with his first night in the neighborhood, and it was him that he went out drinking with, and it was him that took him out to the middle of nowhere in his pickup truck, and taught him how to whittle, and gave him a pocket knife and tended to the wound he inflicted upon himself with said knife.

It was that person he found a photo of on Joseph’s boat, wearing Joseph’s signature blue sweater, looking younger, happier, and not even remotely like a one-night-stand.

There’s only one person Michael has any interest in talking to.

But Robert hates Michael. And to be fair, he probably should.

The other day, Michael was leaving his house to buy groceries, and as he looked across the cul-de-sac, he saw Robert pulling into his driveway.

He kept his head down for a moment, then looked back over to see Robert staring at him, no, glaring, without shame.

Maybe this time, Michael thought, so he raised his hand, smiled, and waved.

Robert smiled too, and for a moment Michael breathed a sigh of relief.

Then, Robert flipped him off.

Michael’s pretty sure he hates Robert, too.

The song starts over.

“Boat drinks,” he groans. “Boys in the band ordered boat drinks.”

That night, Michael has a dream he’s had several times before.

It’s always the same: he’s at the overlook where Robert took him months ago, only he’s alone now. It’s dark outside, so dark he can’t see anything, except for the outline of the trees. He stares into the dense woods for what feels like forever, and suddenly, he hears a low, guttural howl.

Then he sees it: a tall, not-quite-human figure, with long arms and a lopsided stance.

It stares back with its glowing white eyes, and its gaze bores into him. Slowly, involuntarily, Michael raises his hand, then waves at the creature as though it were something worth giving a friendly greeting, like it was commonplace.

Then, the creature waves back.

After that, it’s all black.

The phone rings and Michael starts awake, hitting his head on the headboard.

“Shit,” he mutters, then reaches for the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello,” replies an unfamiliar voice. “Is Michael Rosenblum available?” The person on the other end pronounces the “blum” like “bluh-m”, instead of “bloom” like it’s meant to be.

“That’s me.”

“This is Officer Bellows of Maple Bay PD. We’d like you to come down to the station as soon as possible.”

Michael’s chest clenches. “Can I ask what this is about?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “It’s best the matter be discussed in person.”

Michael doesn’t even say goodbye before he hangs up. Within a minute he’s out the door, still in his flannel pajamas.

“We found a skull fragment in the woods,” says the police officer seated across from Michael. “Our forensics team was able to identify it as belonging to your late wife.”

After that, everything is hazy.

A part of Michael has always known Alex was dead, but he never admitted it to himself. They already held the funeral services and buried an empty coffin, and for two years, he’s been visiting her headstone. Still, he couldn’t help but picture her walking in the door one day and picking up as though nothing had happened. He would have his wife back, his fearless, inspiring Alex, and nothing would be quiet ever again.

Michael isn’t sure what to do with this information.

He makes calls to Alex’s family and to his own. He arranges to have them all come down that weekend to mourn, or figure out what to do next, or do whatever it is they need to do.

He calls Amanda, too.

“Just come down if you can, Panda. I’ll pay for the flight and everything.”

“Thanks, dad,” she replies, concealing a sniffle.

Everyone is coming down on Saturday.

It’s Wednesday.

That’s a lot of quiet to fill, and Michael isn’t sure Jimmy Buffett is going to cut it this time.

When Michael comes home from the station, he flops onto the couch and closes his eyes for a long, long time.

None of this feels real yet. It’s a strange feeling to mourn someone twice. Once was bad enough. The second time feels duller. It’s just re-treading a familiar path, letting the old grief flood through the channels it carved out the first time.

He covers his eyes with his arm. He’s not sure what time it is. He only knows that it’s too bright, and he wants to sleep for a long, long time.

So, he does. And he dreams of one thing:

Long arms. Glowing white eyes. A shadow lurking in the trees.

When Michael wakes up again, it’s well after dark. He checks his phone; he’s missed five calls, but none of them were from Amanda, so he’s in the clear. He shoots his daughter a “You okay?” text, then sits up and rubs his face.

He takes a shower to clear the fog, but his thoughts immediately go to Alex.

They used to shower together all the time, not because it was romantic or sexy, just economical. But he remembers the feeling of washing each other’s hair and shuffling around each other to get under the showerhead.

He also remembers Amanda pushing the door open and screaming bloody murder to be let in.

Grief is powerful like that, to make you miss being broke, and even more to make you miss the terrible-twos’ lesser known cousin, the fuck-you-I’m-threes.

Michael can’t stop picturing Alex in those woods. That’s where her skull was discovered, deep in the forest that has been haunting him for the past three months. He wonders if she screamed, what her last thoughts were.

He keeps retreading the image of Alex running from someone or something, afraid and alone. It’s unthinkable, Alex being helpless. Michael never saw her that way.

It doesn’t make sense.

Was it an accident?

Or was it something else? Something worse?

Michael’s written enough mysteries to know that this is the beginning of something bigger. Maybe nothing dramatic, like out of his novels. But nonetheless, it’s something.

And he’ll be damned if he continues to wait for an answer, like he has for the past two years.

He’s going to find out what happened to his wife, even if he has to do it all by himself. After all, that’s what Addie Striker would do.

No. That’s what Alex would do.

With that thought, Michael hops out of the shower, hair only half-rinsed, and dresses as quickly as he can. When he opens the door to leave the house, however, he remembers something.

He goes to his bedside table and opens the top drawer. There, tucked in the back corner beneath a tangled mess of phone chargers and headphones, is a red blood-stained bandana wrapped around a pocket knife.

Michael examines the bundle briefly, feeling the weight of it in his hand. Then he shoves it in his pocket, gets into his car, and drives.

He knows where he has to go.

It doesn’t take as long as he remembered, and within 15 minutes, Michael is winding up the narrow road through the forest. The last time he came up here it was with Robert. That must have been four months ago. It looks different now. In late spring, the trees were lush and green. Now it’s September, and the leaves are just starting to change color and fall. Michael realizes now he didn’t even turn on the radio. He’s just been driving in intent silence. He reaches over and pushes the dial.

“Wasting away again in Margaritaville—'

Michael sighs.

Honestly, it’s not even the best Buffett tune out there, and every time he hears that damn line about the lost salt shaker, his thoughts jump straight to Joseph.

God, Joseph. He’d forgotten about Joseph.

Everything that happened with him seems so trivial now, in light of…

Well.

Truth be told, Joseph was a bit of an accident.

He was the first person Michael slept with since Alex. There was a time he thought he’d never find anyone else. Then, he stumbled into someone so unlikely, someone whose evident shame and self-loathing managed to work its way into Michael’s heart. To have it end so unceremoniously…

Despite the frequent sex flashbacks—god, those arms—the sex itself isn’t what stuck. Not really.

What stuck with Michael was waking up with Joseph wrapped around him and feeling so grateful for his touch. It was the amount of empathy Joseph’s vulnerable, unguarded expression stirred in him. It was watching Joseph sleep peacefully and seeing a world in which he could fall for someone again, a world in which he could move on.

All that for nothing.

“Searching for my lost shaker of salt—"

Michael turns off the radio. It feels crass to be thinking about Joseph under these circumstances.

Then, somehow, something worse happens. He spots a familiar red pickup truck pulled into the overlook, where he was planning on parking.

Of all the bad things that could happen right now, seeing Robert is possibly the worst.

Michael decides to drive well past the overlook and find a parking spot further up the road. He watches the truck slowly fade from view in the rearview mirror, and as soon as it’s out of sight, he pulls over onto the side of the road, turns off his engine, and crosses the two lane highway to the edge of the forest.

He pulls out the folding knife and grips it tightly in his palm. He takes a deep breath. Then, with his phone flashlight ready, he steps into the woods.

As Michael trudges through the forest, several thoughts occur to him: One—that he should have worn a jacket, or at least bothered to run a towel through his hair. Two—that he’s not sure what he’s actually doing out here; he was so preoccupied with taking action, he failed to figure out what that action actually is. And three—he’s in the same woods his wife likely died in, and he’s completely alone.

Well, shit.

Alright, Michael thinks. What would Addie Striker do?

“Well,” she’d say while opening her flip notebook, reliable G2 pen at the ready. “Let’s start with what we know.”

“Right,” Michael says aloud, and immediately regrets.

What he knows.

He knows Alex’s skull was discovered here, but they found nothing else.

He knows Alex would have never come out here on a regular occasion, because he’d never even visited this forest before Robert brought him there.

He knows Alex would have never put herself in harms way. She was too smart for that.

She was also relentless. Michael remembers Alex’s first post-grad job, when she was fired for attempting to run an expose on the sexual harassment her own co-workers had experienced. She walked out with pride and wound up submitting the piece to the Maple Bay Journal, who not only published the article, but gave her a job.

That was Alex. If she was chasing a lead, she would have done anything to get what she was looking for, regardless of the cost.

Even if it meant putting herself in harm’s way.

Michael halts.

This was a very, very stupid idea.

Just as he turns to run his car, there’s a sound like a twig snapping.

He freezes and thinks immediately of his recurring nightmare. He half expects to turn his head and see a pair of glowing white eyes staring back at him. Ever since Robert and Michael saw…whatever it is they saw that night, he hasn’t been able to shake it, especially not in sleep.

But those are just dreams. They’re a result of too much time spent with Robert. Or time spent thinking about him, at least lately.

“Hey,” a gravelly voice calls. Michael jumps, then points his phone flashlight in the direction of the sound, and it hits a tall figure wearing a red v-neck and a leather jacket.

As if today couldn’t get any fucking worse.

Still. He should have expected this.

“Who’s there?” Robert says as he shields his eyes from Michael’s flashlight.

“Uh,” Michael stutters, voice cracking.

Robert takes another step forward and squints. “Is that…?” He stops in his tracks. “Christ.”

Michael lowers his phone, then stiffly raises his hand and waves.

“…Hi.”

He can practically hear Robert rolling his eyes. “The hell are you doing out here?”

This is the first time they’ve spoken since Robert called him an "awful person" (which he still resents, by the way). It’s apparent; the tension in the air is so heavy, Michael can feel it sitting on his chest. He’s not sure what approach to take here. Friendly? Aloof? Hostile?

He settles for playfully antagonistic. “I could ask you the same question,” he retorts, and places his hand on his hip in a manner too calculated to seem casual.

“That’s none of your damn business,” Robert replies, but his tone is actually casual. Because he’s always so damn cool.

“Then…same goes for me.”

“Great.”

“Good.”

There’s a long silence where they just stare at each other. Michael is still standing with his hand awkwardly placed on his hip and his flashlight pointed at the ground.

“Shouldn’t be out here alone, you know,” Robert says. “Don’t know what kind of cryptids are lurking around out here, waiting for something to cross their path.”

“You’re out here alone,” Michael replies.

“That’s different. I’m OSHA certified.”

“Yeah, well…I was a boy scout.”

“Weren’t we all, Mikey. Weren’t we all.”

Michael flinches. “Don’t call me that.”

Things go quiet between them for longer than is comfortable. Much, much longer.

“Okay, I’m actually in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind—” Michael makes a shooing gesture.

“By all means. I’ll leave you to this very pressing, extremely vague matter you’re attending to,” Robert says, and he turns to walk away.

Michael panics. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, sending Robert away after silently despairing being all alone in the woods. Surely, his safety outweighs his dignity.

“Wait,” Michael calls as he stares at the ground. He hears Robert stop in his tracks, then give a beleaguered sigh.

“I think I’m lost,” he says.

Robert scoffs. “No shit.”

“Will you just—” Michael stops himself. “Can you please show me the way out of here?”

“What makes you think I want to do that?”

“I don’t,” Michael replies. “But I also know you wouldn’t just leave me here to die, or whatever. So. If you can resist the urge to stab me for five minutes of your time, I would really appreciate it.”

Robert stares at Michael for what feels like forever.

“Fine,” he finally says. “But no talking.”

“Fine by me.”

For five minutes, Michael trudges through the woods behind Robert, neither of them speaking a word. Several times, Michael opens his mouth to speak, to fill the unbearable awkward silence between them—but then he remembers he promised not to do that. So he doesn't.

Finally, they reach the overlook.

“You drive out here?” Robert asks, and the sudden break in silence startles Michael.

“Yeah, I’m parked just up the road.”

“I can drive you there,” Robert says.

“You don’t have to—” Michael starts, but Robert gives him a look that says I will strand you out here if you finish that sentence, so Michael cuts himself off, clears his throat, and says “Thank you.”

They both go back to saying nothing and get inside Robert’s truck. Michael has to practically bite his tongue to keep from talking just to fill the dead air.

Then, he realizes he has no reason to be considerate towards Robert. After all, he’s flipped him off on multiple occasions.

So, Michael pointedly clears his throat.

Robert doesn’t flinch.

Michael clears his throat again, louder this time.

Robert turns the key in the ignition at the same time, and Michael’s passive-aggressive tic is overpowered by the sound of the truck’s engine.

Fuck it, he thinks.

“Okay, seriously though. What are you doing out here?” Michael asks. “Very suspicious behavior, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask,” Robert says.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Right.”

Robert pulls out of the overlook and says, “Which way?”

“Oh. Left.”

As Robert turns the wheel, he glances at Michael. “You shouldn’t be out here, either.”

Michael huffs indignantly. “Why not?”

“There’s danger in these woods,” Robert says, “And it’s not just cryptids I’m talking about.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Robert laughs dryly. “I know you don’t.”

Either, Robert said. You shouldn’t be out here either.

“You said I shouldn’t be out here either,” Michael says, “Implying you shouldn’t be out here.”

“Yeah, well…I’m more qualified.”

“Says who?”

Robert takes a breath. “Look. I know these woods better than the back of my fuckin’ hand, and I know you well enough to know that you aren’t ready for what’s out here.”

“I can defend myself.”

“Can you?” Robert asks, and Michael genuinely begins to question himself. He slides down in his seat, and everything goes quiet again, until they reach his car.

Robert pulls to a stop and reaches across Michael’s lap to unlock the door, and for a moment, his mouth is mere inches from the nape of Robert’s neck.

He then remembers that Robert has just done him two favors of a decent size, and Michael realizes he's been kind of an asshole about the whole thing.

“Alright, get out,” Robert says.

Because Robert’s also kind of an asshole.

“Wait,” Michael says. “Thank you.”

Robert just grunts.

“No,” Michael continues, “I mean it. I…I got some pretty rough news today, and I thought…”

He looks at Robert, who stares out the opposite window, obviously disinterested.

“Nevermind,” Michael says, and he reaches for the door handle.

“Is that why you were out here?”

Michael turns back to Robert, only to see he’s facing him now, staring intensely.

He pushes up his glasses. “Sort of. Yes. My wife, she…”

Robert nods. “Went missing. I remember.”

“Yeah, well, they…they found her. In…” Michael can’t even finish.

Robert’s face sinks and his gaze softens. “In the woods?”

Michael nods.

“I’m sorry,” Robert says, and it’s earnest.

“How are you supposed to just…go home after hearing all that? How was I supposed to sleep knowing…something, or someone, hurt her?”

“You don’t.”

“Yeah, I…couldn’t.”

Robert says nothing, just nods in solemn understanding.

“Anyways,” Michael says, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Thank you. I, um…appreciate the help.”

Robert looks away again. “Sure,” he says. “Again, I’m sorry about…”

“Alex.”

“Right. Alex.”

“Thanks.”

“Yep.”

Then, Michael gets out of the truck, shuts the door, and walks to his car. But before he unlocks the door he pauses, turns, and waves at Robert from across the empty road.

And this time, instead of flipping him off, Robert waves back.

When Michael turns on his car, "Margaritaville" is playing again.

“But there’s booze in the blender—”

Michael shuts off the radio immediately. If he has to hear that chorus one more goddamn time, he may have to fling himself out of the car. While it's still moving.

He flicks on his blinker to turn onto the road, and—

“Wasting away again in Margaritaville—"

Michael looks at his radio. The only thing being displayed is the time—12:30 am.

He slams the off button.

“Searching for my lost shaker of salt—”

He turns the volume dial down.

“Some people claim—"

The volume only goes up.

He pulls the key out of the ignition.

“There’s a woman to blame—”

The sound comes to a crescendo, then cuts out all at once, leaving Michael in the quiet dark.

“What the f—” he starts.

Two glowing white orbs drift onto the open road, and for a moment, Michael wonders if he never woke up at all, if he’s still trapped in a nightmare. They stop just in front of his windshield, and it’s like they’re staring right at him. They are staring right at him.

Now would be a good time to drive away. But Michael can’t move. He just sits there, breathing hard, staring back into the white light.

“It’s my own damn fault—” the radio blares, and Michael’s headlights flash on even though the keys to the car are in his hand, and for a split second he thinks he sees a form—something shadowy and black—then it vanishes, the song cuts out again, and his headlights blink out.

Once Michael catches his breath, he can’t drive home fast enough.

With one hand on the wheel, he searches through his phone contacts and finds the number he’s looking for. He’s at least 15 miles over the speed limit, but the woods are closing in on him, and something else might be, too, so there’s no time to think about traffic violations.

He hits the call button, and after a few agonizingly long rings, the other end picks up.

“Robert,” Michael says, “Don’t hang up.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Listen—You’re going to think I’m crazy—”

“Will I?”

“Will you—” Michael huffs. “Just listen! I think…I think I’m being haunted by the Dover Ghost.”

“Yeah?” Robert says. “Join the club.”

Chapter Text

“…Jimmy Buffett?”

“Yeah.”

“The Dover Ghost attacked you…with Jimmy Buffett?”

“Yes! And it was very effective!”

Michael and Robert are sitting across from one another in Robert’s living room. Robert has a glass of whiskey in his hand, and Michael is clutching a pillow to his chest.

Coming here was probably a mistake. But Michael has to know what’s going on. He raced to Robert’s house after the encounter with the Ghost, because as far as he knows, he’s the only person who can help him. After all, who the hell else in the cul-de-sac is an apparent cryptid expert?

He could always ask Damien. But Damien probably knows more about vampires than he does urban legends.

No, Robert’s the only one who can help him. That is, if he’s able to take a break from antagonizing Michael long enough to do so.

Robert smirks. “Which song?”

Michael refuses to meet Robert’s gaze when he says, “Margaritaville.”

He expects Robert to laugh, but he doesn’t. He just gives a quiet, “Hm.”

“What?” Michael asks.

Robert shakes his head. “It’s…nah.”

“Tell me.”

Robert’s eyes flick up to his. “Karma. Don’t you think?”

“Excuse me?”

Robert pauses to sip his whiskey. “Think about it. What’s the first thing that song brings to mind?”

Joseph.

Michael flushes. Out of embarrassment or anger, he’s not sure which.

“Ring a bell?” Robert says, and Michael’s grip on the pillow tightens.

“Are you saying I was attacked by—I was attacked, because I deserved it?”

“No,” Robert cuts in quickly. “I don’t think you deserved it. But it did. Because…”

“Because it knows what I did?” Michael says, and he feels the shame rise in his throat.

Robert sets his glass down. “Yup. It’s got your number, and it wants you to know.”

Michael shivers, maybe because his hair is still wet and he left the house in only a t-shirt and jeans. Or maybe because he’s in way over his head.

“It’s not just that,” Michael says.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been having…dreams. Nightmares. I don’t know.”

He expects Robert to shrug him off, but he doesn’t. “What do you see?” he asks.

“I’m at the overlook, and I see…a figure, in the woods. Like we saw that one night, when we…”

Robert clears his throat. That night is a fond memory for Michael, one he tortures himself with often. But it’s probably not the same for Robert. That’s the difference between them; Robert hates Michael because of what he did to Mary. Michael just hates Robert because Robert hates him.

“Um,” Michael continues, “It’s almost human, but not quite…and it’s got these glowing white eyes—”

“White?” Robert asks.

“Mm-hmm,” Michael says, “And we stare at each other for a while, and then…I wave at it, and it waves back.”

There’s a brief silence. “That’s it?” Robert says.

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

All of the humor has drained from Robert’s face. He’s looking through the window over Michael’s shoulder with a sort of resignation about him.

“Why?” Michael asks. “Have you had any dreams?”

Robert shakes his head. “None. And I’ve been hunting the thing for—”

“Hunting?” Michael asks, leaning forward in his seat.

Robert rolls his eyes. “What’d you think I was doing in the woods, by myself?”

“I don’t know—Contemplating. Wandering. Being weird and broody.”

“Broody?”

“You know what I mean. My first guess wasn’t that you were actually hunting a ghost.”

“So, all those times I’ve talked about cryptids—”

“I thought you were joking! I mean…you’re kind of a weird dude, Robert. It’s hard to tell when you’re being serious.”

Robert furrows his brow. “Yeah, point taken. But all that cryptid stuff was the truth.”

“So…” Michael says, attempting to make sense of the situation. “Cryptids are real.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you hunt them.”

“In theory.”

“So you’ve been hunting the Dover Ghost for…”

Robert rubs his face with one hand. “Christ, it’s been…five years?”

“Five years? And you haven’t caught it?”

“No, alright? No, I haven’t. I was close, once, but…” Robert sighs. “But life…got in the way, and I gave up for a while. But then you moved in, and told me about your wife, and—”

“Wait,” Michael cuts in. “You think Alex—you think they’re connected?”

Robert shrugs. “Don’t know. It’s a feeling. A familiar one.” He picks up his glass of whiskey again and stares at it. “Like how I felt when my wife died.”

Michael blinks incredulously.

Robert was married? For some reason, he finds that hard to picture.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says reflexively.

Robert waves his hand dismissively. “For what? You didn’t kill her.” He downs the rest of his drink. “Anyway…Marylin died, and even though it was a car accident, I had…that feeling. Then a—friend,” Robert says tensely, “Told me about The Dover Ghost. And I knew. That’s the thing that killed my wife.”

Michael’s heart rate spikes. “So when I told you about Alex…you got the same feeling?”

“Not at first. But, then I looked into her disappearance, and, uh…it just made sense.”

“So The Dover Ghost,” Michael says, jaw clenched and breathing heavy, “The Dover Ghost killed Alex?”

“Don't know. But I’m willing to bet.”

Michael grips the pillow so tight his knuckles turn white. He thinks of Alex, alone in the woods, running from the same shadowy figure that’s been haunting his dreams, and it’s almost enough to bring him to tears.

If he were the one who died, if Alex were in his position, he knows what she would do. She would chase the lead.

“You know why you’ve never been able to catch the Dover Ghost?” Michael says.

Robert raises his eyebrows. “I got a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

Michael leans forward. “Because you didn’t have me.”

After he gets home from Robert’s house that night, Michael stares at his phone for hours.

He Googles “Dover Ghost”, “Maple Bay Cryptids”, “Maple Bay Ghost”, “Maple Bay Forest Ghost”, and several other variants, and they all yield similar results: vague, sensational articles and blog posts about a human-like creature with black eyes and long arms that shambles as it walks. Nothing lines up with what he saw in the woods. There’s nothing about a floating, ethereal creature that possesses the power to summon Jimmy Buffett songs at will.

His nightmare is the same as it’s always been, only this time, he swears he can hear the chorus of “Margaritaville” playing in the distance. Robert’s right—the ghost has his number.

He wakes up in the same clothes he wore yesterday. All the lights are on, and his phone is still in his hand. There’s a red imprint on the right side of his nose—he didn’t even take off his glasses before he passed out. And his hair is a wreck. He’s usually good about maintaining his curls, after all, Alex was obsessive about it. After they met, she introduced him to the world of leave-in conditioner, and he’s never looked back.

Last night, he didn’t put anything in his hair before he left the house. Now, as he wets his hands and crushes his frizz in a desperate attempt to get it to behave, he wonders if he’s let himself go. It’s less of a question; he’s pretty sure he knows the answer.

He and Robert agreed to meet at The Coffee Spoon at nine in the morning. Robert insisted on something closer to noon, and Michael pushed for seven, so nine seemed like the best middle ground.

Michael still isn’t sure what to make of all of this—the finding middle ground with Robert. It’s definitely better than sharing tense stares across the cul-de-sac and avoiding each other in the grocery store. And for the first time in a long time, Michael almost feels like he can exhale. Almost.

But how long can their temporary alliance really last? How long can Robert set his apparent hatred aside? And how long can Michael stand being around Robert, when all Robert does is constantly reinforce his shame?

At this point, Robert could probably try to kill Michael, and Michael would let him.

They need to figure out this whole Dover Ghost thing, and fast.

But it’s 6:30 in the morning, and Michael has two hours to kill.

He gives up within twenty minutes.

After knocking for what seems like minutes, Robert swings open his front door wearing nothing but a surly expression and a pair of red-checkered boxers.

Michael never thought he’d see this much of Robert. He’s well-built, but it doesn’t seem like a cosmetic decision; his frame is sturdy and square, but not necessarily chiseled. And his stomach is soft; it droops slightly over the waistband of his boxers, which hangs low on his hipbones. Dangerously low.       

Michael clears his throat. “Um…hello,” he says, stuffing his hands into his sweatshirt pockets.

Robert grimaces. “What time is it?”

Michael looks at his phone. “Just before 7.”

As soon as Michael says the time, Robert sighs heavily. He starts to close the door, but at the last second, Michael shoves his foot in front of it.

“Wait!” He says, sticking his face through the gap in the door and bringing his eyes level with Robert’s chest. Then, his face turns completely pink.

Is that…a nipple ring?

“What do you want?” Robert grunts.

Michael stutters, “I—I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted you to know that…I’m ready when you are.” He looks up at Robert, who stares down at him with raised eyebrows and a clenched jaw. “I probably could have just texted you,” he adds.

Robert smiles sarcastically. “Probably,” he says, then swings the door open, sending Michael stumbling into him. He jumps backwards immediately, but not quickly enough to avoid planting both his hands on Robert’s bare chest.

“Sorry. I—”

“Wait down here,” Robert interrupts, then stalks into his living room and disappears up the stairs.

Robert and Michael end up arriving at the Coffee Spoon around 7:30. Robert isn’t speaking, save for the occasional one-word response.

“So when you told me you had a pit bull--” Michael says as he steps out of Robert’s truck.

“Lied,” Robert says, slamming his door.

“So that little boston terrier running around your house—”

“Yeah, that’s Betsy.”

Michael stands by the door to the coffee shop. “And you wonder why I didn’t believe you were a cryptid hunter?”

Robert approaches Michael, stopping inches from him. “You wanna say it louder? I don’t think the whole neighborhood heard you.”

“Right. Sorry.”

They both reach for the door handle.

“Go ahead,” Robert says.

“No, I insist,” Michael replies. Robert then opens the door and waves him in, wearing the look of a man whose patience has already worn thin.

When they step up to the register, Mat’s looking at Michael like he’s a dog with a broken leg.

“Hey, Michael,” he says, “I heard about your wife. I’m really sorry, man. We all are.”

Michael nods. “Thank you.”

“For sure.” Mat sighs and tucks one of his locs behind his ear. “When Rosa went missing…everything changed. You don’t really get over something like that.”

His wife went missing?

Michael has to stop himself from interrupting Mat, or grabbing Robert by the elbow and running out the door.

Mat clears his throat before continuing, “Anyways. I’m just saying…I get it. And I’m here if you need anything, even if it’s just a free cup of coffee.”

“I really appreciate it, man.”

Mat smiles. “Yeah. That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Right. Listen…” Michael leans over the counter. “Have you had any nightmares recently?”

Robert coughs and kicks Michael’s leg.

“Nightmares? Not really…why?”

Michael laughs uncomfortably. “Oh, no reason. I just heard lots of people have been having nightmares lately, you know…with Mercury in Retrograde…and all…”

Mat furrows his brow. “I thought that was like, a month ago.”

“Yeah, well, you know mercury! She’s—she’s elusive…” A full body cringe overtakes Michael. He’s always been a bad liar, but this is just ridiculous.

Robert cuts in. “We’ll take two black coffees to go.”

“Sure,” Mat says, still wearing a puzzled look. “It’s on me.”

It takes effort, but Michael manages to wait to explode until they’re both back inside Robert’s truck.

“Did you know about this?” Michael says.

Robert reaches across Michael’s lap and rifles through the glove compartment. “Yeah, sort of. Ah—” he says, grabbing a crumpled pack of Marlboros.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

Robert sticks a bent cigarette in his mouth and lights it. “It’s Mat’s business,” he says. “I didn’t want you to drag him into it.”

“Why would I drag him into it?”

Robert’s head lolls over and he stares at Michael. “Have you met you?”

Michael scoffs. “You, uh…you might have a point.” he says, and swears he sees the corner of Robert’s mouth twitch.

“Might? You’re a fuckin’ steamroller, Rosenblum.”

“Yeah, well…you have my degree in journalism to thank for that.”

“Thought you wrote books.”

“No, I do. That came after college. Alex was…” Michael sighs. “Alex was the real journalist. She was the steamroller, I just…picked things up the longer I knew her.”

Robert turns the key in the ignition. “Sounds like a tough broad.”

Michael laughs. Alex would have liked being called a “tough broad”.

“She was,” Michael says, and he laughs again, only it feels more like crying, then suddenly his eyes start to sting. “Shit—” he mutters, “—sorry. I thought I was used to this.”

“You don’t get used to it, you just…learn to shove it down.” Robert looks over at him. “We’ll get her some justice,” he says, then holds out his hand. “Promise.”

Michael takes his hand and shakes it. “Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a moment, still shaking hands, before both clearing their throats and facing forward. Michael finds it’s best to avoid eye contact with Robert, when it can be helped.

“The thing I don’t get,” Michael says, “Is why The Dover Ghost even went after her in the first place. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Michael takes a sip of coffee. “No. Alex never went out into the woods. She wasn’t the type.”

“Neither was Marylin.”

Then, Michael realizes something.

“That’s three people,” he says.

“What?”

“Three people from the cul-de-sac. Alex—sort of, and Marylin, and Mat’s wife. Three.”

Robert exhales a plume of cigarette smoke. “Four.”

“What?”

“Four people.”

“Who’s the fourth?”

“He’s…” Robert pauses. “He lived in your house. Name was A.J…shit. I don’t remember his last name.”

Michael pulls his phone from his pocket and searches “Maple Bay Disappearances”. Within the first few results, he finds an article from the Maple Bay Journal.

He reads aloud, “The Maple Bay Triangle: 5 Missing in 5 years.” Then, he freezes on the byline.

“Go on,” Robert says.

Michael clears his throat. “Article by Alexandra Rosenblum.”

“Do you want me to..?”

“No, no,” Michael says, “I got it.”

He frantically skims the article. “Rosa was one of the first,” he says, then his eye catches something: a photo of a familiar face. “Most recent to disappear,” he reads, “is A.J. Kennedy, fellow journalist and friend at the Journal.”

Michael looks closer at the image. A.J.’s face looks familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

Then, he remembers the picture he found on Joseph’s boat, the one of Robert in that familiar blue sweater. He also remembers the stranger posing next to Hugo.

Michael holds the picture out to Robert. “This him?” he says.

“That’s the one.”

He lets out a breath, hoping to get rid of the mounting tension in his chest. “Holy shit.”

Robert grunts in agreement and takes another drag of his cigarette.

Michael buckles his seatbelt. “Robert—Take me to the Maple Bay Journal offices.”

“You got it, chief,” he replies, then turns onto the road.

As they drive off, Michael is struck with the thought that he and Robert make a half-decent team. He almost says this. Then he looks at Robert, whose patience is already wire-thin, and decides not to push the limits of their temporary alliance until he’s sure it won’t backfire.

The Maple Bay Journal offices are white and nondescript, and take up half of the third floor of an industrial building in downtown Maple Bay. Michael and Robert are forced to sit in a small waiting area, and the fluorescent lights make Michael’s head throb. He and Amanda used to sit in these chairs all the time, whenever they picked Alex up from work and got there just a little too early.

When he told the receptionist that he was there to inquire about a former employee, she directed them to wait there until the Managing Editor was available. After fifteen minutes of waiting, they’re greeted by a woman in her late 30s with horn-rimmed glasses and frizzy red hair. Michael recognizes her instantly.        

“Michael?” she says.

Michael stands up. “Dana!”

Dana was one of Alex’s closest friends at the Journal. They all used to spend hours at her apartment, drinking red wine and gossiping about their coworkers. Of course, Michael didn’t understand half of what they were talking about. He just enjoyed watching Alex in her element.

Dana shakes his hand. “What a surprise!”

“Yeah, last time I saw you, you were a copy editor.”

“You know me,” she laughs, “I can’t stay in one place too long.” Then, she places a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Hey, I heard about…how are you doing?”

Michael says, “That’s actually the reason I’m here. I, um…I have some things I need to ask you.”

Dana’s expression grows worried, and her eyes flick back to Robert.

“Oh! Sorry. Dana, this is—”

“Robert Small,” he says, taking Dana’s hand and shaking it. “Friend of the family.”

“Good to meet you,” Dana says.

“We came to talk about Alex,” Michael says. “I need to look at what she was working on before she…” he sighs, “Well, you know.”

“I know,” says Dana, glancing behind her at the rows of desks and cubicles. “And you can, just…not here.”

She leads them into an empty conference room at the end of a long-neglected hallway and tells them to wait there. Minutes later, she returns with a short stack of paper and hands it to Michael. It’s still hot from the printer.

“When she disappeared,” Dana says, “The files on her computer had to be purged, so her replacement could use it.” Then, she pulls a flash drive from her pocket. “I saved everything.”

Michael thumbs through the papers. Some of them are word documents, others look like copies and scans of newspaper clippings, and even book pages.

“I also included some of A.J.’s old stuff. I think you’ll find it…pertinent.”

“Dana,” Michael says, “This is…”

She leans on the table. “You’re welcome,” she says, “But you got none of this from me, alright? I’ve been sitting on this for two years. I can’t take it anymore.”

“If all this stuff is so sensitive,” Robert says, “Why'd it take you so long to bring it to someone?"

Dana scoffs. “Are you kidding me? I’d get fired on the spot. I could still get fired for doing this.”

Michael looks up from the documents. “Wait, really?”

Dana gives him a sympathetic look. “You have no idea what she was mixed up in, do you?”

Michael looks back at the stack of papers in his hands. The first document on the stack is a page of notes. The top reads: “Maple Bay disappearances (URGENT)”.

Dana’s right; Michael has no idea what Alex got herself into.

"How can I thank you?" He says.

"You can thank me," Dana replies, "By finding the bastard who killed her."

When they get back into the truck, neither of them say a word. Michael can’t stop staring at the stack of papers in his lap, and Robert can’t stop staring at him; he can feel his eyes on him from the driver’s seat.

He reads over the first half of the front page again:

Maple Bay disappearances (URGENT)

• What we know
  • Most victims last known location/whereabouts—Dover Woods
  • Profile—Upper-middle class, Married w/children, mostly women
    • Except for A.J. (been two weeks, need to find him)
    • Most live in same general neighborhood—possible link?
  • A. J. was investigating disappearances
    • Was he targeted??? Was he onto something???

"Rosenblum,” Robert says.

“Hm?”

“Care to read aloud?”

Michael sighs. “A.J. was investigating the disappearances before he went missing.”

“So was Alex.”

“Yeah,” Michael nods, and his mouth feels dry and numb.

“You think…they got too close?”

“Robert,” Michael says. “I know they did.”

Robert takes a sip of his now-cold coffee and grimaces. “Know what that means?”

“What?”

He locks eyes with Michael. “Means we’re next,” he pauses, “Unless we kill it first.”

Those words make Michael’s heart drop into his stomach.

He swallows hard. “So…we’re doing things your way, now?”

Robert smirks. “Something like that.”