Ghost Writer

Sweat on his temple yet mouth drier than peat moss, Davy tried saying, “I’m fine,” twice before his words were comprehensible.

Hovering, Omar frowned. There was always something severe in Omar’s frowns, but it could also be blamed on his beard—dark and full whereas Davy’s facial hair remained elusive.

“Sure,” Omar said. “Just go sit in the car, man. I’ll get us seats once the door opens.”

Glancing behind Omar at the line ahead, Davy spied a set of closed doors with a ‘Reserved’ sign taped up. Below, another paper detailed a local author’s reading of his book. The event was organized by the cafe’s book club—Novel Vibes.

Davy contemplated Omar’s offer. He could vanish from the cafe with its rows of secondhand books and board games. Just a slip of a person, a blur of dark hair and an ashen complexion. No more whispers from some girl in the next aisle over, no couple arguing about who was in charge of filling their gas tank behind them. Only the silence of the car as he reclined with a hand over his eyes.

He gripped the book in his hand, knuckles turning white. That damn girl whispered louder. The baristas behind the counter clinked cups. A toddler in the children’s section called loudly for her mother. One of the corners of the cafe was rather dark. He kept looking in that direction despite himself. Davy’s temples might burst.

Davy glared. “Why are you even here?”

Omar didn’t flinch. He raised his eyebrows, looking down in a way that highlighted their height difference.

“What?” Davy snapped. He glanced at that dark corner again, studying the shadows there.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Omar said, which people said when it could only be taken the wrong way. “But you sounded like your sister.”

For a startlingly lucid moment, everything quieted. Davy heard, Your sister, and his mind emptied. He recited in his head, as he always did in the past year to remind himself of reality, her obituary.

Devon “Dev” Molina, 23, a long-time resident of Celton, passed away this Tuesday. She is survived by her mother, her twin brother, and—

Davy knew it word for word. It didn’t really matter if it was an obituary or a grocery list. He was the person who retained facts and dates. Dev was the one who liked long-winded stories. Valleys of words that seemed more convoluted than scenic to Davy. Dev begged to differ. Book club was their battleground. Now it was just Davy’s attempt at normalcy.

In the wake of Omar’s statement, an awkward lull stretched between them. Not so much an awkwardness from drawing attention to the glaring emptiness right between the two of them, but more from the over-familiarity of his accusation. Omar wasn’t so much Davy’s friend as he was his friend-in-law, inherited in the absence of Dev. The slip of casualness left them both on uneven ground, with Davy working his jaw on words he didn’t want to spit and Omar taking a deep breath through his nose.

“Sorry,” Omar said, the only thing to say, really.

The line shuffled. The girl whispered. That dark corner seemed to be a constant in the corner of his eye. It felt like something saw him that he couldn’t see back.

“Whatever. C’mon.”

It wasn’t strange for Omar to attend the reading. Most people weren’t here for Novel Vibes. The book in Davy’s hand, Celton’s Secrets, was written by a local. Almost anything written on Celton township focused on the many hikers who would go missing on the mountainside trails. Some showed up, many didn’t, and an occasional body was blamed on wildlife or inexperience.

Devon “Dev” Molina passed this Tuesday, Davy often thought when hearing those tales. An experienced hiker found off Ridge Trailhead with head trauma. Jack and Jill went up a hill, but it was only Jill. She broke her crown. Her car was getting a parking ticket while she was bleeding out on the trail.

So, a local named Luther Powell published Celton’s Secrets. It detailed the town’s businesses, its neighborhoods, and even quite a few residents’ day-to-day. Nobody knew he was collecting information. Since publication, it had been a hit.

Davy hated the book. Why didn’t Mr. Walters find it strange that Luther Powell knew when he jogged or how he’d stop at the fish pond in Highland Park? Was it seen as quirky? Flattering that someone noticed something so part of Mr. Walters’ routine that others probably didn’t think twice about?

Powell focused a lot on the mundane, on individuals nobody thought about, like an unnamed waitress from the Main Street Diner in chapter three. He knew all the park rangers’ routes, but from what Davy heard, Powell didn’t interview any of them. Powell talked about trails that weren’t official. It drove Davy mad. Him and Dev had been big-time hikers—not anymore for the two obvious reasons of Dev being dead and Davy being screwed in the head—and suggesting unapproved paths when it wasn’t even Powell’s job? That was just asking for more hikers to get lost.

As they entered the reading room, the whispering girl that Davy had yet to actually see muttered something about bad dreams. Omar led them to chairs while Davy grappled with the word association. Ever since Dev died, he often dreamed of slick mud and meaty fingers and heavy breathing. The blurred scenes had him gasping awake with a headache at the back of his skull.

They took seats. People chatted. The whispering girl seemed to have found her way in, because Davy heard her incomprehensible words somewhere behind him.

A woman Davy recognized from Novel Vibes bound to the front of the room. “Welcome, Celton readers!”

Omar snorted, but otherwise kept silent through the opening remarks. If Davy had been Dev, he’s sure that Omar would have snuck in some muttered comment, would have made Dev split into a grin and snort into her sleeve. Davy wasn’t Dev, so they sat in silence. Soon, Luther Powell—bald, immaculately clean glasses, and thick hands that Davy couldn’t help noticing—arrived. He walked to the front.

The whispering girl said, “Bet it took ages to get the mud out from under his nails.”

Luther flipped open his novel, starting to read in a dull voice. Davy suddenly imagined a damp forest floor, his face pressed into the mud, and a strike of pain split through his skull. He dropped his forehead into his palm. Time was jumping.

“—will be taking questions!”

Omar whispered, “Dude, what are you doing?”

Davy thought he might be standing. It should have been obvious, right? It was obvious. Davy was standing. Unsteady on his feet despite the world being at a standstill, but he was upright. Despite the quiet in the room, that girl was still whispering. Her voice was so familiar, but was it only because he’s been hearing it all day?

“Yes?” Luther asked.

The girl whispered, “Ask him.”

“Davy?” Omar hissed.

“You,” Davy started with a hoarse voice, trying to speak over all the noise but it seemed that no one else was talking. “You made a joke in the prologue about how the worst thing about Celton was the occasional parking ticket.”

Luther raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I meant it.”

The room tittered. Omar’s gaze was heavy with concern. The whispering girl silenced.

Davy asked, “Ever get a parking ticket for parking at the mouth of Ridge Trailhead?”