Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

She tried not to think too much about Seth Brubaker. After all, she had plenty of other things to contend with. Like all the junk her grandmother had accrued over the years, which turned up in the most ridiculous places.

There were coins in the toilet cistern. Weird coins, from countries that no longer existed. Or maybe hadn't ever existed, if Google was any indication.

And that wasn't even the strangest thing she found.

There were also boxes full of dolls—and not the good kind. No, these were the kind that she'd screamed over when watching a movie about them with Seth. The kind with glassy eyes that followed you around the room, and too little hair on their weird shiny heads, and bodies made out of sacks someone had discovered on a haunted farm.

She honestly found herself wondering if they might eat her in the night.

Which was ridiculous, she knew it was ridiculous. Yet if she was being honest, it kind of fit with the theme of this place.

Because it wasn't just all the weird objects and spooky crevices that she was almost constantly stumbling across. There were other unsettling things about her grandmother's old home. Like the fact that the whole house made a ridiculous amount of noise. Pipes knocked even when no water was flowing through them. Floorboards creaked despite the fact that not a single person had stepped on them in hours. And the less said about the staircase, the better. The night before, she'd been pretty sure that she'd heard something thumping up them to the bedroom she'd been sleeping in. She'd wound up shoving her grandmother's ancient dresser in front of the door.

Not that this had made things any better, however. Instead, the noises had just started coming from the room she was in. She'd had to stay up for the rest of the night, glaring at the possibly alive rocking chair in the corner with narrowed eyes. And then of course she'd been so tired the next morning that she'd accidentally buttered a sponge.

She was still picking bits of yellow fluff out of her teeth when dinner rolled around.

So it was almost a relief when she finally found something normal. Something that she remembered from her time here with her grandmother. Specifically, the time right after the whole school had laughed at her getting Stephen Kinged, when she'd needed a distraction desperately.

The journals. The ones her and Gram had filled with mad recipes, in her ramshackle kitchen.

Every one of them disgusting and ridiculous, but all of them imbued with meaning she still remembered so clearly.

Like the potato pie she'd declared a cure for aches and pains, when her Gram had told her the weather was biting. And how her Gram had enjoyed pretending a slice of it had worked, just to make her happy. Or the one for plum cake that supposedly made it rain. Then the laughter when a downpour had hit, just as they threw a handful of crumbs up into the sky.

Coincidences like that had felt almost magical.

And so much so she had never wanted to stop. In fact, it had only been her own lack of skill that had made her. You should really quit cooking before you give someone food poisoning, her grandmother had said. And she had quit, too.

She wasn't even sure about getting too engrossed in the journals again.

Until she came across one particular recipe.

"Feel Better Soup," it was called. Even though she couldn't imagine it ever making anyone feel better. It sounded completely bananas. You had to simmer everything for twenty-four hours. And the main ingredient seemed to be garlic.

Seventeen cloves, it required. But for what reason, it didn't say. It just instructed whoever was cooking it to throw them all in, skins and all, then add a few other things in amounts that made no sense. There was a "speck" of rosemary, and a "whiff" of chili oil—and then for some reason it suggested thickening this unholy brew with ground-up beans. It was mystifying. And yet at the same time Cassie had the strongest, strangest urge to give cooking a go again. Like maybe this time she might make something good. This time, it would work. She wasn't going to poison anyone, she was sure of it.

So she checked the stone-floored and stuffy pantry for ingredients.

And when that yielded very little, she searched through the ancient bulbous refrigerator. But aside from the necessities she'd stacked in there, she found next to nothing. There was just a collection of jars inside—none of which had labels on them. Heck, two of them didn't even have visible contents. A strange gray murk clung to the insides of the glass, obscuring whatever was in there from view. So god only knew what it was.

And she wasn't about to check.

She shoved the jar back among its equally unsettling siblings, and made her way down to the shed at the bottom of the garden. And sure enough—there was her old bike. Still where she'd left it, and not even covered in cobwebs like she'd imagined. In fact, it was almost in as good shape as she remembered, shiny as a star and so well-oiled that it barely made a sound when she wheeled it out. All she had to do was recall how to ride it.

Shakily, at first. Like she'd forgotten how.

But then faster and faster, until she was barreling down the final hill that slid into Main Street. Hair a black streamer behind her, those tarot cards her grandmother had put between the spokes clicking away, furiously. And all the sights and sounds barely more than a blur of color and a few snatched details.

Though she knew what all of them were anyway. Nothing seemed to have changed much in the seven or so years she'd been gone.

There was the old movie theatre, somehow limping on despite a million multiplexes and streaming services—and the fact that they were still spelling all the films wrong on the awning outside. She caught a glimpse of the words "Classic Horror Month," and then underneath: Scram, The Winches of Eastlick, Candyland.

And was that Mira Parvati unlocking the double doors, and wearing Mr. McKellen's old manager's waistcoat? She thought so, but went by too fast to say for sure. All she got was a glimpse of that shaggy black hair before she was past the place and on to the library, the tiny town hall, the office of the Hollow Brook Gazette. Each of them as familiar as ever, even though she knew they were mostly run by entirely different people now.

The mayor was no longer that red-faced blowhard Arthur Dollard, according to her mother. It was some tough old lady called Kathy Yates. And Tabitha Kendall—who Cassie remembered from a million story hours at the library, sitting at the head of a circle of kids with her soft brown hands clasped in her lap, telling tales she never needed the book for—had finally managed to oust that permed and pearled sourpuss Mrs. Vernon.

Or at least that was what Cassie had managed to gather from the online version of the Gazette that she'd read that morning. "So-Called Committee for a Clean Town Behave like Clowns Again," the headline had hilariously read, over an actually pretty serious report on Vernon's involvement with said committee, and all the ways their book-banning activities had led to her downfall. Which made sense, considering the kind of person Vernon was.

And who the writer of the article had been.

Marley Maples had been the byline appearing underneath the headline. Marley Maples—smart as a whip, sassy as a sexy cartoon cat, and the person Cassie had most wanted to make friends with in high school. But of course had never dared to go anywhere near.

She'd have probably written a headline like that about me. "Loser Makes Fool of Self During Hollow Brook High Talent Show," Cassie thought, as she slowed just enough to see the curve of one winter-pale cheek through the window and knew immediately it was Marley. Then she sped up, pushing harder on the pedals, like going faster would somehow leave that idea in the dust.

Even though more reminders of miseries past were coming up.

There, outside her little bookshop, was the one other friend Cassie had almost sort of managed to have in high school. Still as cheery looking as ever, still all snub-nosed and pink-cheeked and so much like someone who wouldn't let you down.

And honestly, Nancy hadn't.

After the talent show, she had come calling. Sent Cassie flowers, said she was sorry about how awful that whole thing had been. But Cassie had been too sore and embarrassed to respond, and that had felt like the end of that.

Yet when she passed, Nancy looked up. And she grinned and waved like a lunatic.

I'll have to call her , Cassie thought to herself—though of course as soon as she did, she started thinking of all the ways something like that could go wrong. The ways she could be rejected, hurt, embarrassed. How she could end up relying on someone, only to have them let her down.

No, no. It was better to be as she was.

Always moving on, before anything got bad. Temporary acquaintances, temporary jobs, temporary time here. Even if here wasn't just about the people and the places.

There was also the loveliness of it.

The trees that lined the street were beginning to shed their sunset-streaked leaves—some fluttering in the air as she sailed past, others collecting in heaps so tidy they almost looked arranged. And though it was well into a crisp, bright morning, the fairy lights strung between the trees still glowed brightly. Like those deep October nights lingered, far longer than they should have. The darkness hung on, giving everything a spooky air.

Though the decorations everywhere definitely helped. She spotted pumpkins of all sizes, crammed into every nook and cranny of the bandstand in the center of town. Cobwebs swirled from every roof and awning, catching people as they strolled past. There were skeletons peeking from shop windows, and creepy lettering advertising all kinds of things, and finally there was that scent.

That Halloween is here, fall vibes scent, all bonfires and burnt caramel and something deliciously spicy. Mugs of cider spiked with cloves, she imagined. Or maybe cocoa infused with cinnamon and nutmeg. Or possibly whatever was in those donuts from the new donut place.

She almost stopped there, at the gaudy window. The man behind the counter, absurdly tall and gawky looking, waved. But she pressed on. She pulled up outside the much less appealing Stop and Save, intent on getting what she came for. After all, old man Hannigan had probably bent enough to sell something like garlic by now.

Then she pushed open the door that still stuck a bit at the bottom, and there it all was.

The store that even the Amish would have balked at.

Only somehow even worse than it had been back when she was a kid. Now it looked like he didn't even sell the licorice he had once allowed, with the salt in it. There were just rows and rows of cabbages. Then yet more rows of potatoes. Followed by some sacks of stuff that she hoped was flour. But was more likely to be the grain you had to grind to make it.

Because that was Hannigan's MO.

He had always been a big believer in the idea that everyone had everything easy these days. And he was an even bigger believer now, if his position as head of the clean-town committee was any indication. Not to mention every sign inside his shop. Produce fondlers will be prosecuted , one of them said. All skirts must be knee length or you shall be asked to leave , another proclaimed.

And then there was the man himself.

He looked just as terrifying as she remembered. Gaunt enough to pass for a skeleton in the right light. So tall he seemed to loom over her, even from all the way behind his enormous counter. And when he smiled, it looked more like a grimace than anything else. Partly because of his teeth, which were the size and shape of tombstones. But also because it never seemed to reach his eyes.

They stayed as flat as two old coins as he watched her coming toward him.

And they got even flatter when she asked her question.

"Garlic?" he spat. As if she'd just requested he sell her heroin. Then sure enough he spelled it out. "We have none of that filth here, Cassandra Camberwell."

Though it was really more the last part that disturbed her, over the first thing. He remembered her name, even after all this time. He remembered both names, in fact. And he deployed them like some kind of weapon. A switch , she thought, that he intends to whip me to within an inch of my life with.

She decided to beat a hasty retreat before he could.

After all, there were other places in Hollow Brook to get what she needed. There was the market on the outskirts, where she got herself not only garlic but some crusty bread, and a wheel of cheese, and about ten other items that would help her live like a wanderer in a seven-thousand-page fantasy novel. And once she had all those things, she rode back to Gram's house with something like satisfaction in her heart.

Things were okay.

She was okay—or at least, she was getting there. She'd spent a whole morning focusing on things other than her grief. Plus she hadn't once thought about Seth Brubaker doing nefarious things. In fact, she still wasn't thinking about Seth Brubaker doing ne farious things when she wheeled her bike around the side of the house.

And there was Seth Brubaker.

Actually doing nefarious things.

In fact, if anything, the word "nefarious" was far too kind a way to describe his current behavior. Nefarious sounded more like something a cartoon villain would do, in a kiddie show that played on a Saturday morning. But this was full-blown, prime-time adult nonsense of the very highest degree. He could have stepped straight out of an episode of Criminal Minds —and not just because he had the moody clothes and the angry mouth and the permanent scowl.

Because he was totally being a criminal .

He had one whole leg inside the living room window. Even though the living room window was about four feet off the ground. He had to have really struggled to get it all the way up there, she imagined—and in a way that was very bad for him. Firstly, because it meant he couldn't immediately detach himself and run off into the woods. Or even just saunter away casually while she gawped like a guppy at whatever this was.

And secondly and more importantly: because it gave him no possible way to explain.

There was no excuse he could give. No claims of accidents that could realistically have put him in this state. He had nothing, and his expression said he blatantly knew it. Though god knows he tried all the same.

"Oh, hey, Cassie," he said.

And to his credit, his voice almost hit breezy. He even managed a little hand wave. Like they'd just bumped into each other on the street.

"Seth, do you realize that your foot is inside my grandmother's house," she said. But even after she had, he still tried to maintain that casual, cheery manner.

"I do realize that. In fact I was just about to remove it from said house."

"That's good, that's really good. But you know what would be better?"

"I feel like I do, but probably you should fill me in anyway."

" Not having your foot inside her house in the first place."

"Yep. That's about what I imagined."

He nodded, then. As if to underline what he'd said. But she could tell just by the tone of his voice that he knew he was beaten. An audible wince ran through it. And a healthy dollop of resignation. And when he finally managed to meet her gaze, those feelings were visible in his eyes. Go ahead and finish me off , they seemed to say.

So she obliged. "Then I guess now is where you tell me what possessed you to go ahead and do this batshit thing. And lemme tell you, the reason better be incredible," she said. Though truthfully, she didn't expect him to come up with anything. And boy, were her instincts correct.

"All right, that's fair. But I mean, first I have to know what constitutes incredible to you in this situation. Just so that I have some idea of what I'm working with," he said, like the bullet-dodging bastard he was.

The worst part was, though, it worked.

She went with his flagrant attempt at changing the subject.

"Aliens abducted your feet while the rest of your body was still attached to them, and forced them through my grandmother's window," she suggested, then instantly regretted it. He almost smiled to hear her say it. Bare minimum, his eyes sparked with something like delight or triumph.

"Okay, how likely is it that I can get away with saying yes to that?" he tried.

Then somehow she just couldn't help answering him. "About as likely as me declaring you incredibly trustworthy and kind."

"Fuck, that is the most impossible thing I could ever imagine happening."

"Yup. It's very high on the no-fucking-way scale."

"I'd believe the aliens thing before that one."

"I guess you'd better come up with something better then."

She said it as flippantly and dismissively as she could. With an added eye roll at the end.

But here was the thing: he seemed to take it seriously. Like a challenge, of the kind he really wanted to put his back into. His brow furrowed; he looked skyward for inspiration. Then after what felt like a thousand years, he snapped his fingers.

"Got it. How about: I sleepwalked here. And then unconsciously climbed in the window," he said. And to be fair, he worked hard at making it sound plausible. She almost let herself consider it, for a moment. Then she remembered that all of this was ridiculous.

"That would be great. Really great. If it wasn't one thirty in the afternoon."

"Hey, maybe I go to bed super early."

"What, like noon?"

"Yeah," he tried to say.

Though she could tell he wasn't even convincing himself. His whole face was creased. And he was already bracing for her response. Which she duly gave him. "Even the elderly don't go to bed at noon, Seth."

"Okay, but I could be much older than I look."

"Dude, we were friends. Who went to the same high school ."

She said the last three words the same way people tell children that they can't eat crayons. However, it didn't really seem to sink in. Instead he almost immediately jabbed a finger at her.

"So did Edward and Bella. And he was, like, a hundred years old."

"I see. So you're going with you being a secret vampire, who unaccountably has some sort of narcolepsy that makes you sleepwalk in the afternoon."

"Yes. No. Hold on." He shook his head, almost desperately. "Go back to the part about school. I got all turned around."

"You got turned around because you were always incredibly terrible at keeping your story straight when forced to lie. And have apparently gotten even more terrible at that since we last spoke. I mean, holy shit, how do you ever get out of anything? Wait, don't tell me. I don't want to know that you told your mom your high school girlfriend got pregnant via divine conception."

He looked genuinely confused by that. Though she wasn't exactly sure how she could tell genuine from not, considering how thrown he seemed by all of this. He hadn't even taken the time to maneuver his leg out the window—that was how flummoxed he was.

And he continued to be, massively.

"What are you talking about? I never got my high school girlfriend pregnant. I didn't even really have a high school girlfriend," he said. As if she were describing a real scenario, instead of just flat-out making fun of him. Though she supposed it made sense that he didn't grasp that, considering who she was dealing with.

He probably hadn't had anyone roast him in years.

"See, I know that's true, and yet you're so bad at lying I'm kind of doubting."

"Well don't, because I'm being completely honest with you."

"About everything except why you're climbing in my grandmother's bedroom window," she said, and he looked at it then. Like he'd never seen it in his life before.

Though he had good reason to be shocked. To ask incredulously, "This is your grandmother's bedroom window?"

Because mostly she was just being a sneaky asshole now.

"No. I just wanted to see if you reacted like you knew that."

"Why would you want to do a thing like that?"

"Because I'm honestly starting to suspect you were sleeping with her."

That got a real reaction out of him. Or at least the kind of reaction she'd been expecting since he'd first rolled up to her door. So far he'd gone really softball on things she would have thought he'd hammer her over. And there was a strange quality to his behavior, too, that she couldn't quite place. A kind of vulnerability, she wanted to call it.

Even if that seemed silly.

"I wasn't sleeping with her. The age gap would have been out rageous," he exploded. Voice almost high and way too loud, eyes flashing, body suddenly battling hard with the window he was still half caught in. And once he was free he didn't immediately get in her face.

He didn't do anything, in fact.

He just glared at her. But even that reaction seemed to quickly die. He took a couple of calming breaths, and it was gone. And once it was—once that flare of anger had dissipated—he did something even stranger. Something she couldn't fathom but understood all the same.

"You know what, just forget it. Forget it," he said, and she could hear it in his voice. She could see it in his face. This was weary resignation, plain and simple. Like he was too exhausted to keep fighting. Even though fighting someone like her should have been a cake walk. Not even just a cake walk—it was supposed to be something he enjoyed.

But boy did he seem to be doing the opposite of enjoying this.

He looks old somehow , her mind suggested.

And even though that was a bizarre thing to think, she couldn't help acknowledging the truth in it. His pallor was just a little bit grayer than usual; there were dark circles under his eyes. And his expression had sagged just a bit farther than an expression on a twenty-something face should. All of which made her go easier than she really wanted to.

"I can't forget it when you haven't told me what it actually is," she said.

But either he didn't hear the gentleness in her voice, or he was too distracted to care. "Nothing, okay? There was just a book your grandmother promised I could borrow. But you were justifiably never going to let me have it. So…," he said, with such despair in his voice that she couldn't doubt his claim. Even though it was about books, and promises, and other things Seth Brubaker had long stopped giving a shit about, she could hear that he was telling her the truth.

And that shook her a little.

It made her want to ask, which book? Then of course her mind automatically went to the ones with Gram's recipes in them. Maybe he wanted to make Feel Better Soup too , she found herself thinking, and kind of wanted to laugh.

Only here was the thing: she couldn't laugh. It wasn't possible.

Because that thought felt true. Right in her bones. Deep in some weird part of her. It felt completely and wholly true. And oh man, she just did not know how to deal with that in any way whatsoever. It was too at odds with everything she knew about him, and all her own feelings about how this was supposed to play out, and by the time she'd managed to process both issues enough to ask him about any of this, he was halfway into the woods. Like he knew his cause was lost, so felt no need to continue talking to her.

Even though for the first time in years…

She actually wanted to talk to him.