Chapter Text
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to." -J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
There was a time when all those who grew up beyond the wooded borders of Barred Branch knew the stories: the place was haunted, an eternal shadow cast over its quaint downtown and tranquil neighborhoods as punishment for the horrors inflicted within the walls of the asylum (ostensibly a hospital that had once treated people with afflictions ranging from actual mental illness to "having a uterus") that now served as the local university's maintenance & service building. Everyone knew someone who'd been dared by so-and-so's cousin to walk the grounds at night only to be sent sprinting, pale-faced and screaming, back to their still running cars. Some of the folks who knew it as home called the people who gossiped fools, all the while making sure to draw their curtains shut after sundown lest the prying eyes of something unknowable fall upon their families and begin to hunger.
Every illness, tragedy, and stroke of bad luck was blamed on whatever entities or negative energies were supposed to infect every root and fill every crack in the pavement. Visitors returned to their own cities with wild accounts of talking animals and objects moving of their own accord. When a less far-fetched explanation presented itself, as it often did, the previous hysteria was laughed away in a sort of uneasy display of humility - but never enough to potentially anger whatever listened.
For years, retirees gathered at diners over stale coffee and designated the place "just plain weird" to a chorus of mumbled agreement. Those more skeptical of the claims - including a fair number of exasperated residents - attributed the rumors to the sort of closed-minded thinking urban dwelling folk often directed toward the more rural parts of the state. University of Barred Branch professors, eyes half lidded with apathy, cited folklore arising from misunderstood and bastardized oral histories as the source of the tall tales. Local business owners only barely tolerated it all, happy of the boost in sales that the hearsay provided but admittedly tired of retelling the same exaggerated yarns to starry eyed tourists day in and out.
Regardless of personal belief, it seemed that most folks would have simply preferred to pretend that whatever the fuck was going on, if anything, was easily explained via perfectly normal, sensible means. It was all the result of residents not having enough to do except drink and stare out into the hills from the comfort of their front porches. As time marched on and people became engrossed in their phones rather than finding themselves bored with too much time to think, the interest in the potentially paranormal dwindled and attitudes became more pragmatic.
It was more comforting than the idea that the crackling whispers emanating from the pines at the edge of Niabi Lake on foggy nights was coming not from from the wind in the branches, but wet, gaping mouths.
These days the area enjoys the sort of eccentric yet bittersweet stability that only a college town can experience. The local historical society, solely owned and operated by one very devoted woman, Phyllis Goldstock, shut down last year, its old Victorian headquarters converted into apartments shortly after her death seeing as no one could be bothered with its upkeep, leaving the university to pick through her carefully curated artifacts and condemn the unwanted bits to storage. Rumored to be jinxed knickknacks and portraits in restaurants have been replaced with more modern decorations, petrified boys looking to impress potential girlfriends have stopped pulling up to the graveyards and lookouts, hushed whispers turned to jokes. The occasional inquisitive soul might yet come around from time to time, hoping to catch a glimpse of something out of the ordinary, but they usually leave disappointed. Some of the undergrads might even call it boring, the kind of place that's good for those looking to raise a family but not so much for individuals of a more adventurous spirit.
Still, it's exactly those qualities that draw the occasional newcomer in like a moth lured to a tempting flame. A place with enough history and oddities to tickle the fancy of a spry mind without the overwhelming chaos of an imposing city, a place where someone can enjoy a semblance of peace without the accompanying madness of total isolation. Eerie, but not enough to rob precious sleep. Pleasant, but not enough to be stifling. To hide without hiding, to get away without going too far - as good a place as any to start anew…
"Ma'am?"
Kris blinks, the world coming back into focus with dizzying speed. For a moment, she forgets entirely who and where she is. What is her name? What's she doing? Who let her out of the house unsupervised? The car behind her in line honks twice in quick succession; oh, right. Not even a month freshly divorced and she's managed to fuck up a task even as simple as this with her melancholic musings.
"What? I'm sorry, I-" she stammers quickly into the unfeeling drive-thru speaker, the menu behind it glitching out and periodically flipping between breakfast and lunch items even though it's nearly 8pm.
A loud, exasperated sigh from the employee whose minimum wage job she's somehow made even worse. "I said, do you want to make that a combo for $2.00 more?"
"Yes. Please. A Diet Coke is fine. Thank you. Fuck- shit, you didn't hear that, did you? Sorry - wasn't directed at you. I love and respect service workers-"
"Please pull to the second window, ma'am."
"Yep. You got it, boss."
Boss. Kris nearly slams her forehead into her steeling wheel as hard as she can. The grimace hasn't faded from her face by the time she pulls up to the empty window, credit card in hand, privately wondering miserably about when exactly she shifted from "miss" to "ma'am."
While she waits, Kris makes the mistake of looking at herself in the rearview mirror. Jesus fuck. She looks exhausted. Not entirely surprising given that she's just driven eight hours through little but cornfields occasionally interrupted by strip malls. But with the setting summer sun beaming onto her unkempt, coffee-colored curls, the gray strands that seem to reproduce overnight are becoming more and more apparent. They're almost laughing at her, a reminder of all the goddamn time she wasted. She's thankful when the bag of delicious grease and carbs appears at the periphery of her vision, the smell of 800 extra daily calories enough to convince her not to drive off the nearest bridge.
Less than an hour more 'til Barred Branch. She doesn't bother to pull off somewhere to eat; she's anxious to finish her long highway marathon and, with any luck, never have to white-knuckle it alone like this again. The back seat and trunk of her old Ford Taurus are filled with random, assorted knick-knacks and items that she couldn't part with or sell off when she left that godforsaken house behind. Knitting needles, barely raveled skeins of yarn, journals and fancy pen sets she never opened for fear of ruining them rattle around at every bump and crack in the pavement. The one coworker she'd been able to stand at her old job, who had graciously helped her with her spontaneous and frankly ill-planned flight, had more than once politely suggested that perhaps she didn't need all this crap, but had Kris listened? No. No she had not.
It was the first of many quiet rebellions waged in a hopeful attempt to regain some semblance of a life deferred.
Kris shoves a handful of fries into her mouth, washes it down with a slurp of syrupy goodness. Belches. There's no cute truckers in either lane next to her, so who gives a fuck. In some ways, she can barely believe she's gone through with this. Her father still hasn't texted back; he'd left her on read when it became clear that no, she really was going to blow up what remained of her professional and romantic life and wipe the slate clean. He hasn't even asked for her new address.
There's finally signs of civilization beginning to show now, even though in the waning light she can't see it very well. Little darkened houses occasionally distinguished by backyard bonfires or fairy lights in an upstairs bedroom dot the hills surrounding the highway, blink at her like curious but cautious eyes observing the newcomer. Unlike the billboards, lit up like Christmas trees, proudly demanding the viewer to stop at the upcoming fishing and hunting supply store or to call the local personal injury attorney who will definitely win you money wearing the worst toupee Kris has ever had the misfortune of seeing. She'd been to this part of her home state only once before, when her parents had dragged her from college to college as though it was the most impactful decision she would ever be faced with in her life, and one she was expected to make as a hormonally imbalanced, depressed and angry teenager. She'd settled on the state university and had no regrets, but something about Barred Branch's strange charm had haunted her from a distance all these years.
Perhaps a shallow if not outright stupid reason to settle on a new home, but it was her reason all the same.
It isn't until she's halfway through her burger that Kris realizes she never turned the radio back on. She's been driving in silence filled by her own thoughts, fears swirling together and forming horrifying chimeras of the worst possible outcomes her anxiety could manage. Some asshole college kid on a crotch rocket zooms by in the passing lane, at least 30 mph over the limit, of course not wearing a helmet. She nearly mutters under her breath about the arrogance of youth before thinking better of it and punching the audio system on with more force than necessary.
"…as we roll into the weekend, expect temperatures to keep climbing into the upper 80s or even the low 90s by Sunday afternoon. By the time this year's incoming freshman class at BBU moves in next week, hopefully we'll have some relief. Now over to Carolyn with the headlines…"
Shit fuck fuck god dammit ass. Kris hates the heat. She always has, ever since she was a little girl pouting on the sidelines at her forced soccer matches begging her father, who wasn't listening, to go home to her books and air conditioning. If she'd been of a sound mind when she planned this great escape, she might have thought about not moving in fucking August, but it's far too late to avoid the very sweaty introductions now. The movers have already lugged her furniture into her unit, thank god, but maybe she ought to consider leaving most of her shit in the car until it cools down. None of it is meltable… probably.
The lower and lower the remaining miles drop on the roadside signs, the heavier reality sits on Kris's shoulders. The crumpled fast food bag is chucked without a second thought onto the passenger seat floor, lost amidst a pile of haphazardly packed winter coats and boots. Won't be needing those for a while.
She sighs, tries to shake off the doubt as it tries to pry her open with its cold, hateful fingers. Even if she could turn back - which she absolutely cannot - why would she? There's nothing left for her in her picturesque suburban farce of an existence. She could have found a rebound partner, yes, even perhaps kept the house if she'd cared more or fought a little harder. The promotion she'd been promised three times over at work would have come through eventually. As many miserable reminders of… everything existed there, she had stability. A way forward.
Here? She doesn't know anyone. Unless you counted the leasing office woman she'd spoken to approximately two times - once to view the apartment, the next time to sign the paperwork - there wasn't even a friend of a friend that she knew of in the entire town.
She didn't even bother finding a job. She'd told the Idlewood Apartments staff that she was working remotely for her old company - believable, given that she was essentially pumping out slop articles with the sole purpose of garnering clicks rather than any serious journalism - but that wasn't true. She'd stopped just short of taking a dump on her former boss's desk, to be honest. People had said she was insane, acting irrationally in the face of a major life upheaval. Maybe they were right. All she could hope was that her not insubstantial but also not infinite savings could sustain her until she found something tolerable that didn't pay scraps.
Off to her left, to the east, Kris catches the brief, glittering surface of the lake which draws summertime campers and kayakers from far and wide, or so the tourist brochures all say. The rising moon paints its surface in a shock of silver that vanishes just as quickly as it appears behind another hillside as the highway dips down toward the town proper; her exit is imminent. Kris signals to get into the right lane, even though there's no one behind her, and for the first time in what feels like years gently presses on the brake.
The first building that greets her when she turns off of I-71 onto Meadowlark Avenue, the main street that bisects what passes for the city's downtown, is the huge, porcelain-colored and ornate towers of city hall. It almost feels comically large compared to the rest of the architecture, like whoever built it must have been compensating for something or at the very least wanted people to think the place was serious business rather than a quaint little logging community that morphed into a college town over many long decades. They've clearly tried to soften its presentation by hiring someone to plant a bunch of flowering shrubs in hues of pink and purple all around the perimeter, but if you ask Kris, it's only served to make the place look more ridiculous, as if - despite being in the Midwest - a Southern dandy is going to emerge at any moment and talk about "having a case of the vapors."
It's a Friday night, so she has to wait for a few college students on the prowl for cheap beer and sloppy sex to cross the street before she makes her turn. She's almost envious of them; they're young enough to make stupid mistakes and more or less emerge unscathed. And they should. Maybe if she'd been allowed… no, allowed herself to do the same, she wouldn't be in this mess.
Her earlier anxieties seem less and less realistic with each warm, yellow-orange storefront window passed. This is not Mars - it's a town 3 and a half hours south of where she grew up. There's life here - lots of it, judging by the fact that there seems to be a line outside the gastropub-looking restaurant in the collection of buildings across the street from her apartment complex. That's half the reason she picked this area to live in; there's actually shit going on, albeit not so much that she's likely to be kept up until 3am. Her apartment's across a small alley from an art supplies store and sitting right above an oddities shop that she's eager to explore whenever she stops feeling sorry for herself for more than five minutes.
A part of her wants to drive around, explore the city a touch after nightfall - she's only seen it a few times during daylight hours - but the adrenaline from not just the day's travels but really the last year's worth of irritations and annoyances has begun to wear off all at once, it seems. Despite only needing to drive a few blocks to reach her turn, it suddenly feels as if she's on the longest leg of her journey; as if simply to antagonize her, it seems like everyone out driving on the road with her has decided to go at least 15 under the speed limit.
Dear Lord, I just want to take off my bra and go to bed. Possibly become engrossed in whatever terrible reality show is trending on Netflix. Is that so fucking much to ask?
While she waits for a man in a gargantuan Escalade with a Nevada license plate - probably someone's very lost and confused visiting father - to decide if he's actually turning left or not, Kris's gaze wanders to the surrounding businesses once more. Unlike most towns of this size anymore, there aren't really many empty storefronts to be seen. Either the city has done their best to create the illusion of a healthy economy or there really are some thriving little places here; it's probably the latter, now that she thinks about it. The university is private, meaning the kinds of people who send their kids here are probably sending them with ample spending change, and the hilly, forested landscape that encompasses them on all sides is popular with in state and out of state outdoorsy types alike.
Outside of what appears to be a spa or salon, window crammed with an impressive amount of houseplants - including possibly the largest monstera ever recorded - there's a woman with blonde hair interrupted by a shock of pink dye at the ends who looks like she's balancing five tasks at once, including talking on her cell phone while sweeping debris from the sidewalk in front of her shop. She has the expression of someone trying to keep it together and remain pleasant while privately fantasizing about taking a baseball bat to someone's skull. Kris knows that feeling all too well. At last traffic moves faster than a snail's pace and she's able to pull away, the nearly hidden entrance to the parking lot behind her building beckoning her home.
The structure is old, heavy limestone that simultaneously looks as if someone's tried very hard to keep it up but also had no real idea what they were doing. It looms overhead as she passes, not ominously, but in such a way that makes her feel as if its assessing her somehow. That was part of its charm, Kris thought. The strangeness and the eccentricity There were places where they hadn't even tried to match the mortar work colors, but god dammit they had done their best to improve the structural integrity. She pulls around to the darkened parking lot out back and, with a heavy sigh, kills the engine - and, in a way, the Kris that had existed up until this moment in time, at last.
The building is quiet, in contrast to the bustling street below.
There's a bit of a chill to the place, even now, but Kris doesn't mind at all. Former resident reviews had suggested that the building was barely livable in the winter which had frankly been a plus for her; you can always add layers, but there comes a point where you can't take any more off. She'll manage.
In spite of her earlier reservations, she's willed herself into carrying the rest of her shit into the apartment. She's never been one to suffer things hanging over her head, truth be told; she'll talk a big game about being lazy, but when push comes to shove, she can't stand ignoring a to-do list. The last tote bag of unused journals and watercolor paints is thrown over her shoulder as she tries desperately to hide the fact that she is embarrassingly out of breath and close to passing out after climbing one single flight of stairs.
There's only about eight units total; hers is on the end closest to the entrance, thank the good Lord. She's halfway to putting her key in the lock when she hears a sound from the other end of the hall.
A woman, tawny hair pulled into a tight braid that falls nearly to her backside. Dressed like she walked straight out of some cottagecore aesthetic blog, complete with a plaid skirt and mushroom patterned cardigan. She's struggling with a bag of groceries like you only see in cartoons, even with carrot tops sticking out of the top.
"Oh, darnit…" Kris hears her mutter when she drops her purse on the floor before she can step inside.
"Hey. Need some help?"
Kris's offer seems to startle her. She practically leaps in place, head swiveling to find the source of the sound. A small cat, black as night with giant yellow saucer eyes, peeks around the doorframe at her.
"W-what?"
"Uh, sorry. I'm new here. Did you need some h-"
"No. Thank you, no."
She ushers the cat quickly inside and slams the door behind her without so much as a nod.
Brilliant. First encounter with the neighbors and it's already gone to shit. Kris waits a moment to see if the other woman will reappear, then finally waves the white flag when the silence becomes suffocating.
Her apartment doesn't feel like home yet, unsurprisingly. It will, she promises herself, one day. But with all the boxes piled high and naught but her bed and couch fully unpacked, it's hard to see the little space as much more than a storage unit. She's got half of a sick pack in the fridge along with an opened bag of beef jerky, as well as one painting on the wall just because the precious tenant had forgotten to remove a nail and it was easy to hang up. It's her favorite: abstract, perhaps, but shapes and lines in various shades of purple, grey, and black.
Kris will allow herself the treat of unpacking tomorrow. Even though she hasn't managed to set up either of her televisions yet, she's gifting herself a quiet evening with as few thoughts as possible. Once the bag is dumped haphazardly in front of the closet, she peels herself out of her sweatpants and t-shirt to throw on her soft sleep shorts and State university tank top and slide into bed, possibly never to get out.
The walls are old and thick enough that whatever activity is unfolding on the street below, she hears none of it. She might as well be in her own little pocket of the universe, entirely alone and blessedly - if temporarily - unnoticed.
"Well, you stupid bitch, you really did it this time."
Her voice sounds flat, listless. She tells herself she just needs to sleep, that there's no point in trying to dissect her emotions right now, seeing as it's late at night and a lot has been going on. There's no clarity to be found in whatever her mind tries to churn out right now.
She's always loved stories. She'd begged her parents to read to her each night, far beyond the age where it was appropriate, simply because she could not sleep without a tale or two bouncing around in her mind. Now she has to settle for some stupid videos or reruns, but the concept is the same at heart. It's why she became a journalist, after all; ever since she could remember, she's been a storyteller and a story devourer. This feels like it should be the beginning of a particularly wonderful one; the kind where the down and out protagonist has their Hallmark story unfold before them, where they finally collect on all the painful bullshit they've been forced to endure seemingly for no reason.
But if life has taught Kris anything, it's that things don't play out like they do in fiction. The bad guys don't always lose. Love does not conquer all. Sometimes, where there ought to be a conclusion wrapped up with a bow and a lesson to be taken away, there is only deafening, heartbreaking silence.
Kris pulls out her phone, frowning at the crack in the corner of the screen as if that will somehow fix it. She scrolls Instagram, the only social media she hasn't yet deleted, despite knowing all she'll achieve is a sense of ennui tinged with envy. After about the fourth pregnancy announcement from someone she went to high school with, she promptly closes the app and vows to at least erase the shortcut.
Somehow, she resists the urge to check in on her old workplace. She doesn't need to know who they hired to fill her vacancy, if anyone; besides, if she has to see her ex-boss's headshot with her pearlescent, unnaturally straight teeth and overly straightened platinum blonde hair one more time, she'll need to run to the nearest liquor store.
She's so tired. She needs to sleep. There will be time to tackle the weight of the world tomorrow, but how to get her mind to settle long enough to drift off?
Kris opens her email. Her thumb hovers over the little pencil icon, her teeth gnaw at the inside of her cheek.
"Fuck it."
April,
Hey, weirdo.
How have things been on your end? Hope they're better than mine, but that's a pretty low bar to clear. Did you ever hear back from that job you applied for over in San Francisco? I still say nothing's worth moving to a state that's bound to crumble into the ocean if the droughts don't kill you first, but you know I've got your back no matter what.
I made it to Barred Branch. Finally. I know it's kind of a weird post-divorce place to end up; I wish I could explain why I picked it without sounding like a lunatic. I'm gonna have to move all my furniture around and I'm realizing my new closet is NOT going to fit the frankly irresponsible number of boots I've accumulated over the years (why didn't someone stop me?) but otherwise I'm feeling… okay. I thought I'd be lonelier, to be honest, or panicked once I realized that I was all alone on my first night.
But I feel fine. Maybe my body and brain just don't have the energy to freak out just yet, but there's something weirdly freeing in all of it. Things might very well end up terrible, but I'll be damned if I reappear back home with my tail between my legs.
I'd rather die. I know you won't like to hear that, but it's true.
I'm giving myself the weekend to be a slug, then I'll get down to job hunting. I'm hoping the university can use someone who can write. I mean, they should, right? Even if their newspaper doesn't need a journalist or editor, maybe they have an opening for a communications or PR person? There's always bartending if all else fails, but… that's a last resort.
I keep wondering what you'd do in this situation. What you'd tell me. I can't decide if you'd chew me out for being an irresponsible fool or if you'd say that I deserve happiness, no matter how crazy it sounds. I know that's selfish; you have your own problems. I'm not entitled to your thoughts.
But, to be honest, I sure could use them right now.
Talk soon,
K
Kris closes the app once the "sent" notification disappears. Her eyes feel heavy, along with her limbs, her heart.
April won't reply to her message. She hasn't responded in years.