The Dead and the Dark(11)

“Okay,” Logan said.

Alejo squeezed her hand. “I promise, that’s all it is.”

Behind Alejo, Brandon looked at his hands.

“I wish you left me in LA,” Logan said.

Alejo pulled Logan into a hug. “I know it sucks. We can’t leave, but your dad and I will do whatever we can to make it better.”

Logan burrowed deeper in her comforter. The patterned floral wallpaper, the ’70s wooden tables, the chipped crosshatch ceiling, the buzzing fluorescents—it was going to drive her crazy. She cast her arm over her forehead dramatically. “I need art or something. String lights. New pillows.”

Alejo eyed Brandon and nodded. “Decorations. We can do that.”

He lay back against the pillows alongside Logan. On the end of the bed, Brandon sat up straight. He eyed them wistfully and Logan thought he looked so lonely it hurt. He leaned in for a moment like he meant to lie down next to them but couldn’t. This was how it always went. He was always simultaneously here and a thousand miles away. She’d seen him make this face more times than she could count, and it felt like this every time.

“Hey,” Alejo whispered. He reached for Brandon’s hand.

Brandon stood and offered a pained smile. “It’s getting late. I’m gonna turn in for the night. You’re better night owls than me.”

Alejo said nothing. The door between rooms shut behind Brandon, and the two of them were left in an uneasy quiet. Logan cleared her throat. It wasn’t too late to make an appeal. “I feel like we don’t have to stay here.”

“No. We don’t.”

Alejo’s sweater rustled as he sank deeper into the mattress. Getting him to admit even that was a small victory. Alejo’s palm was pressed over his eyes, lips pressed in a taut frown.

Logan sat up. “Then what are we doing here? Like, really?”

“What do you mean?” Alejo asked.

“It’s been six months. What are you still trying to figure out?”

“Sometimes,” Alejo sighed, “it’s not about figuring things out. It’s about being a family. Your dad’s been dealing with this place all alone. The least we can do is come here and support him.”

“Oh yeah, because he’s been super supportive of us.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Alejo stared at the ceiling with a difficult expression. After a moment, he rolled over and pushed himself from the bed. As if to reassure her he wasn’t mad, he smiled, but it was mournful.

“It’ll look good in here with the string lights,” Alejo said. “Maybe we’ll go shopping tomorrow.”

Logan nodded. It was like she was drowning, but these weren’t waters she’d ever been in with Alejo. He wasn’t Brandon—they’d never had this wall of silence between them. She wanted to ask why Brandon had been here for so long. She wanted to ask about the missing boy. She wanted to beg him to leave.

Instead, she said, “Good night, Dad.”





Interlude


The Dark is not a monster.

It simply is.

It enjoys this world and its sorrows. It tastes the tang of fear on the wind. It has seen great and shining cities by the sea, lush forests absent of human life, deserts so wide they turn horizons to gold. But it likes Snakebite best of all. Snakebite is where the Dark was born. Snakebite is the Dark’s home.

The Dark is hungry tonight.

It is starving.

The host sits alone. He often sits alone, silently oscillating between guilt and apathy. The TV is on as it always is, playing a sports game that the host does not watch. The host cannot watch. He thinks about blood between his fingers. He thinks about the sounds of strangled gasps and crunching bones. These things didn’t used to plague the host’s thoughts, but now death is the only thing on his mind. Not fear of death, but desire for it.

The host needs death like he needs air to breathe.

You want it, don’t you? the Dark whispers to the host when they are alone. You’re strong, but not strong enough. Why not do what you want?

The host winces. “I will. Later. People are still scared.”

It’s been plenty of time, the Dark breathes. Its voice gusts through the room like a warm breeze. No one is looking anymore. No one cares. They have moved on. The same will be true of the next.

The host leans back in his chair. He doesn’t like being pressured like this, but the Dark has waited long enough for him to strike. It grows weaker with each passing day. It ebbs and flows in the shadows, swimming to stay alive while its useless host sits around and thinks.

“What’re you getting from this?” the host asks. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and closes his eyes. “Is this making you stronger?”

It has nothing to do with me, the Dark reminds him. I came to you because you need help. Hosts before you have been too afraid to understand what I offer. Do not run away from yourself.

The host looks at his hands.

This is only temporary, the Dark says. As I told you in the beginning, when you have the strength to stand on your own, I will leave you. When your heart tells you what it wants and you no longer hesitate to act, you will not need me.

The host likes this idea. He imagines himself roaming the country on a spree, too smart to be caught. He imagines news stations decrying his actions, horrified and fascinated by him in equal measure. He imagines the news articles written about him, trying to understand how he did it; how he got away with it. The Dark’s claws are sunken so deep into him he cannot feel them there. The host makes a contemplative click with his tongue. “What if you want me to do something I don’t wanna do?”