Excerpt 2.

Dash Baxter
and the little house of everyday horrors.

There is a suburb in Amity Park called The Hills that is entirely flat. It's a series of vacant lots and man-made drainage ditches haphazardly scattered between picket fences and powerwashed driveways. The Hills is a result of the 2008 housing market crash; half desolate wasteland and half American dream. The houses are aligned in rows down poorly paved streets; they all match in style and vary between shades of light to dark blue. They're clustered in packs of ten to twelve; between each group, fields overgrown with half dug foundations and stacks of rotted plywood rule. Despite the international recovery of the housing market, The Hills never continued is the kind of wasteland that truly represents the micro-apocalypse that ghost attacks created for Amity Park.

A black-paved street stretches out beyond abandoned projects, beyond the last cluster of neighborhood, and carves a path through unused dirt roads to a cul de sac. Inside of the cul de sac there is only one house. It has a yard, and a fence, and a tree. The walls are painted blue, though the entire first floor has been tinged brown by dust. Behind the house a series of ramps and winding paths stretch across untreated soil; two bikes wind on this beaten trail. Their chains hum like buzzards, the handles refract the afternoon sun. The two riders drop into a rainwater ditch and leap out the other side; they part from the well-worn track toward the lonely blue house.

Dash Baxter propped his bike against the wall between a dying hedge and a collection of sun-bleached snow shovels. He tossed off his riding goggles and hung them on worn handlebars; thin red lines left an imprint around his eyes. Dash checked the driveway. Empty. "Mom's still not home," he announced, and stretched. The frayed ends of his favorite riding jacket strained against movement. He twisted his wrist, the one with an ash colored scar underneath a tear in his gloves.

Kwan hopped off his red rider, removing a real riding helmet - the kind that cost more than a flat screen TV and protected his entire face from chin to visor. He carefully situated his bike in the shade, with a wall to protect it from the wind and set the kickstand. "Water," he rumbled, his hair stuck flat to his forehead. The house had a wooden porch, a red door, and navy blue shutters that were all fixed closed. He marched up the steps and pushed open the door, but paused to remove his jacket and strip his gloves, fold them, and place them neatly on the seat of a cracked porch chair. "You coming?"

Dash remained by his bike. He shook his head. "I need to get the mail."

"'Kay."

Their mailbox was the kind intended for a community, containing several mailboxes in one. Every numbered box was brand new, untouched, and rusting. One stood out amongst the others with significantly more scarring and BAXTER scribbled across it in faded black marker. A year prior, Dash affixed the mail key to a coated wire, which looped between the slats of their mailbox and hung low to the ground. This is mainly because Dash sincerely hated getting new keys from the post office as much as he hated asking his mom where the last one went.

He snagged the hanging key and opened the small cupboard, plucked out three letters for Helena Baxter (electricity bill, hospital bill, spam), one for Current Resident (spam), and a small brass key. This key, for the security of suburban neighborhoods, meant a package waited in one of the slightly larger cupboards in the multi-mailbox. "Finally," Dash muttered, shoving the key into a lock labeled P1. The irony of suburban security in an area where thieves were most often of the walking-through-walls kind was not lost on Dash when he opened the second mailbox and pulled out a small, light package with his name on it.

He shoved the box under his arm and returned home. Kwan was on a barstool in the kitchen nursing a bottle of water and flipping through radio stations. He saw Dash come in and settled on smooth jazz 98.1 featuring a lonely saxophone. Dash nudged the box onto the counter and turned on the sink to rinse a cup. "Is that the thing?" Kwan asked, leaning over the bar to reach into the sink; their hands brushed. Kwan pulled out a paring knife and set to opening the package. Dash watched, wordless, as styrofoam was exposed.

Kwan pulled out a user's manual and an Amazon receipt, then lifted the styrofoam out. It was a taped-together square that Kwan pried apart; shelled in the middle was a camera. Compared to all of the other equipment Dash had once owned, the MLX Night Vision Compatible Handheld was…

Small.

Kwan dislodged it from the styrofoam and proceeded to unpack the accessories; a battery pack, complete with short-cord charger. A small photo booklet featuring various tripods and coupons. A free 30-day trial CD with mediocre editing software. Kwan laid it all out on the bar. Dash dried his cup and filled it with water, took a sip, and frowned at the equipment. "Well," Kwan said with a measured amount of hope, "you can work with this."

Dash frowned. It wasn't the Panasonic HMC. It wasn't two years of collected footage. It wasn't a nearly finished film that only needed an audio tune-up. He shrugged.

"You okay?"

"It'll work." His glass clanked too hard when he set it on the counter, exposing far too much of what he was feeling. "I've just got a lot of work to do. A new angle to come up with. Different types of footage to gather…"

"I'll help." Kwan gathered up all the trash and carried it around the corner. He lifted the trashcan lid and paused.

"What?"

"Nothing." Kwan shoved the remains of packaging into the garbage, but it was too late. He stepped aside, resigned, when Dash came up behind him and lifted out the styrofoam. He plucked from the top of the pile (hadn't even bothered to hide this one) a small orange bottle. Helena Baxter, Risperidone. It rattled, full. All of a sudden, his head hurt. "This cost eighty dollars."

Kwan touched his arm.

Dash scattered the box on the floor and dug deeper into the trash, teeth set on edge. Kwan stepped back as the orange bottle sailed through the air, struck the backsplash, and rolled into the sink. Dash threw used plastics and paper towels onto the floor, digging until he recovered another bottle, orange; it didn't rattle at all. Dash opened it and spilled the contents onto his hand; dust remained. The prescription was over two months old. Oxycodone. The attribution prescribed for Dash Baxter. "Guess I know where these went now."

"Shit," Kwan murmured, so close, too close, not close enough. Dash rubbed his head, hoping a migraine might just appear and make him think of nothing else. "Dash - "

"No, it's fine." He dropped the empty bottle back in the trash. "I just can't wait to get out of here. I'm getting out. Soon."

A hand fell on his lower back, wide and warm. Dash leaned against it. His head buzzed. He needed a computer with enough power to handle editing, which would mean he'd have to trek to the library on the north side of town, and he needed eight hundred dollars to fix his car, so he'd have to take the bus - that's a three hour journey, not to mention the time it took to edit. He still had one working external hard drive with a couple of old audio files he might be able to salvage… "If my hard drives weren't all corrupted by the ghost of what is 4k then I'd still have my raw footage. If mom wasn't fucking crazy I'd still have my desktop - " he stopped himself. The hand on his back moved in circles; Kwan knew all of this already. He didn't need to lament about his camera or the pills or his empty trust fund. He didn't need pity.

Kwan turned him around and took his hand; Dash still wore gloves, fingers brushed against his scar and the part of his wrist that was still numb from the surgery. It ached as much as his head. Dash dropped his eyes; Kwan's belt and his jeans and his shoes were all pristine, pressed, and clean. "You don't have to…" He muttered, falling silent when Kwan rested his other hand on his hip. He became aware of his dry and cracked lips, unnaturally warm ears, a warmth in his face.

Kwan snorted, "You're blushing."

"It's a sunburn."

The strange thing about damaged nerve endings was that the brush of a hand over a scar is easily confused, and the brain can receive sensation in places inches from the actual location. Kwan passed his thumb over the patch of discolored skin on his wrist, and Dash received the feeling on an untouched section of his forearm ghosting in the opposite direction. He shivered. "Pretty weird sunburn." His hand went to Dash's neck, lightly tracing up next to his ear. "I think it's getting worse."

Dash rolled his eyes. "You've seen stranger things."

Kwan grinned, close enough their breath met the same air, their noses touched. "I don't think so."

Dash grinned, leaning in. Their lips brushed in the beginning of a kiss -

The familiar rumble of a garage door split them apart. They leapt. In a practiced and efficient manner Dash collected all the trash back in the bin; Kwan gathered the camera equipment and cleared off the counter. Together they quickly and quietly retreated to the second floor. Dash kicked his bedroom door shut, Kwan tossed himself into a bean bag chair and stuffed the camera and battery under a pile of clothes.

"I left her medicine in the sink," Dash whispered, panicked. Kwan propped his feet on Dash's desk chair and picked up Dash's old DS; a door banged shut downstairs.

"Nothing you can do now," He said. Dash picked up a book (History of the Nation) and flung himself onto his bed.

The stairs creaked. Dash stared at a paragraph and read the words over and over without absorbing a word. They remained poised like statues, trying to breathe less obviously. The doorknob jiggled.

A woman with a thin nose and a sloping forehead opened the door. She carried a white purse; a couple of crinkled receipts and an open box of cigarettes hung limp from the bag. Helena pressed thin lips together, her cheeks had a pink tinge and her bleached hair lay glossy and flat over her ears. Her eyes swept the room, pausing on Kwan's propped shoes, unfinished laundry heaps, and finally landing on Dash. "I bought a rotisserie chicken." Her voice rang hoarse. "It's on the counter."

Dash nodded at the book, the picture of a student too wrapped up in a chapter to look up. "Did you buy anything else?"

"Cheerios."

"No vegetables?"

"Dash," she sighed, wringing her hands on her purse; the white leather was cracked and worn around the handle, "you know I don't like to cook after a long day."

Not all vegetables need to be cooked, Dash thought, pulling his eyes from the book. "I was just asking since we've been out for a week. I can pick some up tomorrow on my way home."

"Way home? From where?"

"The yard." Dash went back to his book, turned a page. He realized this was a history book from middle school that he had neglected to return. He pulled his arm over the illustration on the left of the page that distinguished its true intended age group. "Tomorrow's Sunday."

His mother tilted her head, her face empty. Then she squinted and frowned. "You're going back to that place?"

"It's where I work."

"I said I don't want you going back." She hooked the strap of her purse over her shoulder and placed her hands on her hips. "Look at your hand! You can barely use it!"

"The doctor cleared me to go back to work," Dash muttered. "You were there. You agreed."

"I don't remember agreeing."

"Well you did."

"Don't put words in my mouth!" She gestured at Kwan. "I saw the helmet on the counter. Were you riding today too? You're going to get hurt on those ramps, you're going to get hurt at the lumber yard - I am not going to lose another child."

Kwan sank further into the beanbag, frozen. Dash turned another page, so accustomed to this tactic of argument that his words followed a routine pattern rather than a thoughtful reply. "Sorry mom," he wasn't, "I thought you said you were okay with it."

She scowled. "I never said that." She glared at Kwan. "And I don't want you having friends over if they're going to talk you into doing dangerous things, either."

"We stayed on the streets," Dash lied; he closed the book and pushed it behind himself. "No jumps, no trails."

Helena Baxter dropped her shoulders, her purse dropped around her elbow. The empty box of cigarettes fell. Helena did not notice. She leaned on the doorway, and her frustration shifted to an exhaustion. "Oh," her voice lowered and wavered, "well. I don't want you pushing yourself. You could get hurt."

"Sorry."

"Okay," Helena sighed, "I'm worried, that's all. You know your mom worries." She covered her mouth and laughed. Her eyes crinkled, the blatant cheer to her voice mixed false bravado and forced confidence. "I guess I'm a bad mom for worrying too much. Did you get all of your homework done?"

"Yeah."

"Did Kwan?"

Kwan looked up from the DS. There was no actual game in the dock, and he used the shift of focus to slide the console out of sight before she noticed. "All done. Even got some extra credit done for my anatomy class." He steadied his feet on the ground and leaned forward to expertly shift the topic of discussion away from Dash's extracurricular activities. "I've been applying to colleges. My dad wants me to get into nursing, because of all the scholarships, but I'm not really sure about it."

Helena nodded, her attitude changed. She plucked at the stained front pocket of her purse and her eyes became clouded and distant. "Sciences are very important. Dash wants to apply for engineering, or maybe medicine; I think he wants to be like his little brother Andrew." Dash tensed. "Did you know Andrew wanted to be a dentist?" Helena pressed on dreamily. "He was one for Halloween when he was ten…"

"That wasn't Halloween," Dash corrected. He toed his laundry into a more compact heap by the bed. "Andrew was in Little Shop of Horrors and he was twelve."

"He would have made such a good dentist," Helena continued as if she hadn't heard him. "If you had met him, Kwan, you would agree. He had a very nice smile, and very white teeth, and he loved the tooth fairy so much he would write letters to her..." She faded off and then folded her arms, rubbing them absently. "Well. Anyway. You don't stay too late, alright? Dash can't have friends stay over."

"I remember," Kwan said.

She smiled and left, wandering down the hall like a ghost unfamiliar with the path. Kwan got up and closed the door, clicking it shut as quietly as he could. Dash flopped on the bed, arms stretched, glow in the dark stars formed the constellation Leo above him. He eyed the lines between each point, thinking of the solo lion. The patience to hunt, the will to survive, the perseverance to live without the strength of a pack.

"So…" Kwan joined him on the bed. "You haven't told her about California."

Dash snorted. "I'm not telling her until my stuff's in the back of the truck, the motor's running, and I'm leaning out the window to shout I'll be in Los Angeles at her while I hit the goddamn gas."

Kwan rolled onto his side; his head obscured the triangle-shaped bottom of Leo. "Has she been talking about Andrew a lot?"

Dash shrugged, dropping to a whisper. "When she skips her medication she kind of jumps between topics. Andrew always comes up. So does dad, but only when she's really angry; usually to tell me I'm the reason he's gone." He didn't care about that anymore. It used to bother him, a lot, he used to argue back more than anything. But arguing with his mother was like convincing a wall to move. Now he just argued with other people. Those were easier battles to win. "I know why she's home late so often," he added quietly.

Kwan rested his arm on Dash's chest. The move usually made him uncomfortable, without a lock on his door to keep anyone from bursting in, but they were on high alert. Kwan was fast. They're fine. "Where is she going?"

"Paulina told me she saw her." He sat up, Kwan's hand slipped off and he followed suit. Their shoulders met, Dash leaned against him. "There's a cult downtown that tries to summon spirits of the recently deceased. Bunch of crackpot psychics and cons. Paulina said they're not doing witchcraft right."

Kwan's eyebrow rose. "You got Paulina to talk about witchcraft?"

"A little." He flushed. "It wasn't easy. I just wanted to know, you know, if mom really was… making contact. She understood."

"And?"

"She said ghosts don't form fast enough for that. It's only been four years, if he's going to become something, it won't be for a while," he bit his lip, "and, uh, according to the other research I looked up it's more or less confirmed that ghosts take like a century to form, at minimum twenty-five-ish years."

Doing research on ghosts became a fad when Mr. Lancer's junior year pro-con writing prompts came out. Unlike the usual political abortion or no abortion debate, Lancer released only one topic. Ghosts. Good or evil. Thus, the great Amity debate began. Never before had a mass collective of 400 students put so much work into an essay. It won them scholarships, awards, prestige; but most of all, it made supernatural knowledge common knowledge. Visits to the Fenton's in-home bookshelf became more common than visiting a library. The GIW set up recruitment booths at the school that passed out a wild amount of informational booklets but failed to catch any recruits. Paulina began a ghost awareness and activism program. Sam Manson screenprinted free pro-ghosts t-shirts for her events. Every debate lesson and classroom in the school discussed privileges, applications of human rights, and hunting. Dash was pro-ghost rights (his best friend would never forgive him if he wasn't) but Kwan was anti-ghost in general; he wasn't interested in research, not after Mikey died.

Dash was sick the day he was killed. Kwan saw it happen. He was never really comfortable talking about ghosts after the funeral, and no potential for scholarships convinced him otherwise.

Kwan dug out the MLX from Dash's dirty laundry. He gave it to Dash, a gesture of support. "Where are we filming next?" It seemed Dash was the only one left Kwan took an interest in ghosts for.

Dash's face grew hot. More sudden sunburns, obviously. "I don't know. Mom found my police radar and threw it off the balcony." He turned over the camera, inspecting the rudimentary buttons of an average handheld recorder. The lens was fat and square and the same length of the camera body, with a latch to remove the night-vision appendage. "I'm thinking of something along the lines of calling it the Blair Ghost Project. Film in some wooded areas, that kind of thing."

Kwan made a face. "I liked Spirit Journals better."

"Can't go back and redo all my interviews," Dash muttered. "Not with the semester ending, and mom's got me signed up for eight different summer camps…"

"Summer camp!" Kwan brightened. "That's perfect. We have until August, there's always creepy stuff in a summer - "

"The closest one is two hundred miles from Amity," Dash deadpanned. "She knows I want to make the film. She's blocking me at every turn, there's almost no activity a hundred miles outside the city."

Kwan considered. "Well," he ran his fingers through his hair, "there's gotta be some way to fix that."

Dash had a plan; make the movie.

Win a full-ride scholarship.

Move to California.

Be free.

"Yeah," Dash sighed, "we'll find a way to make it work."

Now all he really needed were the ghosts.

Shout out to the closet my ex boyfriend and I shared in high school. May I always remember you as the cleverest and most empathetic beard (even if you couldn't grow one).

-Catalyst

Up next:
Chapter Three: Call for Backup
(wrong number)