Beck drives slowly through town. At night, it’s practically blanketed in darkness. There are only a handful of streetlights, seemingly switched to their dimmest setting. We can barely make out signs on storefronts—gift shops full of bear toys and flannel, ice cream parlors,Christmas ornament stores, a handful of restaurants that closed at 8:00 p.m. We’re still another hour from any of the mid-tier ski resorts around here, Lake Arrowhead another wind through the mountain past us. Kingston isn’t exactly a tourist kind of national park, and the town seems to like not having its slumber disturbed. I don’t even see a dive bar.
I put my hands on the window, watching as a man pulls the metal grate over his storefront, the only human face we’ve seen since we entered town. The set of shops stops abruptly, falling into a vacant lot holding a single wooden cross with a few flowers nearby. I can barely make out the words IN HONOR OF THE VICTIMS OF THE2016WILDFIRES.
“I guess it’s…sad.”
Beck taps on the wheel. “And I thought the ghost part was only in that mining town Paisley said you found.”
I know it’s a small town, but it’s also so strange to see a place with literallyno oneout on the streets. No one walking dogs, no one getting in a late-night run, no delivery vehicles. Hell, I haven’t even seen a stray deer or black bear lumbering through.
It’s like something’s waiting in the wings, and everyone knows to stay away.
But we do find the motel, the only neon sign as far as the eye can see. It’s called KINGSTON MOTEL, the letters in a flickering red, the outline of a mountain done in purple. The doors on the five or so rooms are purple as well, but the whole place is liminal and lifeless, like an old movie set. I can’t imagine people sleeping behind those purple doors. The sign says vacancies, but something deep in my gut tells me we shouldn’t go any closer. Motels have bad raps from classic movies and everyday news headlines and social media. It all has to come fromsomewhere, some sort of truth. I didn’t feel unsafe in the parking lot for the campground, but here…people are more likely to hurt young girls within civilization than outside of it.
We don’t even make it into the parking lot before I say, “Let’s give ourselves a little distance from the motel.”
Beck exhales. “Oh, thank god. That place looks like we’d get murdered in a second.”
A pang hits my stomach hearing Beck usemurderin an exaggeration. I know the texter has all but said the word, but it still doesn’t feel real. I wonder if either of us will break the habit.
We end up parking in one of the farthest out spaces in the local supermarket parking lot, a few delivery trucks our only silent companions. I’ve seen a handful of videos of women who solo drive around the country, and as Beck falls asleep from the driving, I black out our windows and triple check that the doors are locked like the videos showed.
The last thing I notice before I go to sleep is that the service on my phone shifts to SOS.
I can only hope that the texter will show up in person.
* * *
The next morning, we drive to the motel and stake out our spot in the parking lot. Beck scans the rooms as I pull out my phone. My chest squeezes as I check the bars, and sure enough, still no signal. Our exact meeting time passes with other cars pulling into the motel lot. As much as my anxiety buzzes louder in my brain, I repeat the facts until I can’t hear the anxiety anymore. The texter and I confirmed a time and date and place. They must be aware that service is shitty here and know to just show up in person. One minute late isn’t actually late.
Five minutes isn’t either.
Ten, not in LA, at least.
Fifteen and I’m starting to wonder.
It’s when we hit thirty that I have to say something.
“Hey, Beck, are you getting any service?” I ask as I lean against the side of Beck’s car. Beck paces from the car to the motel sign with nowhere to put her energy.
She pulls her phone out of her hoodie pocket and frowns. “Damn, barely a bar.”
“They were supposed to be here half an hour ago,” I say.
My unease only grows as the minutes pass by. Beck’s leg bounces so fast the car shakes with her.
What if this really was all a prank? Do we just go home? How could we begin to accept that this was all actually a hiking accident after being put on this path? How could—?
A single bar pops up on my phone. A text arrives. I stop breathing.
UNKNOWN: I have to get rid of this burner phone and can’t come into town. Ask about the witch.
My heart hangs by a string, but it plummets when I try to send a???message.
Message cannot be sent.
“Shit,” I say, handing Beck the phone. “We came all this way and they’re not gonna show up.”
Ofcoursethis person wasn’t going to show up! It was all too convenient. What were the odds that someone would reach out to only me with a live grenade claiming that my friends were murderedrightafter Paisley’s body was found? And if they have her phone, there’s no way they want me to be able to get it back. It was an impossible fantasy, and now—
