∗ 13 & 20﹕ sender takes a picture of receiver .
lifts receiver's chin, invoking eye contact .
the florescent lights had flickered slightly inside the bus. joey stood in the center of the aisle, their gloved hand curled tightly around the grab-handle hung above them. staring across the length of the cab. staring at the stranger that sat with a magazine opened above his lap, an ankle weighing over his bouncing knee. the dawn of his eyes rising up from the pages, and staring intently into the sockets of joey’s skull-painted balaclava mask.
joey felt a surge of suspicion. felt provoked. and did not react. joey knows they can not afford to risk drawing attention to the legion, currently off the grid and on the run. joey stares out of the panoramic windows, the bus stops disappearing out of sight as the shuttle drives past them. the stranger never moved from his perch; front row, first seat. as the seconds ticked inside their digital watch, joey shoved their hands into their jacket's pockets and maneuvered between the empty seats.
then, then, @goatmasks moved. standing up. lazily tucking the magazine under his arm and rolling his shoulders. waiting for joey, as the bus driver jostles the lever that opens the folding door.
joey gestured for the man to leave first, jerking their head dismissively at the exit. jaw tightening, as joey watched his mouth stretch into a conceding smile. as he descended the short steps leading into the street, joey quickly rammed their shoulder into his chest, pinning his body against the railing.
the bus driver shouted something indistinguishable, admonishing. joey ignored him. "...woops." they stepped back, lightning-quick and jumping off the steps of the exit, jogging as soon as their velcro boots hit the sidewalk.
joey did not look back, smoothly unfolding the stolen wallet in their hands. weathered leather. thirty-dollars in american cash. a florida ID card that identified him as jed olsen.
jed olsen. joey remembered that name. used to keep newspaper clippings emblazoned with headlines of the ghost, alerting the killer's recent crimes to florida denizens and subscribers to the roseville gazette. obsessing with every article, each carefully constructed sentence that reached inside joey and squeezed something primal and unknown.
joey turned sharply, their gaze searching the street. but the bus was gone.
now, joey is tucked inside a payphone booth, carefully punching the numbers to a burner phone provided by the ID card. the heel of their boot tapping restlessly into the ground, syncing to the staccato of their racing pulse. “yeah,” they speak into the phone, “that’s right. you must have dropped it. i can meet you, just tell me where... oh. yeahyeah, i know it. that motel’s just a block from here.”
the motel resembles a barracks; a long, single-story building with boxy rooms equipped with barred, backdoor patios for smokers. impatiently, joey jams their knuckles against the door to jed olsen’s motel room.
and he opens the door, smiling.
joey’s chest tightens. their eyes are fixed to the wall behind jed, the bleed of newspaper clippings and photographs pinned to it with color-coded thumbtacks. at the center of this morbid visual menagerie: a photograph of joey’s (dead) missing coworker. they can feel their feet moving, shouldering through the door and brazenly entering the dim room.
“i know you,” joey says, uninterested in introductions. too exhilarated to care. “you’re that guy who writes about the ghost. but this is obviously not their M.O., so why the fuck are you all the way out here?”
jed has not stopped smiling. easy. indulgent. he gives joey space to gawk, idly pacing, idly reaching for a camera sitting on the nightstand. no flash. “i like interesting stories. the kind with shock value. a poor ol’ store clerk in a small town goes missing... who knows? could be more to it. could be fun.”
joey stares at him. allows a hmph of laughter. “you’re crazy.”
“you’re the one who reads about a serial killer. you even kind of dress like them. heh.”
joey did not expect the accusation, a flush of heat burning their ears. burning hotter as jed clamps his fingers around joey’s chin and lifts it, appraising.
“oh yeah, juust like the ghostface,” jed laughs.
joey winds their fingers vice-tight around his wrist and shoves him back with the weight of their body, hot-faced and furious. pinning the journalist against the wall, the link chart. “you think i won’t hurt you, asshole!?”
jed hums, raising his hands above his shoulders in feigned regret. “woops.”
