Chapter 10
The road out of Assjacket was narrower than I remembered.
Maybe it always felt that way when you were leaving a place that had tried, however chaotically, enchantingly, and occasionally illegally—to keep you.
The trees leaned in close on either side of the cracked two-lane strip, branches twisted like gossiping old crones on crooked porches, whispering their mossy secrets to one another as my car threaded through the curves like it was trying to sneak out before the town noticed.
The air smelled like damp earth and woodsmoke, like a spell half-cast and still hanging in the morning fog.
Dawn unfurled across the sky in lazy strokes of lavender and soft peach, brushing the mist in a wash of watercolour pastels.
It was the kind of rare morning that didn’t feel borrowed or rushed, just quiet.
Whole. Honest. Like the world was taking a long, slow breath before asking me what I wanted next.
I didn’t have an answer. Not yet. But for the first time in a while, I didn’t feel like I was running. Just moving. And that was enough.
As I crested the final hill and caught one last glimpse of the town.
Rooftops peeked through the trees like stubborn weeds, chimney smoke curling upward like the ghosts hadn’t gotten the memo.
I let my gaze flick to the rearview mirror.
The weather-beaten wooden sign stood just off the road, proud and unrepentant.
THANK YOU FOR VISITING ASSJACKET – COME BACK SOON (OR DON’T, WE’RE NOT YOUR MOM).
I smirked. Even the damn sign had an attitude. No emotional farewells, no aching goodbyes. Just one last sarcastic jab on the way out. Fitting, really.
And just when I thought the moment might manage to stay quiet, peaceful even…
“ROAD TRIP, BITCHES!”
Phyllis erupted from the back seat like a 80s glam-drenched banshee, arms thrown wide and translucent as ever.
I yelped, nearly swerving into a ditch, and she cackled with delight, lounging across the upholstery like the world's least helpful cat. “I packed snacks,” she announced proudly, lifting a ghostly tote bag that was somehow brimming with ethereal Pringles and what looked suspiciously like a bottle of stolen limoncello. “Let’s hit Miami. Or Atlantic City. I hear the haunted slot machines give better odds if you flirt with them.”
I groaned, dragging a hand over my face as the first signs of spectral static began to tickle the radio dial. “Phyllis. You moved on. I helped you cross. There was closure. There were tears. You had a light!”
She shrugged, unbothered. “Eh. Felt premature. Besides, I left my favourite earrings in your glove box and Henry promised me one of those fried pickle funnel cakes next time we’re at the boardwalk. You can’t expect a woman to ascend on an empty stomach.”
I sighed, already resigned, and nudged the velvet pouch Zelda had left for me farther onto the passenger seat.
Maybe peace wasn’t meant for everyone. Maybe some spirits didn’t need moving on, they just needed a really good playlist, a bottle of something strong, and someone stubborn enough to drive them through whatever came next.
I glanced at the velvet pouch again, annoyed at myself for waiting this long. Not because I wasn’t curious… of course I was. But opening a gift from Zelda was a bit like pulling the pin on a glitter bomb and hoping it ruined only your shoes.
Still, as the trees thinned and the road widened into something that hinted at possibility, I felt a shift.
Like something in my ribs had finally exhaled.
A tension I hadn’t noticed, easing from the inside out.
Years of ghost gigs and bad coffee. Of hopping from job to job, always pretending the next one might be home if I didn’t look it directly in the eye.
Savannah had started to feel like an obligation I’d buried beneath incense and protective wards. But now?
Now I didn’t know where I was heading. But for the first time in a long while, I knew why I was running. There was a darkness buried deep inside me. Dormant, and immense. I didn’t know when it would raise its ugly head, but I did know one thing for sure.
No matter where I ran to, it would follow me.
When the sun finally breached the horizon, bright and gold and unapologetic, I reached over and untied the pouch with a sigh.
A faint shimmer of magic bloomed over my fingertips, warm and sparkly in that distinct Zelda way.
Subtle as a marching band in sequins. Inside was a card, thick vellum, hand-lettered in violet ink with the kind of dramatic curls that could only belong to her.
“One fully-catered magical disaster. Redeemable at any time. Preferably during a full moon. No refunds.”
—Z
I laughed, the sound pulling something loose and light from my chest. Of course she’d gift me a personalized catastrophe.
Love, in Zelda's language, came wrapped in chaos and unpredictable spells.
Beneath the card, folded in thirds, was a first-class plane ticket to Scotland.
Edinburgh. Round trip. Open ended dates.
No other notes. No instructions. Just the gauntlet, silently thrown.
I held it up to the light, let the sun catch the raised lettering.
It was so Zelda it hurt. Extravagant, presumptuous, inconvenient.
Tempting. First-class. She really didn’t hold back.
I leaned back in my seat and dangled the ticket between two fingers like it might start levitating.
The wind through the cracked window caught it, fluttering the edges like the impatient wings of destiny.
I tucked the voucher back into the pouch and tossed the ticket on the passenger seat, let it ride shotgun. Let it exist beside me for a while. Let it whisper possibilities I wasn’t ready to name.
Maybe I wouldn’t use it. Probably wouldn’t.
Almost definitely wouldn’t.
But the thought clung to me like perfume on old velvet.
The kind that gets stronger the longer you try to ignore it.
I started humming. Not Whitesnake, thank God, but something softer.
Something that had no name but felt like forward motion.
My hands on the wheel. The road ahead unraveled like ribbon.
And a sky that didn’t feel quite so heavy.
I wasn’t running anymore. Wherever I ended up next, be it a haunted castle or cursed café, I’d face it on my terms.
But not today. Today, I was just driving.
And that was enough.