My Revenant (Runaways #1)

Chapter 1

one

Jonah - Present

HAUNTED OR HUNTED?

Ghosts are real. I know, because I’m being haunted by one.

It wasn’t like the movies. There were no flickering lights, no cold patches of air, no odd smells or objects that moved on their own. I wished things were that simple, that easy to recognize. No, the ghost haunting me was far less obvious, and that somehow made him so much worse.

I saw him sometimes from the corner of my eye, only to turn and see someone else.

I caught glimpses of him everywhere—his leather jacket, his long curly dirty-blond hair, his old worn boots, that stupid fucking tattoo on his neck.

I’d hear his voice, his laugh in a crowd, and I’d be so certain it was him that my heart would stutter and my stomach twist and bile would rise in my throat.

It was never actually him.

It was his ghost. Coincidences that dragged me back into the memories of all I’d left behind. They rose from the depths of me, made my bones vibrate and my skin itch with the need to escape. Escape from what? The ghost of him, my memories, myself. I didn’t know anymore.

The truth was, I wasn’t even sure my ghost was dead.

It had been almost a year since that day, and I sensed his presence now stronger than ever.

I almost expected to see him around every corner, peering at me from dark alleys, staring at me across the bar.

I could smell him in every cigarette. It kicked my senses into overdrive and made me jumpy.

Paranoia, I told myself, my imagination playing tricks on me. But what if it’s not?

The first time I was able to bring myself to look him up was a few months after I’d left.

My stomach had twisted and my heart pounded as I’d guessed what the headlines would be: the confirmation of everything that had happened that day.

Instead, I found… nothing. Not even a whisper of the name Dex Weller.

No reports. No bodies. No murder investigation.

I’d checked his social media accounts next, but they were all frozen in time.

I still checked them regularly. It was the first thing I did when I woke up and the last thing I did before trying to sleep.

My stomach always half dreaded, half hoped that something, anything, would change. Nothing ever did.

So here I was. I’d started running because I thought he was dead, and kept on running in case he wasn’t.

Until I knew which one he was for sure, I guess he was both.

Schrodinger’s boyfriend. Simultaneously dead and alive inside a box I wouldn’t open and couldn’t escape from, but fuck if I wasn’t going to try.

That’s how I ended up here in Hollow Creek, West Virginia.

Another nothing town in the middle of nowhere.

Another temporary stop on a journey with no destination, and fuck was I getting tired of it.

This place was even shittier than the usual ones I stopped at.

A crumbling old mining town with exactly one run-down motel, a diner that hadn’t updated its menu or décor since the sixties, the sheriff’s office at the back of the tiny grocery store, and The Rusty Nail, the bar I’d been working at for the past three weeks.

The first rule of running was to never get comfortable. The second was to always keep moving. Staying here this long? I was probably breaking both.

Not that anything about Hollow Creek was comfortable.

The motel smelled like mildew, and the bed sagged heavily in the middle with a tired old mattress decades past its intended lifespan.

The Rusty Nail wasn’t much better: a dingy bar that reeked of old tobacco smoke and beer, with its sticky floors, flickering neon signs with dead letters, and a jukebox that only played sad country songs.

But they paid in cash, and they didn’t ask questions. That was all I needed.

“Jack, my boy, another,” said a rough voice from the other end of the bar.

I smiled and nodded at Tiny, a regular. Why they called him Tiny, I had no idea.

He was one of the biggest men I’d ever seen.

I’m not even sure what his real name was.

Then again, Jack wasn’t my real name either, so who was I to judge?

“Coming up,” I called back to him, getting a fresh pint glass and filling it before I slid it across the bar.

“Good man,” he cheered, cheeks already rosy with intoxication, but this wasn’t the type of bar that cut people off when they’d had too much.

I watched him stumble back to his booth, shaking my head softly before returning to wipe a damp rag over the bar counter again, half listening to the hum of conversation around me. It was the same faces every night, the same routines. I knew all their names; they thought they knew mine.

There was a sense of familiarity that I craved. I wanted to be known. I wanted to stop running and just breathe. Maybe make some friends who would actually give a damn if, or more accurately when I just stopped showing up one day.

The fact that I was thinking like this only proved why it was time to move on. It was probably also why my paranoia had kicked up a level. I’d been stagnant for too long, and the little voice inside my head that always whispered, “Run, Jonah, run,” was getting louder and harder to ignore.

Lost in the monotony of my temporary yet oddly comforting routine at The Rusty Nail, my mind drifted to planning what was next.

I would probably head south again after this, find another bar job like this one and hope they didn’t ask many questions.

By now I had learned how to pick out the bars I knew wouldn’t; they were the kind that didn’t want questions asked about them either, and that worked just fine for me.

I never stayed anywhere long enough to get caught up in any kind of shady business anyway.

“Didya hear?” came another voice from the bar that almost made me jolt, and I mentally scolded myself over letting my guard down. I knew better. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“Did I hear what, Hank?” I asked the man as I reached for a fresh pint glass, already knowing what he was after.

“Ya aren’t the newest in town anymore,” said Hank, amusement playing on his weathered features.

Hank had been one of the people who seemed the most curious about me when I first arrived here, asked the most questions.

Eventually, he’d learned I wasn’t going to give him any interesting answers and had given up.

Now, though, my interest was piqued, not that I wanted Hank to know that.

“Is that right?” I asked, keeping my tone carefully casual.

“Yep, ’nother young fella, ’bout your age.

Said he’s just passing through,” Hank explained, and leaned forward over the bar like he was going to share some kind of secret he didn’t want anyone else overhearing.

I couldn’t help but mirror him, my stomach twisting anxiously as I waited for his next words.

“I don’t like the way he’s pokin’ around, Jack.

Don’t like the look of him much either.”

My mouth ran dry, and my palms grew clammy as I inhaled slowly and fought the urge to escape out the back door. “Yeah?” I tried to sound unaffected. “What’s he look like, then?”

Hank leaned in closer, so I did as well, until I could smell the alcohol on his breath and had to fight the grimace from showing on my face. “He was dressed real nice. Too nice, I reckon, wearing a pink sweater, Jack, pink. I think he’s… one of those.”

I wanted to sag with relief and punch Hank in the mouth at the same time.

Little did he know he was talking to one of “those” right now.

But the risk of anyone here finding out wasn’t worth it.

Places like this didn’t take kindly to differences, and I wasn’t about to paint a target on my back.

I had to fit in, be as unnoticeable as possible.

Pulling back and slamming his beer on the counter, I tried to keep my expression blank as I stared at the old farmer with his stupid cowboy hat and ancient flannel.

I doubted I was doing a very good job of it, though; my best friend Becca had always told me I was complete shit at keeping my thoughts and feelings off my face.

“Don’t reckon a sweater’s a crime, Hank.” My tone was flat, dismissive.

Hank was either too drunk to notice my thinly veiled bitterness, or he didn’t care. “Still. Don’t like him askin’ so many questions. He was pokin’ around, Jack, askin’ who’s who, where’s good for food an’ drinks, that kind of thing. Suspicious, if you ask me.”

I reached for the rag so I’d have something to do with my hands and something else to focus on other than Hank and his suspicions over some very normal-sounding questions.

The need to run vibrated under my skin. The description Hank gave of the guy was so far from what I had feared he would say, it was almost comical.

I didn’t know anyone who dressed “nice,” at least not pink-sweater kind of nice.

No, what I feared was leather jackets and dusty combat boots.

“Right, well, thanks for the warning,” I muttered, reaching for an already clean glass that I started to polish just so I seemed busy.

Hank grunted. Now that he had his beer, he was significantly less interested in standing around gossiping, and he raised his glass in thanks before stumbling back to his usual booth.

At closing time, Marty, the owner of the Rusty Nail, showed up to lock up and put the cash in the safe in his small office out back. I’d told him I could do it so he didn’t have to come in, but he either didn’t trust me… fair, or he didn’t want me seeing what else he kept in that safe… also fair.

It meant I got to leave as soon as the place resembled something close to clean. With a nod to Marty, who responded with a dismissive wave of his hand, I left him to it.

The walk back to the motel wasn’t long, but it was starting to get real cold here at night, and it made my leg ache.

At this hour, there were no cars in Hollow Creek.

The drunken patrons of the Rusty Nail stumbled their way home, paths so well ingrained in their memories that they didn’t even need the streetlights to guide them.

I preferred walking under the streetlights, though, and took a slightly longer route just to avoid the poorly lit areas with too many shadows to be cautious of.

When I was within view of the motel, I stopped.

Occasionally, someone would book one of the other rooms, but never for more than a night.

The cars that would dwell in the small parking lot were usually just as shitty as my old ’94 Ford Taurus, occasionally slightly nicer.

There was never anything as nice as the sleek black Audi S7 currently parked next to me.

I scanned the area, the room windows facing the lot, but they were empty and all was dark and quiet.

Hank’s story of the pink-sweatered stranger came to mind. Did that car belong to him? If so, why the fuck was he in a place like this?

With another quick scan of the windows, I walked quietly over to the new car, trying not to seem too suspicious in case anyone really was looking at me, but also wanting to get a peek inside to see if there was any indication of who it belonged to.

Besides a few empty energy drink cans on the floor of the passenger’s side, there wasn’t anything noteworthy about it. I still didn’t like it.

I’m being paranoid. It’s probably nothing. I stepped back, giving my own piece-of-shit car a quick look over and checking it was still locked—not that there was anything worth stealing inside—before I headed up the concrete stairs to my room.

As I reached my door, I pulled the room key from my pocket but froze as my hand rested on the handle. The door was already unlocked. I’m sure I locked it.

Slowly, I put my keys back into my jacket pocket, fingers stiff from the cold yet tingly with panic as I grasped the handle of the switchblade there instead.

I had a moment to consider whether I should go in or head for the car, cutting my losses on whatever I left behind and the pay Marty owed me so I could get the fuck out of here.

I couldn’t. I didn’t have much, but everything I did have was in that room, and I wasn’t too eager to start all over again with nothing.

Instead, I took a deep breath in and burst through the door before I could think twice about it.

I was greeted by darkness and silence.

Switchblade in hand, I punched the light switch, expecting to see someone, something maybe, that was here to get me.

There was nothing. No sound or movement, nothing that seemed out of place or different at all. Still, I did a sweep of the room and adjoining bathroom, expecting to find someone behind the door, in the closet, under the bed.

Nothing.

My heart was still thundering, my instincts refusing to believe that there wasn’t any danger here. I checked the bedside drawer, picking up the old faded Bible and checking between the last page and the back cover. The money I had stashed there was still exactly where I’d left it. Untouched.

I checked everything again. Nothing had changed. Maybe I’d left the door unlocked when I went to work? I was sure I locked it, but now I was doubting myself, hoping I couldn’t have been that stupid but also preferring it to the alternative of someone else coming in here.

Fuck, I didn’t know what to think anymore. Maybe I really was losing it. Maybe no one was coming for me, and I was just running around in pointless fucking circles, stressing myself out over absolutely nothing.

It wasn’t like there was another option, though. If I gave up running and it turned out I’d been right all along and Dex was still out there—hunting me down like I knew he would be if he was alive—I honestly had no idea what he would do to me. All I knew was that I was better off not finding out.

I dragged the small, creaky desk from the corner of the room to in front of the door. It wasn’t sturdy enough to stop anyone who was determined to get in, but it would make a lot of noise and prevent them from sneaking in unnoticed while I slept.

Feeling a little better, I switched off the lights and made my way over to the bed. The mattress groaned as I sat down and unlaced my boots, kicking them off but keeping them close by. Scrubbing a hand over my face, I sighed and collapsed back onto the mattress.