Reese ducked back inside, so I got up, seeing the sprawled out cylinders close up. They were film canisters. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim red safelight of the darkroom, but once they did, I was met with an amazing series of photographs hanging up across the space.
“Dr. Fritz found this old ’60s Pentacon for a steal, and I’ve been helping her develop the film,” he clarified, closing the door behind us.
“They’re gorgeous,” I said, taking a particular liking to a photo of a motorcycle burnout. “Are these all hers?”
“No.” His beaming smile became curiously coy. “These ones are mine, actually.”
“Seriously?”
“Is it that surprising?”
I shook my head. It really wasn’t. Any of the photos he contributed to the newspaper were far too artful for the likes of the Mystic Harbor Tribune, and it was evident anytime someone else took the pictures instead. More often than not, the images looked like they’d given the camera to a monkey in comparison.
Reese seemed so in his element in here. Whatever reason we had for initially coming down in the basement was lost on both of us as we got caught up in the entire experience. I asked a billion questions, which Reese was more than happy to answer, and he even taught me how to work the equipment so that I could develop the film myself.
By the time we left the darkroom, the natural light that had been coming through the few basement windows was gone. For that short while, we’d both seemed to have forgotten about everything else. As consequence, reality hit hard once we refocused our attention back to the matter at hand. I handed my phone over to Reese for him to upload the images I had been sent, and he lost me with all his techno-babble in under a minute.
Reese took the singular chair in front of the desk, leaving me with the choice of either sitting on the floor or his bed. I chose the latter, hoping he didn’t notice the shade of crimson I was sure my cheeks had turned.
A half hour later, he got up from his chair. “Well, one thing I can tell you is that both images were taken from the same phone. Bad news, it’s a burner. Untraceable,” huffed Reese, planting himself down on the bed beside me.
“Perfect. Some stranger brought me back from the dead, seems hell bent on harassing me, and I haven’t a clue why.” I looked over at the monitor, shuddering at the image of me all mangled up on the pavement.
Reese bumped me with his elbow. “Hey, we’ll figure this out. Okay?”
I nodded absentmindedly.
“What’s up?”
My vision started to blur the longer I stared at the monitor. “Why wasn’t I turned into a Hellhound? Why didn’t the person who brought me back infect me? How did I even get these?” I dug my fingertips into my forearm, as if I could somehow wipe away the ink staining my skin.
My phone vibrated across the top of the desk. Reese reached up to hand it over to me, but froze at the sight of the screen.
“What?” I took the device from him, seeing a new text message. From: Unknown.
“For I know the plans I have for you.”
Chapter 16
I Know You
The truck jostled as we drove over a set of railroad tracks, snapping me out of my trance. I had assumed Reese was taking me home, but none of the scenery now looked remotely familiar. “Where are we going?”
“To get something to eat.”
I shook my head, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “I should really—”
“Eat something?” he suggested. “It’s nonnegotiable. Firstly, your stomach’s growling like a ravenous dog. Secondly, I have the distinct feeling if I drop you off at home you’re just going to spend the whole night obsessing over this. You need to unwind, for both our sakes.” Reese gave me a cockeyed grin, turning the old beater onto a pothole riddled road. At last, an old neon sign flickered up ahead.
Rockabilly Bob’s Bar & Grill.
I could hear Wynona Carr’s “Please Mr. Jailer” playing the moment we reached the gravel parking lot. The outside of the joint looked like an old dive bar, but sleek 1950s décor greeted us once we stepped inside. Framed posters of rock ‘n’ roll musicians and classic hotrod cars lined the walls while vintage booths and barstools were mapped out across checkered vinyl floors. Even the waitresses were dressed in retro red striper uniforms.
Reese led me to the back of the restaurant where the lights were significantly dimmer. We rounded the bend, coming to the entrance of a gaming hall.
He tossed me a pool stick. “Pick a table.” Reese vanished back into the diner area and returned a few minutes later with two milkshakes and a gigantic platter of nachos. “Best in the state.”