Page 28
The apartment is quiet when I walk inside after another shift, as always. The place is nice. Much better than the shithole I grew up in. It’s sleek and immaculate, something my masked alter ego has afforded me – a life I never expected to have.
Who knew that sliding around on my knees with paint on my face, scaring people half to death, would send viewers into such a frenzy? Collaborations, brand deals, and all sorts of endorsements come my way daily because of it. It’s kind of surreal, considering I’m such an antisocial person in real life.
I drop my bag, the weight of my costume still clinging to me, the last traces of fake blood staining my wrists. I have to wonder what my neighbours must think when they see me coming home after midnight, with fake blood splattered across me and ghostlike makeup still thick on my skin.
Crossing the room, I open the window to get some air, but it doesn’t help. The sounds of chatter, music, and laughter from the bar across the street are reminders of my lack of social life. I try to shift my thoughts elsewhere, but my mind keeps circling back to Bryn. How fun it felt to chase her the other night, knowing I made her heart race. Her pretty green eyes were so wide and innocent, even after everything.
I frown when I hear footsteps in the hallway outside my apartment, followed by a harsh rap of knuckles against my front door.
‘Yo, Ash. Open up.’
Reluctantly, I open the door just enough to see two guys that used to spend a lot of time with my brother. They are wearing their typical fake-leather jackets and cheap cologne, and their eyes shift over everything in my apartment, as though they’re assessing what’s worth stealing. These are two faces I swore I’d never see again once I cut ties with my family, but here they are.
‘Your brother around?’ Vince asks.
My jaw flexes in irritation. ‘You know exactly where he is, and you both know I don’t speak to him.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Trent scoffs. ‘Funny thing is, people say you still talk to him. Do some of his dirty work now that he’s behind bars. His name still gets around, and yours ain’t far behind it.’
There it is. The curse of my bloodline. It doesn’t matter how far I ran all those years ago, whose couch I slept on, or how many jobs I juggled – I will always be his brother. Coming back to Black Water Cove was not an easy choice to make, but I decided that he has no control over my life anymore. I refuse to give him the power or satisfaction. It was always going to be worth dealing with this kind of shit if Bryn returned, and much to my luck, she has.
I clench my fists and force a steady breath. ‘What do you want?’ They exchange a look.
‘Just passing through,’ Trent says. ‘Heard you were back in town. Thought maybe you’d know who he’s been working with.’
‘I don’t,’ I snap. ‘I don’t care for him or his business.’
Vince, the taller of the two, inclines toward me, breathing stale beer into my face. ‘Right. But his name follows you whether you care or not. People get nervous when a Vale pops back up.’
I open the door a little wider and stare him dead in the eye. ‘Then people should know not to fuck around with one.’
An unfriendly grin spreads slowly across his face. ‘Careful, Ash. You look a lot like him when you’re angry.’
The words hit deeper than I want them to. The men turn, disappearing down the hallway. I stay in the doorway long after they’re gone, anger swirling bitterly in my gut.
Finally, I shut the door quietly, lock it and lean against it. My pulse is still running a little fast from the visit. Two of my brother’s ‘friends’ – and I use that term very loosely – think they can intimidate me. They don’t know me at all. I’ve been in darker places than this and faced a lot worse. Their veiled threats are nothing compared to what I’ve survived, and if they had taken even one step toward me, their faces would have made contact with the cricket bat I keep beside the door.
The adrenaline begins to fade, but I need to unwind. I reach for my phone, seeking my usual comfort: social media, my little digital playground.
My eyes widen. Bryn has followed my anonymous account where I post all my scare actor masked adventures. Clicking on her profile, I go to her latest video. It’s quite an old daily vlog. I brush the screen with my finger, memorising the new angles of her smile and the way her eyes catch the light. I press play on the video.
‘Come spend a day in the life with me,’ Bryn says to the camera, her voice bright and bubbly. She’s walking down a quiet suburban street, the sky behind her pale with early morning light. A handbag hangs off one of her shoulders, and her hair is pulled back into a low bun. She’s dressed for work in tailored pants and a neatly tucked-in crisp white blouse. She’s almost unrecognisable from her teenage self. The Bryn I knew lived in ripped jeans and oversized hoodies, her hair always loose and tangled from the wind. But we were teenagers then, unapologetically ourselves, and the future was something distant and abstract.
This Bryn is grown up. She’s polished, like she belongs in the city she’s walking through. She pauses at the tram platform and turns the camera back to herself, smiling. The morning light reflects in her eyes and, for a second, I forget to breathe. Her early twenties suit her. There’s a quiet confidence about the way she moves, a steadiness that wasn’t there when we were younger. Back then, everything about Bryn was restless energy. She had loud laughter, messy hair, and made impulsive decisions. She’d talk so fast I could barely keep up. Now she looks composed, like she’s grown into herself.
The clip jumps. She’s on the tram now, the windows flashing with blurred trees and houses. Bryn sits by herself, one leg folded neatly over the other, a book open in her lap. Every so often she glances up at the camera and smiles. The video transitions to the next clip.
‘Mandatory coffee stop,’ she says, filming the cup in her hand as she walks through the city streets. The rest of the vlog moves through her day in little pieces: a mirror selfie in an elevator; a quick clip of her desk at the marketing office, computer screen glowing while she types. Her workday consists of emails and meetings, the quiet rhythm of a nine-to-five. Later, she’s back on the tram, golden sunset light filling the carriage.
The final clips are at home. Bryn stands in a small kitchen beside her mum, the two of them laughing while stirring something in a pan. After dinner she films her desk, which is littered with sketchbooks, her open laptop, plus a digital drawing tablet glowing softly.
‘Time to work on my graphic design course,’ she says to the camera. ‘One day I’ll escape assessments and deadlines, I swear.’
The video ends with her smiling and waving into the lens. I grin too. I hope she enjoyed our little bit of fun the other night. I hope she wants to come back for me. Given she has found me online and is clearly interested in watching my videos, I think it’s safe to say she’s intrigued. I wonder if she’s made the connection yet. A long time has passed since we were teenagers. I’ve got my own game now, one I play with patience, and Bryn will have to follow my rules.
I scroll again, watching, waiting, a rush beginning to curl in my chest. My thumb hovers over the ‘follow back’ button, a simple tap that could close the gap and spark a whole chain of surprises, since I don’t follow anyone back. Part of me wants to leave it, but the larger, more dominant part of me wants to toy with her. I’m still obsessed, even after all these years. The thought of her discovering who I am sends lightning bolts of anticipation through me. I can feel the exhilaration crawl up my spine as I type a comment, then delete it. No, that’s too forward. I could slide into her DMs, but that would be too bold and reckless. I need to be patient and not ruin the surprise so soon.
Settling back into the lounge, I continue to thumb through her page. She doesn’t post much anymore. I stare at her username: TheRealBrynCarmichael. Carmichael? I frown in confusion. That’s not right, she’s Bryn Walter. That’s the name I remember, the name everyone knew her by back then. I start digging, searching through tagged photos, comments, and accounts she follows. It doesn’t take long before things start to click into place. Carmichael is her mother’s maiden name. I scroll further, piecing together fragments like a puzzle. There’s an old post mentioning a funeral, a sympathy comment buried under a photo from years ago of Grant. Her stepfather. Grant Walter. A few months after the funeral, Bryn’s old account went quiet. She must have started over completely, making new accounts using the name Carmichael. I never knew Walter was not her original name. I wonder why she went by that. She once mentioned her father briefly, and not kindly. Maybe the name was part of that – something chosen, instead of inherited. The answer settles into place. Of course. That’s why I could never find her: Bryn Walter vanished years ago, and Bryn Carmichael took her place. No wonder she became a ghost.
