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The tour bus hummed against the concrete of some forgettable parking lot behind another forgettable venue in another forgettable city. Ghost Mountain sat cross-legged on the scratched linoleum floor, his phone's blue light casting hollow shadows across his angular face as he mindlessly scrolled through Instagram reels. His fingers moved automatically—swipe, watch, swipe—but his mind was elsewhere, still buzzing from the adrenaline of their performance two hours ago. His throat felt raw from screaming over the crowd, and his ears rang with phantom echoes of the bass that had pounded through his chest.
The tour had been everything and nothing like he'd imagined. The crowd had screamed his name—"Ghost Mountain, Ghost Mountain"—voices raw with devotion he still couldn't quite believe was real. After three years away, hearing thousands of kids sing along to songs he'd written in his childhood bedroom felt surreal. But backstage, in moments like this, the weight of what he'd stepped back into settled heavy on his shoulders.
Hackle, Anvil, Matt and Eternity Chaos had gone to find food at some 24-hour diner down the street, their laughter fading into the night air as they'd stumbled off the bus. They'd invited Ghost, but he'd waved them off, craving the rare moment of solitude and calm. The constant scrutiny, the pressure to live up to the mythology they'd built around themselves, the way fans dissected every interaction between him and Sematary for signs of their reconciliation—some nights he felt like he was performing not just the music, but their entire friendship for an audience that would never understand the complexity of what had really happened between them.
Sematary had disappeared to the bathroom twenty minutes ago, maybe longer. Ghost had barely noticed at first—his friend often needed space after shows, time to decompress from the intensity of performing.
A violent retching sound cut through his thoughts.
Ghost's thumb froze mid-scroll, his body tensing as he strained to listen. The sound came again—unmistakably someone retching, violent and desperate, echoing from the cramped bathroom at the back of the bus.
"Sematary?" His voice came out rougher than intended. "You okay?"
Silence. Then another wave of retching, followed by what sounded like dry heaving.
"Sematary?" Ghost called again, louder this time, already scrambling to his feet. His phone clattered to the floor, forgotten.
No response. Only the sound of liquid hitting porcelain, followed by a low, agonized groan that made Ghost's stomach clench.
Ghost stumbled toward the back of the bus, his legs unsteady from sitting on the floor too long. The narrow hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, each step echoing his growing panic. He'd heard Sematary throw up before—after particularly heavy drinking sessions or when he'd pushed himself too hard—but this sounded different. Desperate. Painful.
"Sematary, please," Ghost said, his voice cracking as he reached the bathroom door. He knocked gently, then harder when no response came. "I just wanna check on you."
The door handle rattled uselessly under his grip—locked. Of course it was locked. Sematary always locked doors when he was vulnerable, had done it since they were kids. It was one of those small, heartbreaking details Ghost had learned to navigate over the years of their friendship.
"I'm not going anywhere," Ghost said softly, leaning his forehead against the door. "Take your time."
Minutes crawled by like hours. Ghost's chest tightened as he listened to his best friend fall apart on the other side of a door that might as well have been a canyon. His mind raced through possibilities—food poisoning, some kind of flu, anything other than the truth that was slowly crystallizing in his mind.
Finally, the lock clicked. The door opened a crack, then wider, revealing Sematary slumped against the doorframe like he couldn't support his own weight.
Ghost had seen Sematary at his worst before—strung out after days of no sleep, hungover, coming down from whatever cocktail of substances he'd used to numb himself. But this was different.
Sematary looked like death. That was Ghost's first, brutal thought—that his best friend looked like he was dying right here in this cramped tour bus bathroom. His usually pale skin had taken on a grayish, waxy look that made him look almost corpse-like under the harsh bathroom lighting. His hair hung in greasy strings, plastered to his forehead with sweat that had soaked through his Affliction shirt. His bright blue eyes were bloodshot and streaming, pupils constricted to pinpoints, with dark circles underneath that looked like bruises.
But it was the shaking that broke Ghost's heart. Sematary's entire body trembled like he was standing in a blizzard. not just his hands, but his shoulders, his jaw, his legs barely keeping him upright against the doorframe. His breathing came in sharp, shallow gasps, like his lungs had forgotten how to work properly.
For a moment, Ghost couldn't speak. Couldn't move. He just stared at this person he'd known since they were kids, who'd built an empire out of nothing, who commanded stages like he was born for them, reduced to this shivering, broken thing.
"What the fuck happened?" The words came out harsher than Ghost intended, sharpened by his own fear.
Sematary clumsily wiped his nose with the back of his hand, an uncoordinated, childlike gesture that made him look impossibly young and vulnerable. When he spoke, his voice was wrecked, barely above a whisper.
"Fucking... withdrawing."
The word hit Ghost like a physical blow. He'd known, of course he'd known, but knowing and seeing were two entirely different things. This wasn't the controlled, functional addiction he'd been pretending to not mind. This was ugly and desperate and real.
"Ran out of pills," Sematary continued, each word clearly an effort. "Couldn't find a plug in time. Thought I could... fuck, thought I could ride it out."
Ghost's mind raced backward through the past few days, connecting dots he'd willfully ignored. The way Sematary had been increasingly irritable during sound checks, snapping at the crew over minor issues. The constant yawning, despite claiming he couldn't sleep. The way he'd been pacing restlessly backstage, unable to sit still for more than a few minutes. Ghost had noticed but hadn't connected them, or maybe he'd actively avoided it. It was easier to pretend everything was normal, easier to focus on the music and the tour and the illusion that they'd gotten their old dynamic back.
"Can I... is there anything I can do?" The question felt pathetic even as he asked it. What could he do? He couldn't make pills appear out of thin air. He couldn't take away the bone-deep ache coursing through Sematary's body, couldn't stop the nausea or the desperate craving that was probably consuming every thought. Ghost was just a twenty-four-year-old who'd barely figured out his own life, watching his best friend suffer in ways he couldn't comprehend.
Sematary shook his head slowly, the movement seeming to cause him pain. "Just... wanna rest. Feels like I'm fucking dying. Everything hurts."
Ghost stepped forward, carefully wrapping his arm around Sematary's shoulders. He was shocked by how fragile his friend felt, how much weight he'd lost without Ghost noticing. Sematary leaned into the touch immediately, his body sagging against Ghost's like he'd been holding himself upright through sheer will. His skin felt simultaneously hot and cold, feverish but clammy.
They made their way to the couch slowly, Ghost supporting most of Sematary's weight. When they reached it, Sematary collapsed with a shaky exhale. For a moment he just sat there, head in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Then, without warning, he laid down and rested his head in Ghost's lap.
The gesture was so vulnerable, so unlike the usually guarded Sematary, that Ghost felt his eyes well up with tears. His friend had curled up, knees drawn up to his chest like he was trying to hide himself from the world. His breathing was still labored, mouth hanging open as he struggled to get enough air.
Ghost began to stroke his hair, fingers moving gently through the greasy, sweat-soaked strands. Sematary's scalp was burning hot, but he seemed to relax slightly at the touch, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
"That feels good," Sematary whispered, his voice muffled against Ghost's thigh. "Everything else feels like shit, but that... that helps."
Ghost continued the motion, his fingertips tracing small circles against Sematary's scalp. He could feel the heat radiating from his friend's skin, could see the way his breathing gradually began to slow from its panic-driven pace to something more sustainable. But even in this moment of relative calm, Sematary's face remained etched with pain—his jaw clenched, his eyebrows drawn together in a permanent wince.
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the bus's mechanical sounds and Sematary's occasional sharp intake of breath when a particularly intense wave of discomfort washed over him. Ghost found himself studying his friend's face, noting the hollow shadows under his eyes, the way his lips were chapped and bitten raw. When had he gotten so thin? When had the spark that made Sematary *Sematary* begun to dim?
"I keep thinking about dying," Sematary said suddenly, his voice so quiet Ghost almost missed it. "Not like... not suicidal shit. Just... what if my heart stops? What if this is the time my body just says 'fuck you' and gives up?"
Ghost's hand stilled in Sematary's hair. "Don't say that."
"It's not that crazy," Sematary continued, his words slightly slurred with exhaustion. "My heart's been racing for like eighteen hours straight. I can't keep food down. Haven't slept in two days. How long before something just... breaks?"
The casual way he spoke about his own mortality made Ghost feel sick. This wasn't the dramatic posturing of their teenage years, when death seemed romantic and poetic. This was the resigned acknowledgment of someone who'd felt his body failing in real-time.
"You're not gonna die," Ghost said, but even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. How could he promise something like that? How could he guarantee anything when they were both trapped in this cycle of dependence and denial?
"Maybe it'd be easier if I did."
"Don't." Ghost's voice cracked. "Don't fucking say that."
When he'd decided to rejoin Haunted Mound, they'd had long conversations about boundaries, about what Ghost could and couldn't handle. One of the conditions had been that Ghost wouldn't lecture Sematary about his drug use, wouldn't try to play therapist or worried mom. It had seemed reasonable at the time—Ghost had his own struggles, his own reasons for leaving in the first place. He couldn't take responsibility for Sematary's choices.
But sitting here now, watching his oldest friend suffer, that agreement felt like cowardice. Like he was choosing his own comfort over Sematary's life.
"We could call—"
"No." Sematary's voice was sharp despite its weakness. "No doctors. No hospitals. No cops. Can't... can't have this getting out."
Ghost understood. The fans, the media, the carefully constructed image they'd built—it would all crumble if word got out that Sematary was strung out on tour. But understanding didn't make it any less frustrating, any less terrifying.
"I'm scared," Sematary whispered, and Ghost felt warm droplets fall soak through his jeans where his friend's face was pressed.
"I'm scared too," Ghost admitted. "Scared I'm gonna wake up one day and get a phone call that you overdosed. Scared that no matter how much I love you, it won't be enough to keep you alive. Scared that I'm enabling you by not pushing harder for you to get help."
"You can't save me," Sematary said quietly. "I know you want to, and I love you for it, but this is something I have to figure out on my own."
"I know," Ghost replied, though every fiber of his being hated that truth. "But I can stay with you while you figure it out. I can make sure you don't have to do it alone."
Sematary nodded against his leg, expression softening slightly as exhaustion took over. His breathing became deeper and more regular, though he still shivered.
Ghost looked down at his best friend, this brilliant, broken person who'd given him so much and asked for so little in return. He understood now, more clearly than ever, the impossible position they were both in. Ghost knew the weight of expectation, the pressure of being the creative force behind something that had grown beyond their wildest teenage dreams.
He knew how overwhelming it felt when thousands of people looked to you for meaning, for identity, for salvation from their own mundane existences.
The difference was that Ghost had been able to step away, to go to college and find himself and come back on his own terms. Sematary had never had that luxury—he'd been trapped in the persona he'd created, unable to separate the artist from the person, medicating the gap between who he was and who everyone needed him to be.
He wanted to cry, to hold Sematary tight and sob until he couldn't anymore, but he had to be strong right now. Sematary needed someone that could hold it together.
"I'm sorry," Ghost whispered, so quietly he wasn't sure Sematary could hear. He wasn't even sure what he was apologizing for—leaving in the first place, coming back, not being enough to fix this, being too much of a coward to try.
Ghost closed his eyes and tried to imagine a future where this wasn't their reality, where Sematary was healthy and whole and not falling apart right before his eyes. But even in his imagination, the idea felt out of reach. Was there ever a time where it felt like Sematary wasn't falling apart?
Sematary shifted slightly in his lap, a small sound escaping his lips that was almost content, and Ghost remembered why he'd come back. Not for the music or the career or the validation, but for this; these quiet moments when they could still be just two kids from Northern California who'd found something unique in each other's company.
It wasn't enough to save either of them, but maybe it was enough to survive another night.