Archive of Our Own

“What does he see? Can you tell me?”

The boy did not reply. Before him, the man lay dying, dark arterial blood spraying between his hands from where his own spooked horse had trampled him.

“You don’t answer me,” the conquistador continued. His fingers bit into the boy’s shoulder. “Who watches over that man? Is it the angels, or God, or Satan, or just the emptiness?”

The town around them, too, was empty. They never knew what it was called. A collection of mud huts pitched on the naked plateau that they had entered after days of wandering the borderland. Here, the frail black rebuses of the man’s blood would drift away in the sands, so that in the circuit of a few suns all trace of the destruction would be erased. The desert wind would salt his ruins.

The conquistador loomed above the boy. Pale with dust, eyes shadowed, he appeared as a spectre.

“It’s emptiness, boy.” A gesture to the dying man. “Look at his eyes. His poor brain has just made that discovery. Emptiness under the moon.”

Pink froth breathed in and out of the man’s collapsed chest.

Tears cut through the dirt on the boy’s cheeks. “But it can’t be.”

“We stand powerless...”

“No—”

“Because our fear and his are the same.”

The conquistador turned away from the man, his blood bluely wet under the moon. “Death seems to follow you, boy. Perhaps you’re cursed.”

The boy could not argue. He knew it to be true. The conquistador still had not forgiven him for the death of his beloved Inés; he never would, nor should he.

He hated the conquistador sometimes. Just as the conquistador hated him.

They set out onto the plain at dawn, and at night they could see the fire of civilisation reflected in the sky to the east beyond the curve of the earth...

“You know, you don’t have to read that here,” Ohm says.

Alby looks up, startled, as though waking from a dream. Ohm is staring at him from the hospital bed, brows arched.

Alby closes his well-worn copy of the second Conquistador novel. “Just passing the time while you get through my manuscript.” He can’t help asking, “Any thoughts so far? I know the tenth chapter might seem a little irrelevant, but I promise it all comes together in the—”

Ohm raises a finger. “I told you, no feedback until I’m finished.”

Alby casts his gaze back down. He was so determined to deliver his manuscript before, but he’s starting to second-guess himself now Ohm is over halfway through. How could his writing ever compare? Ohm was only twenty-five when he was first published; Alby is in his forties now, and all he has to his name is some short stories he managed to sell to the local paper for a few quid. He’s not exactly a new Joyce. Christ, maybe he should have given his manuscript a little more polishing before he handed it over.

His inner turmoil must be obvious, because Ohm sighs and adds, “It’s not bad, for a first draft. Just let me finish reading it.”

That’s high praise coming from someone as brusque as Ohm, so Alby takes the win and shuts up.

It has been a week since the Bilberry Woods burned down, and Alby has visited Ohm in hospital almost every day since he was well enough to receive people. He was half-expecting Ohm to renege on his promise to read his manuscript, but Ohm kept his word (“Not like there’s much else to do around here,” he’d said, even though Alby knew he was working on the conclusion of his trilogy), and so Alby has spent his free hours keeping Ohm company.

Ohm is a lonely guy, Alby thinks. The kind of loneliness that eats away at you after too long.

“So, you’re getting out of here soon, Mr. Bauman.”

“Jesus, Alby, you don’t need to keep calling me that. Just Ohm.”

“What will you do? Ohm?”

Ohm shrugs. “Police said I need to stick around until the inquest is closed, so I can’t go home for a while longer.”

About Fiona, Jerry. Mal, too, most likely, even if his body is yet to be turn up. Fergal told Alby that after he’d pulled Ohm from the flames to safety, Ohm was barely coherent, hyperventilating that Mal had been taken by her, bound in chains and dragged to hell, the kind of story that Ohm himself would have rolled his eyes at. Of course, you could chalk it up to shock or smoke inhalation or (Alby guiltily thinks) a bad shrooms trip, but Alby knew better. After all, he’d laid eyes on the witch before.

Either way, Fiona and Jerry are still dead. Nothing supernatural about that. Just a pathetic man trying to cover his tracks, with Ohm as the loose end.

“I guess I’ll just book another hotel room. Hopefully I won’t have a near-death experience in that one.”

Alby doesn’t point out that Ohm chose death at first. At least, he tried to. The visceral memory of holding Ohm’s limp body to keep the pressure off his neck as Fiona frantically sawed at the noose still makes him nauseous.

Truthfully, Alby is worried about Ohm. More than he should be about a man who made perhaps the worst first impression possible on him. He knows most of the nurses here—small town and all that—and several of them have confided in him that Ohm hasn’t been sleeping, his bedside light glowing into the wee hours. Alby isn’t sure if that’s a violation of patient confidentiality, but the evidence is clear before him: Ohm’s pallor, the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the occasional hacking cough he lets out. Alby wouldn’t be sleeping well either if he’d been trapped in that honeymoon suite, but Ohm isn’t letting himself fully heal.

Alby considers his words carefully. “Look, if you don’t want to travel to find a hotel, I could put you up for a few nights. My flat is big enough for two, you wouldn’t be troubling me. And, you know, since you’re doing me a favour by looking over my manuscript...”

He knows that if his offer seemed to stem from concern or pity, then Ohm would take offence and flatly reject him. Better to frame it as some sort of exchange, the same way as him spiking Ohm’s whiskey was reciprocal justice to make them even.

Ohm gives him a wary look. “I can afford a hotel room, Alby. I’m not a charity case.”

“I never said you were. And, well, my flat isn’t as fancy as what you’re used to, but I can promise that it’s definitely not haunted. No witches to keep you up.”

Alby fidgets in the silence that follows. To his surprise, Ohm actually seems to be considering it. Perhaps he really doesn’t want to be alone in some other strange hotel.

“Or Fergal could put you up if you’re sick of me. He’s helping out Mal’s family at the moment, but he’d still lend a hand.” Honestly, it doesn’t matter who Ohm stays with; Alby just has a strong feeling that Ohm shouldn’t be alone in the aftermath of his hospital stay. And, like Fiona always said, he should trust his gut.

Finally, Ohm says, “I can pay you.”

Alby could use the money now he’s lost his bellboy job, but he firmly shakes his head. “You can pay me in feedback instead.” Hopefully, he adds, “Maybe even a publisher’s email? That’d be class.”

“I can take care of myself, Alby. I always have.”

“Is that how you got out of the hotel safely? Taking care of yourself?”

Ohm actually glares at him at that, but then his face softens, his eyes darting away, conflicted.

“I’ll think about it,” Ohm finally says into the awkward silence, before turning away to cough into his jumper sleeve.

“About staying with me? Or about the feedback for my story?”

“I told you, no feedback until I finish it. Endings can make or break a story. A lot of people aren’t so crazy about my endings.”

“Yes, they can be quite bleak. I thought your last book, the conquistador walking away from the massacre at the end, abandoning those poor people... that was harsh. I could never treat my characters like that.”

Ohm smiles bitterly at that. “They aren’t real.”

“No, but they feel real sometimes. It’s why I feel so sorry for the boy, what with the conquistador hurting him and treating him so terribly all the time.”

“I told you, deeply disturbed people.” Ohm pauses, biting his lip, before asking in a strangely purposeful way, “Don’t you ever think that maybe the boy deserves it? The conquistador isn’t meant to be a hero, but he’s not wrong to blame the boy for what happened to Inés.”

Alby frowns. “But he’s just a little kid.”

Ohm’s eyes flare, but he says nothing as he flops back against the pillow.

“Don’t you have some ice cream to hawk?” he mutters, and Alby takes the cue to leave.

As Alby comes to learn, cohabiting with Ohm is like living with a very aloof cat. He keeps to himself, and the only sign of his presence most of the time is the sound of him typing on his laptop. He refuses to let Alby cook for him, but the food Alby leaves out vanishes; whenever Alby notices he’s running low on something, it mysteriously replenishes itself, new soap or kitchen roll. It’s funny to imagine an esteemed American author poking around their local store.

Alby was slightly embarrassed about his home at first. Sure, it’s a nice flat, cheap, next to the chipper, with a view of the river, but he could only see the flaws with Ohm around. Ohm hasn’t complained once, though, not even about having to sleep on the sofa. It probably seems luxurious in comparison to the mildew and rotting wood of the honeymoon suite.

It’s still pretty surreal: Ohm Bauman himself, staying in his flat. It’s the kind of dream he’d never want to wake up from, if Ohm hadn’t already served him a healthy dose of reality when it comes to meeting your heroes. Sometimes, your favourite author is a fucked-up guy who will burn you for soliciting his advice and try to hang himself in his hotel room.

Case in point: Ohm still isn’t getting enough sleep. His first night out of hospital, Alby was roused by the sound of him quietly whimpering in his sleep. He hesitated by Ohm’s side for a while, unsure whether to wake him, and saw the way Ohm’s face was contorted as though in pain as his lips moved soundlessly around nonsensical words.

It was a very restrained reaction to a nightmare, but when Ohm did jolt awake, his eyes were wild, and he grabbed blindly at a piece of chalk he’d kept near him for some reason. Then he seemed to remember where he was and told Alby to go back to bed like nothing had happened. Alby hasn’t seen him sleep since.

They attend Fiona’s memorial service together. Alby sticks close to Fergal throughout, who is clearly struggling to hold himself together, but he sees Ohm talking quietly with Fiona’s parents at one point. He has no idea what Ohm could have said to them, even if the Southern Star article reporting her death was scant on details. That Fiona saved his life? That he was the one who found her, the one who managed to expose the truth, the voice recordings he presented to the Gardaí corroborating his story?

After the memorial, Ohm looks abject, eyeing the available wine longingly though he makes no move to pour himself a drink. It’s probably for the best; Alby already knows that Ohm can be a mean drunk.

Back home, Alby offers Ohm the little package that Fergal entrusted him with. “This is for you, from Fergal.”

Ohm, sitting hunched over on the sofa, uncurls himself a little. “Why didn’t he give it to me himself?”

“Probably because he knew you’d refuse it.”

Ohm scrunches his nose in implicit confirmation. “He doesn’t have to keep buying me stuff. He’s the one who saved my life, not the other way around.”

“Ah, well...” Alby tentatively sits on the opposite end of the sofa, “I think he feels guilty for not listening to you about the honeymoon suite. It would’ve saved a lot of pain if he had.”

He watches Ohm’s throat bob. “He shouldn’t feel guilty. Fiona would still be dead either way. And Jerry...”

Alby waits for Ohm to continue, but he has fallen silent again. “I’m sure they’ll hold a memorial for Jerry, too, eventually. He was a good fella, he was.”

Ohm says nothing, instead examining Fergal’s little package. Alby doesn’t push it. Truth be told, even if Ohm has mellowed out some, he still feels like he’s walking on eggshells around him sometimes.

“What is this?”

“Oh, it’s fudge,” Alby says eagerly. “The best in town. You ever had Irish fudge?”

“I’ve never even had American fudge.”

Ohm unties the ribbon and takes a chunk before offering the package to Alby. Fergal was thoughtful enough to get the vanilla-flavoured variety, rather than the kind infused with Baileys; he must have picked up on the undertones of Ohm refusing his previous gift of champagne, even if Ohm would stoutly deny any deeper meaning behind his changed attitude. Alby doesn’t drink much himself, but he cleared out all the beer in his fridge, just to help Ohm avoid temptation if he really is trying to quit.

Ohm’s scepticism quickly melts away as soon as he starts chewing. “Huh, this is actually... good.”

Alby hides his smile.

“That was nice today, wasn’t it? The memorial, I mean. A lot of people showed up for her.”

Ohm’s expression darkens, but he nods.

“It’s been a while since I went to something like that. Last time was when I lost my granda, couple years back, but he was almost a hundred.” Alby swallows. “I still can’t believe that Mal—that he would—”

He cuts himself off, knowing full well that Ohm won’t want to pursue this subject. Mal tried to kill him, too, after all. Alby doesn’t know how Ohm can seem so stoic after being locked in that suite with Fiona’s corpse, left alone to starve to death or be dragged away by the witch. Or maybe he’s just good at putting on a mask, those nightmares and insomnia the only things seeping through the cracks.

Alby, against his survival instincts, says, “I’m sorry you had to get through that, too. Fiona told me that you came here to put your folks to rest. Losing them so recently must—”

“My parents both died a long time ago,” Ohm interrupts. “I just never knew what to do with their ashes.” He leans back to stare up at the ceiling. “They went to the Bilberry Woods for their honeymoon, years ago, before the suite was locked off. And they were happy there, so, I don’t know, I figured it was good a place as any.”

“Maybe you were conceived in that honeymoon suite,” Alby tries to joke.

“Jesus, don’t say that.”

Alby’s eyes drift over to the little coffee table before the sofa, where the photograph of the blonde woman beside the redwood tree sits next to Ohm’s laptop, the same photograph he returned to him at the hospital.

“Is that your mother?”

Ohm nods jerkily.

“She was very beautiful,” Alby says. “You look like her.”

He feels, rather than sees, Ohm stiffen. “What are you talking about? No, I don’t.”

“I mean, your colouring is different,” Alby hedges, sensing that he has struck something sensitive. “You’re not blond.”

“I can see that.”

Alby doesn’t acknowledge the snark. He touches the grainy face of Ohm’s mother, feeling the creases in the photograph beneath his finger. “I mean, I’ve only seen this one photo of her, but you’ve the same nose, same cheekbones, same sort of brows...”

Ohm follows his finger, looking genuinely surprised, as though he’d never considered such resemblance before. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“There you go,” Alby says. “You look more like her when you smile.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He takes the photo from Alby, his indignance belied by the gentle way he tucks it into his pocket.

Alby knows he shouldn’t push it and risk sending Ohm back into his characteristic standoffishness, but this is the most they’ve spoken about something personal, so he risks asking, “What was she like, your ma?”

Ohm lets out a long sigh. “She... I don’t know. She was great. Blunt, you know, always said what was on her mind. But she was very funny, very sharp. Fiona kind of reminded me of her in that way.” His face begins to open a little more, his posture becoming less hunched. “And she was always making up these stories. Not just bedtime stories, but spooky campfire stories, the kind that scared me shitless when I was a kid. And so I’d go to her in the middle of the night, afraid to sleep, and she’d feel guilty.”

Alby chuckles a little. He can see where Ohm picked up some of those traits. “And your dad?”

Any trace of fond remembrance on Ohm’s face immediately dissipates, his brow furrowing. “What about him? His liver gave out when I was seventeen, so I had to spend a year in a foster home. And then I took the money I inherited from him and put myself through college.”

“But what was he like?” Alby asks, curious despite himself. He really knows nothing about Ohm’s personal life when it comes down to it, his Wikipedia page a lengthy list of his works and not much more, aside from a vague mention of an Arizona upbringing, fluency in Spanish, and an English university degree after attending UCLA on a scholarship. No mention of family or a spouse.

“Why do you care?” Ohm mutters, turning away. “I told you, they’ve both been dead for years. You’re not going to get a publisher’s number from them.”

“You’re saying that you’ll give me a publisher’s number?”

“Jesus Christ, Alby, read the room.”

“Here, it’s the least you could do, after being so rude to me,” Alby says, only half-teasing. He knows by now that verbal sparring appeals to Ohm far more than flattery. “You did burn me, remember?” He thrusts his hand forwards, but his point is undermined by the fact that the red mark has long since faded, leaving only smooth skin behind.

“Sorry,” Ohm says. He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Hot spoon hurts like a bitch, huh?”

“Yes, it really does—” Alby begins indignantly, then cuts himself off when Ohm’s words register. “Wait, what do you mean?”

Ohm blinks quizzically at him.

“You know what it’s like? Getting burnt like that?”

Ohm’s eyes widen, then narrow. A shadow passes over his face. “That’s not what I said. You must’ve misheard me.”

“But—”

“Just drop it, Alby. Please.” Ohm dissolves into a short coughing fit, a lingering side effect of the smoke inhalation that the hospital said should clear up within another week. “Besides, you fucking drugged me.”

Alby chews his lip. He felt as though Ohm was beginning to let his guard down around him, but now those walls have slammed back up and he can’t figure out why.

He sets it aside, for now. “Speaking of drugs, I got some sleeping tablets from the pharmacy. I thought it might help you, since you haven’t been sleeping much.”

“I’m fine,” Ohm says flatly. Alby takes that with more than a grain of salt; he’s pretty sure Ohm could hack up a lung and would still insist he didn’t need help.

“Well, they’re here if you want them.” Alby gets to his feet. “I’m knackered myself, so I’m going to head to bed.”

He begins to walk out, but then pauses when he hears Ohm quietly reply, “Goodnight.”

He pauses for a moment, taking in Ohm’s hunched form on the sofa. His back is to Alby, his head slightly bowed, but Alby could swear that he sees his shoulders tremble for a moment, like he is struggling to contain something inside himself.

Alby flips off the light. Ohm does not respond to the sudden darkness at all.

To his credit, Ohm holds out for a little while longer before he acquiesces to the medicine. It’s after the police conducted a follow-up interview with him—probably some of Fergal’s cousins, now Alby thinks about it—a long process that Ohm fairly staggered out of.

“They wanted to know about Mal,” Ohm admits later, having barely responded to Alby introducing him to the joys of 99 ice cream. “About what really happened to him. I guess they still haven’t found anything. And they think I’m lying to them.”

Alby stares down at his own ice cream cone, his appetite suddenly waning. “She got him, didn’t she? The witch.”

“I’m not saying anything about a witch to them. They’d throw me in the fucking psych ward if I did.”

Alby is rabidly curious about the witch; he just saw the outline of her face against the flame of his lighter that time, but Ohm actually interacted with her. Judging by the now-yellowing bruises on his wrists, he almost met the same fate as Mal. Ohm refuses to talk about whatever happened in the basement, though.

Maybe he’ll put it in a book someday. It would make for a good story.

Either way, Ohm is clearly miserable after the interview and a hushed, angry phone call with someone Alby takes to be his agent. Normally, if Ohm were one of his friends, Alby would suggest that they just get hammered together, but that would clearly be the wrong tack to take with someone struggling to cling to a newfound sobriety.

Instead, they end up on the sofa, with some cheesy old sitcom playing as Alby reads and Ohm frowns over his latest draft on his laptop. He still refuses to tell Alby anything about the Conquistador conclusion, but Alby has gleaned that Ohm recently changed the ending and is now having to trawl back through his work and edit accordingly. Alby had tried to sneak some glances, until Ohm pointedly angled his screen away. It’s probably for the best; Alby wouldn’t want to have it all spoiled for him before the book came out.

Eventually, Ohm closes his laptop with a sigh. It’s dark outside now, nothing but the background sound of the TV and the rain on the windowpanes to keep them company.

“Where did you put those sleeping pills?”

“I thought you didn’t want them.”

“I changed my mind.” Ohm presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I feel like I’m sleepwalking everywhere, and I can’t take it anymore. My brain has gone to mush.”

“They’re in the bathroom cupboard. Help yourself. Although, fair warning, you can get kind of loopy on those things before you sleep.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Alby is proven right, though, because he can tell as soon as the tablets start kicking in: Ohm begins to go all loose and relaxed on the sofa beside him, sitting closer to Alby than he ever has before, his eyes slightly glazed over. It turns out that a sleep-deprived, heavily medicated Ohm is also a clingy Ohm, which is so unfitting with his demeanour that it’s kind of funny. He’s like a cat that pretends it hates you while secretly wanting a scratch behind the ears. Instead of just giving in to the drowsiness, though, Ohm seems to still be fighting sleep.

“I might make some tea,” Alby suggests. It’s not just for Ohm—it’s been spitting outside all day, and the cold has seeped into the flat—but he does hope a warm drink might lull Ohm to sleep.

Ohm hums, his head lolling a little. He shaved yesterday, his beard having grown too scruffy, and it’s startling how much younger he looks in the warm lamplight, shower-damp hair rumpled, in pyjama pants and a slightly oversized knit jumper. It’s a stark reminder to Alby that he and Ohm are actually around the same age, despite Ohm’s prolific career and world-weary attitude. All of that is just a shell, really, something for Ohm to protect his soft underbelly.

Alby can feel Ohm watching him as the kettle boils, but it still comes as a surprise when Ohm suddenly says, “Why’d you ask me to stay with you?”

“You didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Ohm takes his glasses off before muttering, “You offered just because you felt sorry for me, didn’t you? Or you were afraid I’d try to... you know, kill myself again.”

“I never said that.”

“But you thought it.”

Alby sighs. “All right, fine, I was obviously worried about you being on your own after what happened at the hotel. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be alone after that. And it was scary finding you in your room, so—”

“Wait,” Ohm interrupts. “Mal said Fiona found me.”

“Oh, she did. But she didn’t have a key to your room, so she insisted I let her in.” Alby swallows, averting his eyes, grief for Fiona suddenly welling up. “And I held you up as she cut you down.”

Ohm exhales sharply. “Jesus, Alby, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise for that, Ohm. You were unwell.”

“I think I’ve been unwell most of my life,” Ohm replies with the same painful candidness with which he told Alby that there would be no one visiting him in the hospital if he were back home. He continues in an oddly reminiscent tone, “It was meant to be neat, you know? I knew how it’d go before I came to Ireland. Scattered my parents, emailed my agent my draft since everyone fucking loves a posthumous novel... and then...” He trails off into silence.

“Like I said, no apology needed.” Alby tries to lighten his tone. “Wouldn’t mind another apology for burning me, though, if you’re in the mood.”

“I’m sorry, Alby,” Ohm says, the sardonic edge to his words undermined by the way the medicine makes him yawn widely.

“It really is a mean trick that, the hot spoon. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone hurt me in such a weirdly specific way before. Don’t tell me you learned it from a book or something.”

Ohm scoffs. “A book? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Alby turns back to the kettle, busying himself with pouring the boiling water into the two mugs. He’s so focused on his task, and the rain is so loud now, that he almost misses it when Ohm says in a hoarse little whisper, “I learned it from my dad.”

Alby freezes mid-step. Some of the tea sloshes over the side of the mug and, ironically, narrowly misses burning his hand.

Ohm watches with unfocused eyes as Alby quickly puts the mugs down before sitting on the sofa next to him.

Alby swallows around the lump in his throat, praying he misheard. “You—what do you mean?”

Ohm lets out a mirthless huff of laughter, and rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. It’s dim in the room, so it takes a moment for Alby to see what Ohm is showing him: a pale scar on his arm, vaguely oval-shaped, just beneath the crook of his elbow.

Alby feels a twist deep in his stomach, like getting punched in the gut.

He’s never seen Ohm in short sleeves before. Once he gets past his initial shock and looks closer, he sees that the scar Ohm indicated is not the only one: there are others that remind Alby of his cousin’s chickenpox scars, like small sunken pits in his skin, faded white with age as to be less noticeable against his pale skin, mostly on his inner left forearm. You wouldn’t see them unless Ohm flipped his arm around, but Alby can’t stop noticing them now, mottled and overlapping in places. Burn scars. Deliberate scars.

Alby sucks in a shaky breath. “You... you didn’t do that to yourself, did you?”

“Nope,” Ohm says, popping the ‘p’ in an almost irreverent manner, despite the dark look in his eyes. “I told you, my dad did.”

“Your dad did?” Alby repeats, aghast.

Ohm stares down at the floor, readjusting his sleeves so his arms are hidden once more. “It was a long time ago.” He says it like it’s supposed to be reassuring, but that just makes Alby feel worse.

He tries to think of something to say—what can you say to that?—but Ohm carries on without waiting for a reply. “The first time, it was right after my mum’s funeral. He was in the kitchen, reheating one of the millions of casseroles people had given us. I knew he didn’t want me near him, that he couldn’t stand to look at me, but I wanted... I don’t know. Comfort or something.” He rubs his eyes. “I was bothering him. And he’d left a spoon too close to the stove, so the metal was red-hot.”

Alby already knows where this story is going. Bile rises in his throat, but Ohm presses on, his voice dull and monotonous. “So, he picked up the spoon and burned my arm with it. Held me still, so I couldn’t move away. Then he finally let me go and told me to put it under cold water.” Ohm scoffs. “Still fucking scarred, though, didn’t it?”

“Ohm...”

“Anyway,” Ohm interrupts unsteadily. “He was a chain-smoker, so whenever I pissed him off after that, he just held a cigarette to my arm instead. Not as creative of him.”

It all seems so surreal that, for a moment, Alby wonders if Ohm is doing what he does best: making up a story. He dismisses the thought as soon as it comes, though; Ohm is a lot of things, but he’s not a liar. And the look in his eyes is too haunted for it not to be real.

“Why would he do a thing like that?”

“Because he hated me. And I probably kind of deserved it.”

“Why would you deserve it?”

Ohm closes his eyes. “All right, the Q&A is over. I shouldn’t have brought it up. ’S not exactly a great bedtime story.”

“It’s terrible,” Alby says hotly, suddenly feeling protective over the child Ohm once was. “You were just a kid. And even if you weren’t, you wouldn’t deserve a thing like that.”

Ohm finally meets his gaze, and, in his wide brown eyes and the way his knees are pulled to his chest, Alby glimpses for a moment the shadow of that scared child.

Ohm stares at Alby for a long moment, like he’s trying to believe him. Finally, though, he uncurls himself and groans. “Christ, I feel like I got hit by a horse tranquiliser. And I thought American pills were strong.”

“The days of sleep deprivation are probably adding to that.” Alby dares to touch his shoulder. “Please, go to sleep, Ohm. I’ll be here when you wake.”

Ohm would never admit it, of course, but Alby feels the way his body relaxes under his touch and knows that Ohm is relieved to not be alone right now.

Ohm drains his now-lukewarm tea in one long gulp before collapsing back against the sofa. Alby rises to his feet, passing Ohm the blanket as he flicks off the light. Ohm may be avoiding alcohol right now, but Alby could certainly do with a stiff drink after that. No wonder Ohm’s stories were always so bleak; they were just a reflection of his life. Maybe it is a good sign, then, that Ohm wants to end this book on a more hopeful note.

“Alby?” Ohm says into the darkness. “Thanks for, you know.”

“I know. Goodnight.”

Later that night, Alby wakes to a slight scuffling noise, a noise that he assumes is Ohm in the throes of another nightmare. He heaves himself out of bed, rubbing sleepily at his eyes as he steps into the other room, and then he sees a shadowy figure hunched over the sofa and his heart stops dead.

A woman is standing over Ohm, looking down at him. Alby’s first panicked thought is that an intruder somehow got in, but the moonlight through the window catches on the woman’s blonde hair and he recognises with a jolt the woman from Ohm’s photo. His mother. His dead mother.

Alby has never really seen a ghost before, so he isn’t sure how much he should be freaking out. The stories he’s heard (mostly overheard from Mr. Cob gleefully trying to frighten guests at the hotel) paint any supernatural beings as malicious, but Ohm’s mother looks perfectly normal, aside from the bloody hole in the side of her face. She doesn’t seem angry or aggressive, just... there.

Alby holds his breath. Ohm is still fast asleep on the sofa, the medicine allowing his body to finally shut down. His mother is bent over him, a hand gently carding through his hair, soothing him in his sleep. Even if Alby hadn’t seen that photograph of her, he’d still be able to tell that this is Ohm’s mother. The love in her eyes as she looks down at Ohm makes it all too clear that he’s her baby.

Mrs. Bauman’s eyes suddenly dart up to Alby, sensing his presence. Alby freezes like a goat in the sights of a crossbow-armed Fergal.

They share a long look. Mrs. Bauman doesn’t speak—perhaps the veil between their two worlds isn’t thin enough in this moment, or perhaps Alby just can’t hear her—but her expression softens. And, right before she disappears into the darkness once more, Alby could swear that she gives him a small smile.

And then she’s gone.

“Ohm?” Alby whispers, unsure if he dreamt the whole thing.

Ohm raises his head from the pillow, fluffy hair sticking up on one side, still half-asleep. “Huh?”

“Never mind.”

Ohm mumbles something, and then his head flops back down on the pillow and he’s out again.

Alby knows that when he wakes, Ohm will not want to acknowledge their conversation from tonight, the truths laid bare in his sleep-deprived haze, and he’d probably think Alby is insane if Alby told him about his mother. Alby won’t push it, though.

He picks up his copy of the Conquistador book, finds his marked place, and settles back in to read.

Within a week of their leaving the town in search of the map, there would be a price of ten thousand silver coins for the conquistador’s head. He rode west with the boy in uneasy camaraderie towards the evening lands and the red demise of the day, towards a place they might find peace...

Alby watches over Ohm as the sun begins to rise, until sleep takes him too.