Dead Man's Playlist: Chapter 1

They gave her the records in two milk crates and a grocery bag with a busted handle.

"No will," the lawyer said, brushing crumbs off his tie. "Just a list of next-of-kin. And you're it."

Junie Carson didn't remember her father listening to music.

In fact, she didn't remember much about him at all. She had last seen him when she was nine, standing in the window of his duplex in Tall Pines, waving a half-hearted goodbye as her mother reversed the car down the gravel driveway. His shape - blurry in the rain-slicked glass had been burned into her childhood like an afterimage. Then the shadow went dark.

He hadn't called. He hadn't written. And now, eleven years later, he was dead and leaving behind a pile of dusty records.

The crates sat on her kitchen floor for two days before she touched them. She wasn't avoiding them, exactly. Life had simply moved on, as it tends to do. She'd had a shift at the bookstore, a lab report to finish, and a groupchat with roommates that constantly exploded with too many memes and potluck plans. The crates weren't urgent. They were just there. Heavy. Silent. Absurd.

On the third night, a storm rolled in. The kind that presses into your apartment through the old windows, humming low in the frames. The power flickered. Junie lit a candle. The crates loomed in the corner like dogs waiting to be fed.

Sighing, she pulled them toward her. They smelled like basements and cedar. Dozens of vinyl sleeves, some cracked or curling at the edges. Names she recognized - The Beatles, Bowie, Nina Simone - other's she didn't. Junie flipped through with mild detachment until one sleeve stopped her cold.

It was matte black, with no markings except a small gold stamp in the corner: "C. Carson -- Vol. I."

Her hand hovered. "C. Carson." Her father. Curtis Carson. Not a musician. Not even lose. He had been, according to the obituary, a retired surveyor, a "quiet man," and, more curiously, "an enthusiast of analog preservation."

Junie slipped the record from its sleeve.

It was heavier than the others. No label. Just the same initials etched into the center. She hesitated, then crossed the room to the shelf where her roommate's battered record player sat, rescued from a garage sale and mostly used as a plant stand. She dusted it off, placed the vinyl, and dropped the needle.

Static crackled, then -

"Hey, June Bug. It's been a long time." She froze. "If you're hearing this, it means I'm dead. So...congratulations? You won the grief lottery."

The voice was unmistakable. Older than she remembered, rougher, but his. Her father.

"I didn't know if I should do this. Hell, maybe I shouldn't have. But there are things I need to say, and music says them better than I ever could. So here's the deal: this is Volume One. Each side, one track. One memory. One truth."

Junie blinked, her chest tightening.

"You always deserved the truth. Even if it's too late."

There was a pause. Then a needle lift sound, a faint hum, and the song began. A low mournful saxophone spilled into the room. Something smoky. Vinyl hiss underscored the melody. She recognized the tune fainly, John Coltrane, 'Naima'. Her dad used to hum it sometimes while folding laundry, back when they still lived together in the bungalow on Arcadia Street. Back when he hadn't disappeared yet.

As the music played, she sat down on the floor and stared at nothing. When the song ended, his voice returned.

"That was the first song your mom and I danced to. Back when she still liked me. Before I screwed everything up." Another pause. This one longer. The kind that makes space for regret.

"I'll keep this short, June-Bug. If you're still listening, look in the sleeve. There's a picture. And a note. Read those. Then, if you want to keep going, there's another record marked Volume Two. And after that....well, you'll see."

Click. The record ended. Junie sat in silence. Rain tapped the windows like a metronome. She pulled the sleeve toward her. Inside: a polaroid. Her mother, young, laughing, leaning into a man who was unmistakably her father. They were at a jazz club, drinks in hand, blurred by motion but vividly alive. Tucked behind it, a folded slip of notebook paper.

'Naima - 1989. First kiss. She wore red. I wore hope.'

That was all. Junie read it twice. Then again. She didn't cry, not really. But something inside her softened, like old film developing in light.

* * *

The next morning, she called out of work and sat cross-legged on the living room floor. The second crate was heavier, fuller. She searched through it until she found the next black sleeve. "C. Carson - Vol. II."

This one had a note taped to the front. "Side A - The Last Time We Were All Happy." The phrase hit her stomach like a lead weight. With careful hands, she placed the record on the turntable and dropped the needle.

Her father's voice greeted her again, this time quieter. More vulnerable maybe.

"It was the summer before you turned seven. The year with the ice cream truck that played 'Greensleeves'. We went to Sandbar Lake, remember? You caught a frog. Your mom let you keep it in a shoebox overnight." A distant laugh. "You named it Peepo. God, you were so proud of that frog."

Junie closed her eyes. She did remember. Vaguely. The box by the foot of her bed. The thrill of feeling responsible for a life. The smell of lake water in her sheets.

"That night, your mom made us chili dogs and we watched the stars. You fell asleep in her lap. And for a second, just a second, I thought maybe everything was going to be okay."

The record shifted to another song - Joni Mitchell's 'Little Green.' She hadn't heard it before. But as the song played, she realized, this wasn't just nostalgia. It was confession. Her father hadn't left her a playlist. He'd left her a map.

At the bottom of the first crate, Junie found something she hadn't noticed before. A small notebook, bound in cracked leather. Inside, a table of contents. Each line was a song title. Each one had a number. Some had an asterisk. The last one read.

"Track 18 - 'Wish You were Here'. Note: Play this one last. No matter what.

Want to Read More?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10