Dead Man's Playlist: Chapter 2

Junie didn't sleep that night.

Not from fear. Not exactly. It was something quieter, like someone had knocked a puzzle off a shelf inside her mind and now she couldn't stop picking up the pieces. One by one. Trying to see how they fit.

By morning her apartment smelled like black coffee and candle wax. The rain had stopped, but the clouds still pressed low over the neighborhood, muting everything like cotton stuffed in the sky. She stared at the leather notebook again.

Eighteen songs. Eighteen entries. 10 volumes. "Wish you Were Here" was the last one. It had an asterisk and the words, 'Play this one last. No matter what'.

She had always assumed her father didn't care. That he'd just...vanished. Another man who found the weight of a family too heavy and put it down somewhere, like a box left on the side of the road.

But this wasn't abandonment. This was a breadcrumb trail. And now she couldn't stop following it.

-

The bookstore was slow that afternoon. Only two customers came in, one asked if they carried books about haunted houses but insisted "not the ghost kind, just the emotionally haunted kind." The other one tried to return a copy of 'Catcher in the Rye', claiming it gave them 'bad luck.'

Junie smiled through both. But her mind wasn't in it. The notebook was tucked into her tote bag behind the register. Around 3:00 PM when the manager went out for coffee, she opened it again and flipped to the next entry.

Track B (Vol. II) - 'Pink Moon' by Nick Drake - Play with low light, late hour. For the truth. The note underneath was simple: "The last time I saw your grandfather alive."

Junie frowned. She knew almost nothing about her grandfather. Her mother never talked about him, and her dad had been just as tight-lipped. All she had were snippets: a photo once glimpsed in a drawer, a comment about 'the old man's stubborn pride,' and the impression, never confirmed, that he might have served in the military.

Back at the apartment, she dug through the second crate until she found Vol. II again and flipped it over. The label was handwritten in a faded red pen, "Side B - Pink Moon.' She placed it on the player, heart steady, breath shallow.

Needle down. Hiss. Crackle.

"Your grandfather was a bastard." Her father's voice again. This time, dry. Measured. Tired. "But he was my bastard, and the day I lost him still sits in me like a stone in the gut."

Junie sat cross-legged on the floor. The rain had started again, just barely. The candle flickered beside her, casting her father's words into shadows.

"It was 1997. He called out of the blue. Wanted to go fishing. I knew he was sick, but he didn't say that. Just said the salmon were running and he had an extra rod." A faint rustle in the background, maybe wind or distortion. "I almost didn't go. Almost stayed home to paint the damn deck. but I went. And we sat in silence by the river for hours, not catching anything. Just...breathing."

The song began. Sparse, spectral. Pink Moon rolled through the speakers like a memory whispered into a cave. Junie had never really listened to Nick Drake before. She didn't know whether to cry or float away.

"He didn't say goodbye. He didn't say anything. But I think he knew. And now I know, too. Some things don't get said out loud. They play on repeat, quietly, until someone listens."

The record ends. Junie didn't move. Outside, traffic hummed and a neighbor's dog barked once. In here, only the soft ticking of the candle wick and her own heartbeat. She found herself googling Nick Drake. Died at 26. Pink Moon released 1972. Cult following. Posthumous acclaim. A line jumped out at her, 'there's no sense in trying.' It rattled something loose.

Later that night, she called her mom. It went to voicemail. Of course it did. Her mom had moved to Arizona five years ago, chasing dry weather and cheap rent. She didn't like talking about the past. Junie had learned not to ask questions that made the line go quiet. Still, she left a message.

"Hey, Mom. Just wondering...did Dad ever take me fishing? Or did he fish? Like, regularly? Sorry, weird question. Just...call me back if you can. Love you." She didn't say anything about records. Not yet.

-

The next day, a strange man knocked on her door.

He was in his sixties, maybe older, with a sharp nose and a corduroy blazer that looked older than Junie. He held a thermos in one hand and a manila folder in the other.

"Juniper Carson?" he asked. Her defenses snapped into place.

"Who's asking?" He smiled, sheepish.

"Sorry. My name's Ralph. Ralph Danner. I was your father's neighbor. Lived across the street from him in Tall Pines. He mentioned you once or twice." Junie narrowed her eyes.

"Okay..." He shifted, suddenly awkward.

"He asked me to give you something. If you ever came back. Or if, you know, something happened to him." Her stomach twisted.

"You've got good timing."

"Yeah. Spooky, huh?" He handed her the folder. "Said not to open it until Volume IV." She blinked.

"Volume what?"

"Fourth record," he said, then chuckled. "You're not the only one he left notes for." Before she could ask anything else, he tipped his thermos, turned, and walked down the hall like a man late for the bus.

She closed the door, locked it, and stared at the folder. It had her name on it. Handwritten in blue ink. Slanted and careful. She placed it next to the crate. Then, despite everything in her rational brain screaming slow down, she dug out Vol. III and put it on the player. There was no note this time. Just a label.

TRACK 3 - "Fast Car" (Tracy Chapman) - For When We Almost Left

Junie blinked. Almost left what?

The record began with a low thrum. Guitar picking. That aching voice rising slow and clear. Her father's voice cut in between verses.

"Your mom used to sing this while driving with the windows down. Back when we still thought we could run from what was broken. We almost moved to California, did you know that? Packed the car, sold the couch, gave notice at the power company. It lasted three days." Junie felt her jaw clench. "We stopped outside St. Louis. Slept in a motel with cigarette burns in the bedspread. Your mom cried. I yelled. You threw up in the lobby. And just like that - we turned around. Drove back like nothing had happened."

A breath. Sharp. "Sometimes I think about what would've changed. Sometimes I think we should've kept going." The music swelled again.

You got a fast car.

Is it fast enough so we can fly away?

The track faded. Silence fell. Junie stared at the spinning vinyl, breath shallow. had they really almost left. Had they almost been a different family? She suddenly felt eight years old again, hiding under a table during a fight about a credit card bill. The smell of Lysol and burnt eggs. The tension so thick it made her ears ring.

She could see her mother's face. Tired, angry and afraid. She could almost remember a motel. The past wasn't a memory, it was a ghost. And it was starting to speak. She pressed her palms against her eyes. Her whole body hummed like a struck chord. There were more records. More stories. More ghosts.

And Junie was going to listen to every damn one.

Want to Read More?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10