Dead Man's Playlist: Chapter 9

Junie woke to the smell of toasted bagels and the quiet hum of morning radio.

For a moment, she let herself pretend things were normal. That she’d just overslept, that she hadn’t vanished for days with nothing but a cryptic note and a trail of records to explain her absence. But the illusion broke the moment she opened her door and saw Sasha in the kitchen, stirring honey into her tea.

They locked eyes. Neither of them spoke. Junie stepped out, her throat dry. “Morning.”

Sasha didn’t respond at first. Then, with the clink of her spoon against the mug, she muttered, “Hey.” Junie lingered by the counter, unsure whether to pour coffee or retreat. The silence between them was sticky, stretched too tight.

“I was going to text,” Junie offered.

Sasha glanced at her. “But you didn’t.”

“No,” Junie said. “I didn’t.” A pause. Then Sasha sighed, set down her spoon, and looked at her fully.

“You scared the hell out of us, Junie. Mira cried. I thought—” Her voice cracked. “I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere.”

Junie looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Sasha nodded, but the air between them didn’t soften. “You can’t just disappear. People care about you. That matters.”

Junie nodded. “I know. I just… didn’t know how to stay.”

Sasha’s gaze flicked toward the hallway. “You still don’t.” Junie opened her mouth, then closed it again. The words wouldn’t come. Not yet. She grabbed a granola bar from the cupboard, stuffed it in her bag, and slipped out the door.

-

The walk to the bookstore felt longer than usual. Maybe it was the weight of guilt, or the late autumn wind pushing back against her. Maybe it was the worry about how Naomi would react.

She hadn't messaged. Hadn't called. Just walked out mid-shift and never came back. The bell above the door jingled as she stepped inside. The familiar scent of paper and coffee hit her like a memory. Naomi was behind the register, glasses perched low on her nose, a worn copy of The Secret History in her hands.

She looked up.

“Well,” she said, closing the book. “Either I’m hallucinating, or Junie Carson just walked through my door.”

Junie winced. “I—”

“Don’t,” Naomi said, holding up a hand. “Just… come here.” Junie stepped forward. Naomi looked her over. “You look like you went ten rounds with a ghost.”

“Something like that,” Junie murmured.

Naomi arched a brow. “You okay?”

Junie nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Naomi said, “I’m still mad. But I’m more relieved. And Mira said you were safe, so I didn’t file a missing person’s report. Consider that my generosity quota for the month.” Junie laughed, small and tired.

Naomi softened. “You don’t owe me an explanation. But you do owe me inventory. So… you up for working?” Junie nodded, grateful. “Good. Shelve the new arrivals and help me figure out what demon keeps moving the art books.”

The store was quiet for the first hour. Junie lost herself in the rhythm of work—unpacking boxes, scanning barcodes, shelving hardcovers with satisfying thuds.

It wasn’t until just past noon that things got… strange. A man walked in. Older. Late sixties, maybe. Neatly dressed in a gray coat and scarf, like he’d stepped out of another decade. He wandered toward the counter, smiling at Naomi, then paused by the music section.

Junie watched as he pulled a book from the shelf: The Secret Lives of Vinyl. He flipped through the pages slowly, lips moving like he was reciting something under his breath. Then he looked up.

“Do you carry a book called The Ferryman’s Echo?” he asked.

Junie blinked. “I don’t think so.”

He tilted his head. “It’s supposed to be here. On this shelf.” She glanced over. Nothing by that title.

“Is it new?”

“It’s old,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Very old. But I figured this was the place to find it.”

Naomi came over. “Can I help?”

The man smiled at her, too. “No worries. Just thought I’d try.” He slid the vinyl book back into place and walked toward the door. But as he passed the register, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“This is for her,” he said, nodding toward Junie. And then he was gone.

Naomi looked at her. “Friend of yours?”

“No,” Junie said. “Never seen him before.” She unfolded the note.

It was a photocopy of a handwritten letter. The ink was faded, the paper warped. But the signature at the bottom...Her father’s.

She stared at it, heart pounding. But the content was cryptic, almost nonsense. A paragraph about time being a spiral, about echoes that wait for the right ear. About “songs written in dust.”

She showed it to Naomi.

“This is… a lot,” Naomi said.

“I don’t get it.”

Naomi tapped the paper. “Is this real?” Junie didn’t know how to answer that. By the time her shift ended, Junie felt like she’d been underwater all day. She left the bookstore with the note folded in her pocket and a question gnawing at her thoughts.

The man. The book. Her father’s signature. What was 'The Ferryman’s Echo'? And why did it sound like something pulled from a dream?

She stopped at a corner cafe and texted Mira,

"You ever heard of a book called The Ferryman’s Echo?" A minute later,

"Are you being metaphorical again?" She smiled faintly.

"Not this time."

"Sounds like one of your dad’s riddles." Junie thought about that. Yeah. It did.

Back at the apartment, the light was low and golden. Sasha was on the couch, headphones in, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. Junie hovered by the doorway.

“Hey.”

Sasha looked up, hesitated, then pulled off one earbud. “Hey.” Junie sat in the armchair across from her. The silence stretched again—but this time it wasn’t sharp. Just hesitant.

“I’m sorry,” Junie said.

Sasha nodded. “You already said that.”

“I know. But I need to say it again. I should’ve told you. I should’ve said something.” Sasha studied her.

“You were hurting. I get that. But it doesn’t mean you get to shut people out. We live here too. We care.”

“I know,” Junie said, quiet. “I care, too. I just… didn’t know how to talk about it. And I was afraid that if I did, it would become real.”

Sasha leaned back. “It already was real.”

Junie nodded. “Yeah.”

They sat for a moment longer. Then Sasha sighed and reached into the popcorn bowl, tossing a kernel at her.

“Next time, just say, ‘I need to disappear for a few days so I can go haunt a lakeside cabin and cry about old records.’ That way I don’t have to imagine you face down in a ditch.”

Junie laughed. “Deal.” Later that night, Junie sat at her desk, the letter from the strange man unfolded beside her. She traced her fingers along the signature. The loops, the slant. It was his. But the message felt… different. Like something meant to be decoded.

She reached for her journal and began to write again. Not answers—just questions. Why now? Why that man? What was she supposed to find next?

Mira texted again,

“Let me know when you're ready for Track 10.” Junie looked over at the crate. Soon, she thought.

But not quite yet.

Want to Read More?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10