The Haunting - Part 8

October 4, 2023 – Arrival in Marietta

The shuttle ride from Atlanta airport blurred into neon lights and unfamiliar street signs. Rafferty felt disconnected, the city outside moving too fast, too vibrant against the unease settling deep in his chest.

Atlanta’s bus terminal was worse—fluorescent lights flickered over transient lives, the smell of exhaust and sweat lingering in the air like unfinished goodbyes.

The bus to Marietta pulled him out of the city’s grasp, skyscrapers melting into suburban shadows until it finally stopped at an old Chevron station—Marietta’s unofficial welcome sign.

It wasn’t what he’d imagined.

Inside, the cashier, an older man, greeted him with a strange, knowing smile. “First time in Marietta?”

Rafferty nodded, stretching from the journey. But the man’s next words froze him:

“And who might that be with you?”

Rafferty spun around. The store was empty.

"Just me,” he managed.

The old man shrugged, one eye clear, the other clouded with a strange, brief glow—there and gone in an instant. "Must be my eyes playin’ tricks."

Rafferty’s skin prickled, an unsettling chill pressing at the edges of his mind. He left quickly, deciding to walk rather than accept the man’s offer of a ride.

Outside, crisp autumn air filled his lungs, the quiet of Marietta stretching ahead.

Secrets in Marietta Square

Downtown unfolded around him, softly lit lamps casting pools of golden light on brick sidewalks. Marietta Square felt suspended in time, preserving memories Rafferty wasn’t sure he wanted uncovered.

Seeking refuge, he ducked into a small coffee shop near the railroad tracks. No hotels were available nearby, another disappointment stacking on top of his unease.

"Figures," he muttered.

"Spot something interesting?” A playful voice pulled him back.

The barista smiled from behind the counter, dark tattoos spiraling up her arms—symbols Rafferty couldn’t quite decipher.

"Just admiring the artwork," he replied.

She laughed. "Sure it’s just the ink?”

Their conversation flowed easily—coffee, travel, life. Her name was Willow, and she offered a much-needed distraction.

Eventually, she glanced at his laptop. "Looking for somewhere to stay?”

"Trying."

She paused thoughtfully. "Look, it’s late. I’ve got a couch—and two cats. No murder basement, promise."

He smiled wryly. "Strangely reassuring."

"It’s yours if you want it."

Trusting a stranger was reckless, yet something about her felt safe, authentic—real, in a way nothing else had lately.

He nodded slowly. "Thanks, Willow."

She grinned. "Don’t thank me yet—you haven’t met the cats."

A Moment of Normalcy

They walked beneath deepening dusk, the silence comfortable.

"Hungry?” Willow asked.

"I could eat."

She led him to a cozy Irish pub, warmth and laughter enveloping them like a forgotten memory. For a moment, Rafferty relaxed, the weight of the manuscript and its whispered terrors receding.

Yet, as he lifted his glass, the warmth around him faltered, replaced by the memory of the old man’s question, his strange glowing eye.

“Who’s with you?”

The chill returned, creeping down his spine.

He’d been alone.

Hadn’t he?