08

'SETH'S RECORDS AND VINYL' WAS BUILT in 1983, which, based on its dilapidated appearance, was probably the same year it was last renovated.

Naturally, the resulting 'vintage aesthetic' of the store has been achieved not by deliberate choice of styling, but simply by age. Had Dawson County not also been in close quarters with the rich, belligerent youth of Iverson College, Valerie doubts she would be serving any customer under the age of fifty, with Milo being the exception. His prolific vinyl collection never ceases to simultaneously disappoint and impress her in all its pretentious and mildly obsessive glory.

As Valerie files ABBA's greatest hits in chronological order (business always tends to be slow in the early hours of the morning), her absent mind wanders back to Milo's somewhat inconsequential reading. It's been almost three days and he still hasn't mentioned continuing the session. Valerie had asked Lenore just yesterday whether they should gently but firmly remind him to finish the reading, but Lenore had shaken her head.

"It's been a rough year, Val. He's only just starting to heal and this is reopening the wound. He needs time."

Except, Lenore had seemed impatient too. Valerie had gathered the sense that she knew something that she didn't and it bothered her.

She thinks of Milo's aura when he had emerged from the vacant depth of the bowl's mirrored surface: a dark and murky grey that radiated pain and grief and something akin to fear — a shade far duller than the regular pale emerald glow that she usually read from him.

Valerie resurfaces from her thoughts at the clattering of the door's rusted bell followed by the entrance of a pale young man.

He's one of the regulars. Ghost Boy is Valerie's unspoken name for him, bestowed upon him by virtue of his ashen appearance and tendency to float in and out of the store like a lost soul. Sometimes he buys things, but mostly he just lurks in the vintage vinyl section, dark brows set in a permanent scowl.

Ghost boy crosses the threshold of the otherwise empty store looking somewhat more ghostly than usual with dark circles like bruises under his murky eyes. Valerie greets him with a nod which he doesn't return and he vanishes behind a display of second-hand cassettes in a way that only convinces her further of him being more spirit than human.

Valerie lets out a huff.

The Blues radio station crackles and wavers from the store's single speaker; mostly men crooning about open fields and heartbreak and droughts in Mississippi.

Normally, Valerie would let the boy haunt the shop in peace, but something about his presence feels more unsettling than usual. Even with several aisles of dusty records and a stand of CD's between them, Valerie senses his aura which, for a person she barely knows, is odd.

While Valerie hardly considers herself untalented, the art of reading auras is a fickle one she has yet to master. For the majority of her clients, Valerie finds that a combination of both physical contact and verbal communication is essential in divining one's spiritual essence, with the exception of those she knows well enough to be familiar with their aura.

Against her better judgement, she allows her curiosity to draw her nearer to the boy until there's nothing but a few crates filled with original 70s cassette tapes between them. A faint haze of a dull but deep blue seeps from the ghostly teen as he reads the back of a tape with studied interest.

"Looking for anything in particular?" Valerie asks, with equally studied nonchalance.

The boy provides a distantly aggressive, "No," before tossing the tape back into the crate. As it clatters against the other cassettes, Valerie gives him one of her signature glares — a look that he appears to be disappointingly immune to as he stares back, bored and infuriatingly unconcerned.

At the moment that their eyes meet, something sends Valerie off-kilter, as though a rug has been pulled from beneath her feet, sending her lurching into the unknown. The blue haze that had radiated from him fades to a stormy grey until they are surrounded by nothing more than clouds that disperse into a barely-visible mist. The earthy scent of rain and soil mixed with something stronger, almost chemical, fills her lungs and she closes her eyes. A voice whispers to her, only she doesn't understand. The words are all wrong, as though they're tangling themselves up before Valerie can reach them. She grips the side of the crate, plastic biting at her palms as grounds herself.

Valerie blinks and the boy glances away, massaging his temple. She wonders what he saw, if anything.

Valerie releases the crate, cracking her knuckles in an attempt to recompose herself. The boy starts to slink away once more.

"If you need any help," she says, clearing her throat, "just let me know."

- ✧ -

Cas leaves Seth's with a headache and hastily wrapped CD of The Smiths' last album.

Throwing himself into the driver's seat of his car, he shuts the door with an excessive amount of force before tearing into the packing of his purchase. As he fumbles with the CD casing, a small slip of paper flutters out onto his lap. Scrawled across it in a faded back pen are the names Valerie Piers (Empath) and Lenore Turray (psychologist, spiritual advisor), followed by a home phone number and an address.

A deep discomfort settles in the pit of Cas's stomach. Music, he thinks, music first.

He slips in the CD and turns up the volume to drown out the ringing in his ears. Slumping in his seat, he flips the paper over with the reluctance of a student opening a report card plastered and reads the reverse side

If you have experienced any of the following symptoms:

- insomnia/trouble sleeping

- hallucinations/distorted vision

- surreal dreams

- frequent migraines

or have otherwise received this card, please schedule an appointment ASAP.

Cas rips open the glove box, crumpling the note into a tight ball and tossing it inside before slamming it shut with a resounding thump. Had his car cost him any less than a small house, it would have almost certainly have fallen apart by now from all the slamming Cas has subjected it to in the last five minutes.

With the note burning on his mind and the affirming tones of The Smiths blaring in his ears, Cas leaves the record store behind in a cloud of Dawson's infamous dust and grime.