Bound to the Ghost Bride’s Grave / Chapter 4: Memories on the Road
Bound to the Ghost Bride’s Grave

Bound to the Ghost Bride’s Grave

Author: Daniel Howard

Chapter 4: Memories on the Road

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Tony Daniels used to be my partner, and my childhood friend. We grew up in the same town, drove big rigs together, got married around the same time, and started a logistics company together.

He was always short and skinny. I was bigger, so I treated him like a kid brother and looked out for him everywhere. When there was trouble on the road, I took point. He was afraid of breaking the ice, so I did it myself, splitting the cash tips with him fifty-fifty when we got back.

Back then, we’d split greasy burgers and onion rings in the parking lot, washing it down with gas station coffee. We’d share stories over midnight coffee at Waffle House. I figured that’s what brothers did—shared the good, shielded each other from the bad.

I told him more than once: If I bring you out, I bring you back safe.

Those words used to mean something. I’d knock on his window at dawn after a bad haul, or help him patch up a busted radiator when the snow was coming down sideways.

I once thought Tony was like family, that our bond would never change. But while I was busy caring for my parents and sick wife, he gutted the company, moved money around, and took private jobs that left me with enormous penalty fees.

It was like getting hit by a semi—sudden, brutal, leaving nothing but wreckage behind.

Even then, I never doubted his intentions—until I knelt at his door, begging for money for my wife’s treatment, and saw him feed the pork chops I’d bought with my last twenty bucks to his dog.

I can still see that mutt, chewing slow, looking at me like I was the one who didn’t belong. Shame burned in my gut hotter than any anger ever could.

He said, “Charlie Lang, who the hell do you think you are to call yourself my brother? You’re not even worth my dog.”

The words were sharp as barbed wire, and I felt every inch of them. That day, something in me snapped—a trust that wouldn’t ever be pieced together again.

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