The Bright Lands

The town of Bentley holds two things dear: its football, and its secrets. But when star quarterback Dylan Whitley goes missing, an unremitting fear grips this remote corner of Texas.

Joel Whitley was shamed out of conservative Bentley ten years ago, and while he’s finally made a life for himself as a gay man in New York, his younger brother’s disappearance soon brings him back to a place he thought he’d escaped for good. Meanwhile, Sheriff’s Deputy Starsha Clark stayed in Bentley; Joel’s return brings back painful memories—not to mention questions—about her own missing brother. And in the high school hallways, Dylan’s friends begin to suspect that their classmates know far more than they’re telling the police. Together, these unlikely allies will stir up secrets their town has long tried to ignore, drawing the attention of dangerous men who will stop at nothing to see that their crimes stay buried.

But no one is quite prepared to face the darkness that’s begun to haunt their nightmares, whispering about a place long thought to be nothing but an urban legend: an empty night, a flicker of light on the horizon—The Bright Lands.

Shocking, twisty and relentlessly suspenseful, John Fram’s debut is a heart-pounding story about old secrets, modern anxieties and the price young men pay for glory.

Praise for The Bright Lands

“Fram has delivered a powerhouse of a debut that is certain to be one of the year’s most bracing thrillers. Unapologetic in its queerness, cruelty and heart, The Bright Lands will sink its teeth into you.”

—P. J. Vernon, author of When You Find Me

“The Bright Lands is a chilling and fast-paced supernatural thriller that also manages to be a heartbreaking meditation on shame, repression, denial and regret. This strange and beautiful novel is a stunning debut and I’m already hungry for whatever Fram does next.”

—Shaun Hamill, author of A Cosmology of Monsters

“John Fram’s gripping debut announces a remarkable talent—this prose is tight, stylish, and explosive, depicting a Texas that is by turns lusty and menacing, supersaturated and bleak. As propulsive as it is pitch dark, The Bright Lands will seep into the shadowy contours of your most unsettling, unforgettable dreams.”

—Kimberly King Parsons, author of the National Book Award–nominated Black Light

“The Bright Lands is many things: a stylish, gripping thriller that’s compulsively readable; a tale of horrors, both everyday and otherworldly, that’s at turns disturbing and erotic; and a provocative treatment of gay shame gnarled by toxic masculinity. But most of all, it’s a terrifically self-assured debut from a gifted novelist with much to say.”

—Sam Lansky, author of Broken People

“Expertly plotted, sharply written, and seriously thrilling, The Bright Lands doesn’t read like a debut novel except for the freshness and energy of John Fram’s voice.”

—Stan Parish, author of Love and Theft

“John Fram’s novel marks the debut of an already accomplished novelist. The Bright Lands is a dark tale luminously, and compellingly, told.”

—John Banville, Man Booker Award Winner

“Absolutely enthralling. Written with the rhythm of the game Fram writes of. A mystery to get the skin crawling even as you unbury the secrets of those trying to solve it. Despite its nature, there is a warmth to this thriller, and you’ll feel like you’ve come home...a home that still haunts you.”

—Josh Malerman, New York Times bestselling author of Bird Box

“John Fram’s The Bright Lands is darker than you think. What begins with a Friday Night Lights supernatural thriller soon lures the reader into an insidious labyrinth of human cruelty and voracious supernatural evil. Unsettling, and compelling as hell.”

—Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling author of The Pandora Room

“I am stunned—I haven’t been able to step away from this book since I started it. An earnest, thoughtful exploration of the monstrosity inherent in our American myths surrounding masculinity and sexuality, The Bright Lands is a kind of horror I’ve never seen before. Fram’s done something exquisite here.”

—Sarah Gailey, author of Magic for Liars

“The Bright Lands is Gothic and Faulknerian: smooth, original, haunting. And very sexy.”

—Edmund White, author of A Boy’s Own Story

“Deliciously dark and subversive. You’ll be shocked by what gathers beneath the lights of this all-American town.”

—Kelly J. Ford, author of Cottonmouths

“Absolutely enthralling.”

—Josh Malerman, author of Bird Box

John Fram was raised in Texas. A resident of New York, he has written for The Atlantic, Pacific Standard and elsewhere. This is his first novel.

The Bright Lands

A NOVEL

John Fram

For Matt and Nance.

Sorry I couldn’t finish in time.

Contents

EPIGRAPH

SUNDAY

JOEL

FRIDAY

JOEL

CLARK

JAMAL

JOEL

BETHANY

SATURDAY

JOEL

CLARK

SUNDAY

JOEL

MONDAY

CLARK

KIMBRA

CLARK

JOEL

TUESDAY

CLARK

BETHANY

CLARK

KIMBRA

CLARK

WEDNESDAY

JOEL

CLARK

JOEL

CLARK

JOEL

CLARK

JOEL

LUKE

JOEL

CLARK

THURSDAY

JAMAL

CLARK

JOEL

CLARK

KIMBRA

JOEL

CLARK

JOEL

LUKE

JOEL

LUKE

JOEL

FRIDAY

JAMAL

CLARK

JOEL

CLARK

JOEL

CLARK

JOEL

KIMBRA

JOEL

KIMBRA

JOEL

LUKE

JAMAL

CLARK

KIMBRA

LUKE

BETHANY

LUKE

CLARK

BETHANY

JAMAL

LUKE

JOEL

LUKE

BETHANY

JOEL

JAMAL

CLARK

LUKE

BETHANY

JOEL

BETHANY

JOEL

LUKE

CLARK

KIMBRA

LUKE

CLARK

JAMAL

KIMBRA

CLARK

BETHANY

JAMAL

CLARK

KIMBRA

CLARK

JAMAL

BETHANY

JOEL

JAMAL

JOEL

BETHANY

JAMAL

BETHANY

CLARK

AFTER

AFTER 2

CLARK

JOEL

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

People everywhere, young and old, were already dreaming
of heroes.

—H. G. Bissinger, Friday Night Lights

This country makes it hard to fuck.

—Fever Ray

SUNDAY

DREAMS AND OTHER HAZARDS

JOEL

His brother’s message came late.

The little party which had started in Tulum on Monday had somehow only just ended at Joel’s apartment a few minutes before the text arrived. An international bender. It sounded fun on paper. Joel had goaded the last of his bleary guests out the door and made sure his wallet and cologne were still concealed behind the suits in his closet. He used an app to pay off his drug dealer, used another app to order a housekeeper for the morning, poured himself a tall glass of seltzer and settled into bed next to the empty space where he had hoped, earlier in the weekend, he might now find some company resting. He swallowed two Tylenol. He wondered why nobody ever warned you it was possible to feel this alone before you were thirty.

His phone lit the ceiling a cold blue. Joel was so exhausted he mistook it, initially, for some new breed of ghost.

This place is bullshit, wrote Dylan, his brother.

Joel studied the message for a very long time before responding: Everything ok?

Dylan was eleven years younger than Joel. He was a senior in high school this fall, if Joel’s addled brain was doing the math right, and still lived in Bentley, Texas, a rotten rind of a town which Joel had escaped the moment he could and hoped to never see again. When Joel missed his family, he flew them to Manhattan. Which was most Christmases. Some. Twice.

As he waited for his brother to respond, Joel scrolled up to see the last time they’d spoken: three months before, when Joel, likely drunk, had sent Dylan a picture of a football player tackling a massive rooster mascot. Dylan had responded, wordlessly, with a GIF of two handsome underwear models colliding with one another on a catwalk.

The brothers’ relationship was a muted one.

Joel’s screen slid back down with the arrival of a new message.

lol sorry wrong person.

Joel typed a message, deleted it and tried again. It’s cool. He added after a pause: What’s up?

Joel watched his screen. The status of his message changed from Delivered to Read. Joel waited, waited, but no reply came.

Joel was almost asleep again when his phone lit up for the second time.

actually it’s not ok.

Joel tried to call. It went to voice mail after two rings.

can’t talk rn, his brother wrote. sorry.

Lil D, Joel wrote—an old pet name that felt rusty from disuse—What’s wrong?

dumb dreams. bad dreams. i’m stupid.

This was followed by a GIF of a linebacker shaking his head on the sidelines of a game.

i fucking hate football

Oh.

what’s stupid about hating football?

how else i’m gonna get out of this place?

Joel climbed out of bed. In the kitchen he poured himself another seltzer, debated for a moment and splashed it with vodka.

The way their mother described it, Dylan was the best thing to happen to Bentley’s football program in a decade. He’d made varsity when he was just a freshman and had been the starting quarterback the year after that. The team had flourished under Dylan: they made it all the way to state quarterfinals his first year as quarterback, had made it to semifinals last year and now, according to the breathless calls Joel had received from his mother over the summer, the Bentley Bison had a shot at the state championships for the first time in a generation.

In all of his Instagram photos, Joel’s little brother had never once appeared to be anything but affable and handsome and casually, ruthlessly charming in the way of Southern boys who knew their towns were made for them. Now, sitting on the chilly bar stool in his kitchen, Joel debated how best to approach the idea that Dylan had anything resembling a problem in his life.

He took a long drink.

Tennis worked for me, Joel typed.

can’t, Dylan wrote. they killed it.

The fuck?

to make more money for football.

Fuck.

ya.

Basketball? Baseball?

coach says my numbers are shit.

You mean your grades?

their ok. They’re* lol

Joel smiled at his phone. maybe just scholarships for college then.

not that ok

Oh.

cause football. i can’t ever study.

Why don’t you quit then? You’ve got a year to turn shit around.

hahahahaha that’s funny

What is?

quit football. Joel waited out a long pause. sorry, Dylan finally wrote. i shouldn’t be bothering you.

You’re not bothering me, Joel typed. Dylan talk to me please.

i thought about it a lot really i want to but i can’t quit i can’t

Why not?

Another long pause. u don’t remember what it’s like down here.

Joel left his phone unlocked on the counter. He gathered empty glasses into his sink, tossed out a stuffed ashtray, picked up small baggies that a few hours before had held cocaine and molly and every other palliative he could get his hands on and rolled them into a wet towel to bury in his garbage. He gagged at a sharp whiff of gin uncoiling from somewhere beneath his counter. He did remember what it was like in Bentley, Texas. Or, rather, there was plenty he had made himself forget.

Joel had made a name for himself upon arriving in New York with an economics degree from a nowhere school and a plaque from his tennis scholarship and a smile on his face. He had established himself as an analyst with an itch, an instinct, the ability to look at a pile of data and spot flaws, opportunities, dangerously optimistic projections. That itch had served him very, very well. Just look at this custom kitchen, at the Italian sofa in the living room from a designer whose name brought a pause to even the most jaded of the Hamptons set.

And what was Joel’s itch telling him now?

This is serious.

There’s something wrong with that town.

This is your brother.

i can’t quit football. i just fucking can’t but i can’t keep playing neither if i don’t play i don’t got no college cause who’s gonna pay for it? mom? and if i don’t got no college i’m fucking stuck here and if i stay here i’ll go crazy bro—i can’t sleep i can’t eat i can’t go to the bright lands it’s not the same no more i can’t with this fucking place

Can’t go to the what?

i hate it here. it’s like i hear this town talking when i sleep.

Joel looked at his absurd apartment, at the well-appointed wreckage of his late twenties, and told himself he wasn’t afraid. He googled How much does college cost today and priced plane tickets and pretended he wasn’t scared out of his mind at the thought of what he was about to do.

u there? yo joel u there?

I’m here.

Joel took a hard sip of vodka straight from the bottle. He sent Dylan a screenshot of a ticket confirmation.

He told himself it was time to start being an older brother for once in his life.

Maybe I can help.

FRIDAY

HOPE AND HALOGEN

JOEL

Five days later his plane pierced the cloud bank and great squares of Texas prairie rose up to swallow him. Watching the flatland take shape out his window, he felt a familiar anxiety wind its fingers around his throat.

His brother was not the first troubled football player to confide in Joel. All week in Manhattan he had thought of nothing but a sticky summer afternoon a decade ago, of a truck cab spiked with the smell of spearmint, of a man with shocking green eyes and a bad neck shaking his head with effort and saying, “Don’t play that game if you can help it, Whitley.” Joel would cut off an arm to ensure Dylan never suffered the same fate as that ruined man.

If Joel could jab a finger in his blighted hometown’s eye, so much the better.

He chewed an Adderall and texted his brother.

An ugly thunderhead was rolling in from the Gulf. When the Enterprise attendant led Joel to the parking lot to collect his rental—a low-slung convertible with a gleaming black hood—the twilit air felt ready to burst. One sniff and Joel knew he was back. There was nothing quite like the smell of Texas in the hours before some fresh calamity.

The open convertible tore away from the encroaching storm with a moan. Joel passed through towns with names like Thrall and Spree and Thorndale and wove around trucks and horse trailers, their drivers and passengers all regarding him (and the pop music blaring from his speakers) with a courteous suspicion.

There were fewer cows than he remembered. Great miles of scrubby flatland unrolled to either side of the highway, punctuated only by a lonely water tower, a totemic bale of hay, a sunken barn with half the country visible through a hole in its side.

BENTLEY: 18 MILES. Joel didn’t smoke and yet he craved a cigarette. He caught a casual crackle of gunfire somewhere in the distance—there was a sound he’d forgotten—and slowed to allow a rusted Chevy to merge ahead of him. Something caught his eye in the truck’s bed. A hulking stuffed bison wobbled on stiff legs, a letterman jacket fastened around its furry shoulders, its black glass eyes catching the last of the sunlight through the grill of a green Bentley football helmet.

It was a challenge not to stare into those eyes. With a queasy flutter in his stomach, a creep of gooseflesh up his arms, Joel suddenly felt he’d seen those eyes before, though he was also certain he’d never seen this stuffed bison in his life. He had the strangest conviction—almost like déjà vu—that those black eyes had watched him on a very bad night a very long time ago. They had watched him then just like they were watching him now: with a hungry, inhuman intelligence, like a lizard waiting for a fly to buzz just a few inches closer.