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INTERVIEW 020. WALLY CLARK murdrtober oct 5th. ghost sex

You've never really believed the ghost stories about Split River, but this encounter definitely gave you a new outlook 800+ words MDNI 18+

You’ve been downplaying it the entire day. There were rumors that Split River was haunted, usually nothing but ghost stories told between kids during lock-ins, followed by dares to venture down dark hallways alone. 

You were instructed to make sure none of that happened at tonight’s lockin. It was supposed to be nothing but fun, with as few freshmen sent home crying as possible. You didn’t know how much authority you would have as just a TA, but you wanted to keep as much credibility as possible. Spewing out accusations of phantom touches to your back wouldn’t have helped your credibility at all. So you kept it to yourself. 

You tried your best to keep your composure, ignoring the feeling of a body behind you, keeping your heels glued to the ground even when you wanted to jump at the feeling of a hand pressed into your lower back. By the end of the night, you felt like you were losing your mind. 

Maybe one of the seniors slipped something in your drink during dinner. Maybe your lack of sufficient sleep was finally catching up to you. Maybe you’ve been secretly predisposed to some sort of mental illness and these are the warning symptoms. 

Or maybe it’s real. 

The possibility is there. Maybe Split River is haunted. Maybe you should’ve chosen another school in another district to be a teacher’s assistant. 

You’re busy trying to hold the remains of your mind together when the feeling intensifies. Your eyes stare straight in the bathroom mirror, the remnants of cold water from a damp paper towel sliding down your face, dripping into the porcelain sink that you’re leaning over. You take deep breaths, trying to clear the thoughts speeding around in your head. And just when you think you’ve gotten it all under control, you feel it. 

The feel of a human hand touches right between your legs, brushing against the skin revealed by your shorts. You swear under your breath, staring down with an expectation to see a hand in that very spot. There’s nothing there, just empty space between your legs. 

“What the fuck?” You’re about to turn around and get out of there, join the others with the belief that there’s safety in numbers. But a strong grip keeps you still by your hips, pushing you right against the counter. 

Your heart thumps in your chest with such ferocity that it hurts. You’re scared you might go into cardiac arrest at this rate, left to become another spirit to wander these halls. You close your eyes, waiting for the moment to come, but the only thing that happens is a hand pressed against your mound from behind. The feeling of fingers reaching into your shorts and pulling your lips apart through the cotton fabric of your panties. Those same fingers press right into your clit, experimentally tweaking the bud a few times. You try to remain shocked, refusing to give voice to a moan bubbling within your belly. But then your panties are pulled to the side and there’s a finger slowly penetrating you, in and out in and out. An arm wrapped around your waist, a chest against your back, one finger that soon becomes two opening you up. 

You feel ashamed as you wantonly gasp into the stale bathroom air. You should be recoiling away from the apparition, running out of this place and leaving completely. Maybe skipping town if you’re really scared enough. You shouldn’t be pushing yourself back into the touch and searching for more. 

It’s a purely human instinct, that’s what you tell yourself. It’s natural to search for the touch that makes you feel good, to want to amplify it, receive more and more until you reach a climax. And after you’ve orgasmed, gasping into the sink as you’re slumped over, trying to catch your breath—it’s natural to want it again. 

You don’t know how long you’re in that bathroom, but you’re there for a while. On your knees with your mouth open, letting the cavern be used by someone you cannot see. You would help if it weren’t anything other than air on your end, but you like it like this. All of the control is out of your hands, leaving you pliant as you sit on your knees, your mouth hung open, your eyes closed as you enjoy the feeling. 

By the time you’re done—or, by the time whoever is done with you—you’re spent, limbs and joints aching in ways they never have before. You want more, but the phantom doesn’t touch you after he’s done, leaving you to stand to your feet and splash water on your face, trying to get rid of the flush that’s taken over your features. 

When you come up for air, you swear you see someone standing behind you, their frame present in the mirror. Taller than you by a longshot, dark hair, a mole under the lips spread into a small smirk. You make eye contact and he grins, but then you blink and he’s gone like he was never there. 

Maybe he wasn’t. But you choose to believe he was. 

Split River was a peculiar school, after all. 

The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?),

S2!Post!Hankel Spencer Reid x gn!BAU!reader

Angst (hurt/comfort). Autistic Spencer (you know the drill). Perhaps some traces of fluff if you’re like…. masochistic. Heavily implied happy ending.

— Explorations of Spencer’s (very glossed over) addiction. Love confessions? Half love confessions? Spencer admits it mentally, Reader implies it through actions. What am I saying? They’re sooooooo in love it pains me.

Warnings: *cracks knuckles,* okay…. —heavy depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide, previous mentions of being held hostage (Hankel). PACKED with Greek mythology references (sue me, i study classics as a degree), perhaps some light biblical imagery? Spencer being at rock-bottom. he’s kinda bitchy. he also disses hotlines (they do save lives, don’t listen to Spencer!!! he’s being a dick). mentions of childhood bullying.

w.c: 3.2k

a/n: title so long it’s basically a midwestern emo song.

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There’s intimacy in being fragile. Spencer knows firsthand, has romanticised his Glass delusion. The fear of shattering, fragmenting on impact, like jagged, sliced glass. He thinks of Charles VI, (1380’s King of France), what he felt when he refused touch. When he reinforced himself, shielding behind excess clothing, in the fallacious fear of dismantling.

Spencer does the same, hides behind fabric, shies away from human contact. Because— because being careful is better than being impetuous. If he can make himself so small he no longer takes up space then maybe they’ll be kind to him.

Monachopis. Has he always been this out of place? Has it always felt this way? Will it ever stop?

12 years old. Curling inward to shield himself from the ache of cracked fists. You’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here. He still feels like that kid, the one bleeding across the school yard, smashed glasses, bust lip, new bruises to hide from mom.

Perhaps he should blame genetics. Find something to point the finger at. Mentally distort the truth, until it’s no longer a paling face he sees, drawing the first needle into his arm, forcing him to take what he never asked for. No longer that, but a bigger issue, a concern that cannot be personified, a larger statistic in the minefield of human psychology.

Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.

He never stood a chance. Did he?

So just like Charles, he covers his arms. Veils the track marks that penetrate skin. Pretend they’re not there, pretend you’re okay. Okay? Okay, nobody has stopped to ask him if he is ‘okay’ since ‘the incident.’ When the shock wore off, and attention strayed, everyone lost interest.

He feels like an outlaw to his own team.

How do you move on from being bound, tied, degraded to something beneath human?

How did everyone else?

He understands now— the pull of addiction. The way it mimics, artificially replicates home. Something soft, in that one, life-ruinously warm moment between the first hit and the inevitable come down.

But just like everything good. It dies. Turns ugly. Disfiguring, decaying. What once was simple, a fleeting temptation, a way to starve off lonely withdrawal, has derailed into desperate, insatiable hunger. To reproduce the first time, to appease the way he palpates in the wake of something tiny—

Call it what it is. Not an analgesic agent, not a semi-synthetic, not a simple narcotic utilised in the medical field. It’s an opioid, two to eight times greater than that of morphine. Given to those dying, to help alleviate Cheyne-stokes breathing, to reduce pain before the end.

It binds to the opioid-receptions in the central nervous system.

He is no superior than those on the street. Begging for loose change to shoot up and placate the cold.

2AM. The phone connection is faint. Do you feel like killing yourself? Is the noose already tied, is the rope choking you? Do you need to breathe? Do you even want to? He wonders what it would be like, to call into those bullshit hotlines, to hear the detached, sharp-bladed sympathy of some stranger.

Instead, when the phone picks up, the blaring beep of a dial dissipating, he hears you instead.

“You know how it’s believed that Artemis killed Orion?” He starts. He cannot begin with hi, I’m scared of the dilaudid burning through my veins. Do you still love me? (Presumptuous of him to believe you loved him in the first place, he certainly wouldn’t.)

He doesn’t let you answer. Maybe he’s scared, or maybe he can try and satiate your concern by fact-dumping so extensively that you automatically revert back to oh yeah, boy genius is talking again. “Well— there’s this other interpretation, that she… y’know didn’t. Instead, they were hunting companions, and it was because of the animals he slaughtered on Crete, that Gaia. Mother ea— yeah, you know who I’m referencing. Okay.”

Even at his worst, he is conveniently a social disaster. They could poke holes in his brain, drag the sharp edge of a blade through the tissue lining of his stomach, and his mouth would still find a way to run:

‘You’re missing major arteries here, c’mon — I know you can push harder than that. Aim for my descending aorta, that will do the job correctly.’

It would be funny if he wasn’t the biggest screw up to ever exist. Social ineptitude has never looked worse.

“Anyway, um… so— disturbed by the blood-bath, and feeling repentant — she summoned this scorpion. Humans are no match for the gods, obviously. So any creation with intent will—“ he sighs, finding new ways to hate himself. “Basically he died. Yeah— dead. To… uh, sum it up?”

“And what?” Oh, there you are. He’s surprised you’re listening, that you didn’t hang up the moment his morbid rambling begun. He’s always surprised, surprised that you listen, that you stay, even when you shouldn’t. It would be romantic, if he wasn’t so flawed in believing you could never want someone like him.

“Well— Artemis gathered up the remnants of Orion and placed them in the sky. Yknow,… hence the constellation.”

There’s shuffling — a moment of uneasy silence. “Spencer—“

He keeps going. Shock-horror. “I’m not sure science would agree with that myth. It certainly counters the Big Bang theory. And the whole schtick regarding— look… it doesn’t,… it doesn’t hold any truth, of course. The gods aren’t real,” (if they are, they must spit at the flawed creation of him), “I just— it was on the forefront of my mind. Made me think of you.”

It’s innocent. If you don’t take into account the stored vials he keeps stashed in his cabinet sink. If you pretend you’re just two people, two old, weary friends, who are insomniac and restless. Then again, where Spencer is concerned, everything is innocent. He’ll bare the weight of existence with no expectation of a return favour. So willing to give give give. Always taken for granted. Tossed to the sidelines. You’ve watched the team ignore his plans, call rain check after rain check, incessant excuses for something so diminutive. Even now, they can’t see what’s right in front of them. The blunt of the truth.

The aftermath of the Hankel case.

“Bad night?” You ask. Like you don’t feel it in your ribs.

He sighs, head spilling back against the wall. Throat bared, it would be so easy for hands to wrap around the unmarred skin, to put him down. “Aren’t they all?”

You’ve both been trained to pinpoint human behaviour. Discern threat from over exaggeration. You don’t hesitate, he knows you don’t— he’s seen you behind the weight of a gun. Dominant hand curved around the grip, aligning the front and rear sight. Firing pin striking the primer of the cartridge, no recoil— he’s watched you no more than blink when the bullet penetrates.

He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.

Sometimes, he has this dream, where he’s got the same Hornady branded bullet, lodged through his chest. Sometimes he wakes up and still believes he’s bleeding out.

He can hear your keys, the clattering that fades into the grating, confirmative slam of a door. You’re out of the apartment complex, and what? He’s too busy thinking about some warped manifestation of his subconscious?

Will he ever live outside of his mind?

The call doesn’t end (5 dragging minutes of heavy breathing and awkward silence), until you’re standing right here, flesh and bone, in his kitchen.

He’s making himself small again. Sat against cold tile, he shields his face from view. As if that alone will incrimate him. He knows you know. And it’s scary; to be so raw in the face of someone you love.

When you drop to your knees, it feels like tending to a wounded animal.

“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, obstinate.

“So what?” You brush it off, ever the hero. Spencer thinks they should marbleise you in the Vatican. “I still did.”

You came. You called. Spencer fucking hates that cliche. Except, no.. no he doesn’t. Sometimes, he wants to make himself sicker, just so you have reason to touch him.

Reaching up, he feels your calloused palm, the way it cups his jaw, coaxing his face to lift. He thinks, knows, you’re disturbed by the sight. Red-rimmed eyes, and waxen features. Skinnier, hollow. If he is Leander, then he prays you don’t suffer the same fate as Hero.

‘Geniuses are never happy,’ they told him as a child. Detailing the cyanide found in Viktor Meyer’s stomach, Wallace Carother’s affinity for Potassium Cyanide. Hans Berger, Valero Legasov, Alan Turning. Some things hurt more than can be described.

Is it really so startling that he turned out the same? When that’s all he’s ever known?

Spencer stares. He tries to look through you, but it doesn’t work. Not when you’re warm, and real, and if the come down is configuring you into reality, and you’re not really here, then so be it. He’ll take what he can get. “You’ll find Dilaudid in my bathroom. Left turn from the hallway. I suggest you call 911. Report drug possession. They’ll take it more seriously if you say my name, emphasise the doctor in the title.”

“No.”

“Yes—“ indignantly, he huffs, “Yes. You will. Otherwise you’re guilty by association. The FBI will fire you, take away your credentials. You’ll be ruined.”

“That’s if they find out.”

He can’t comprehend why you’re covering for him. There’s decency, empathy, general human kindness, and then there’s this. “You’re supposed to be an upholder of the law.”

“Pft,” you scoff, brush it off. “Yknow, in Alabama, you can’t play cards on a Sunday. Alaska, no moose on sidewalks. There’s also a ban on wearing masks in Georgia. California has—“

“I get your point.” He cuts off, “Well— no, I actually don’t. Considering they’re dumb laws that waste time. Drug paraphernalia, in contrast, is not.”

“Even high, you’re a stickler. Guess old habits die hard?” you push up, and he chases your touch. “C’mon, golden boy. You’re getting a cold shower and some water. Gonna flush that shit out of you the old fashioned way.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a modern alternative…”

He doesn’t let you see him naked. Partially because, it’s his body. This vessel that feels so alienated from the better part of him. He’s never let someone undress him before, see behind the meticulous layers. But, mostly.. well, he has a firm belief that the first time you take off his clothes, it will be in better circumstances. If that ever transpires.

You’d probably think him deranged: hi, i’m saving myself for you, because any touch that isn’t yours makes me sick.

He’d rather rot alone than string someone along who could never fill the void of you.

The shower is methodical. Skin recoiling from the harsh rivulets of water. 3 minutes spent standing there, staring outwards not in. Complete disregard for the mirror, he’s all soft features and freshly-washed pyjamas when he pads into the bedroom. Corduroy pants, thermal-wear socks, some dumb science print embellished onto the front of his shirt. (‘Never trust an atom, they MAKE UP everything’ — yeah, he hates himself.)

You don’t talk. Not until he’s consumed his body weight in water. He fights off the urge to warn you about the dilution of sodium content in blood. Hyponatremia. Fatal, with a likelihood of seizuring and long-flight comatose. You’d probably just laugh at him, considering it was two glasses, a litre at best.

He’ll use his intellect to hurt. And you’ll counter him with little regard.

Even at his ugliest, you still stay.

“I’m fine,” he protests— hating the way you look at him when he’s so raw.

It’s that gaze. That same sinking, pity-warped gaze he received when he talked about his mom, about the kids at school. Adolescent meat-heads who pushed him into lockers, and beat him between class. Its— suffocating sympathy that he no longer has room for.

“No you aren’t,” this might be the worst you’ve ever seen him.

Would you have known? If he didn’t make the call? Cassandra complex. Disambiguating. A psychological phenomenon where an accurate prediction of a crisis is dismissed. Silent concern, the intuitive awareness that he never recovered, it was only going to lead to this—

Oh fuck it. You knew. The entire team did. You’re just the only one who cared enough to help.

You’re not like the rest of them. Maybe they can blanket suspicion, play pretend, refuse to get their hands dirty. But, there’s a reason you’re better. You don’t sugar-coat reality. You act. You react.

He’ll see your name on a wall one day. An award adorning your efforts.

“You’re exhausted, lie down.”

Spencer fights the urge to scowl. Since when were you in charge? Admittedly, he knows the answer to that: since you spitballed into his apartment, better yet, since you spitballed into his life. So, like the good, propitiated loser he is, he complies. Shock horror…

“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”

“You wish.” Instead, you force your way onto the right side of the mattress. “Get comfy, you’ve got your own, free of charge, narcotics anonymous sponsor tonight.”

“You’re not great at the whole ‘tough love’ thing.”

“Then call someone else next time.”

Vulnerability feels like being ripped open at the seams. Like some botched Pygmalion creation — stitched wrong, still breathing. He wants to fall asleep, to just… fade into himself. But— you have this uncanny, accursed ability to make him honest.

You, draped over his bed, does little to appease the sickness in his mind.

“I never asked for this,” he starts, “I didn’t— I didn’t even want it. How is that fair? I never got to decide, I wasn’t even given the anatomy to choose. Now—“

The words rip free like Prometheus’ daily punishment: inevitable, agonizing.

He laughs. Cold. Something ugly that doesn’t belong to him. “Now, if I’m not thinking about my next hit, I’m thinking about how you see me. How the team must see me. It’s— it’s the disappointment. I just— I don’t know why you stay.”

It’s all so tentative. The moments before, when you extend your hand, run it across the curvature of his jaw. All it takes is the touch and he’s crashing into you. Like there is no feasible option but to submit to the basic human need of contact. Face pressed into your shoulder, he feels like dead-weight. Something unworthy of labour.

Stop pushing that boulder up the hill, Sisyphus. Let it fall. Let him fall.

His hand knots tighter in the fabric of your top. Like if he lets go, he’ll spiral into Tartarus itself.

Why? Why would you do this—

“You think I’m going to cut and run just because you’re inconvenient? Pft, i’m too stubborn for that. And, well…” there’s a sigh,… “I care about you too much. Alright? So be inconvenient. Fuck, call at 3AM. Call at 5AM. Make me drop everything and come over. I don’t care. I want to carry the burden. I want to carry your burden.”

His touch lingers near your lower back. Drawing soft halos there, faint and uneven. “I hate you,” comes out muttered, something muffled by skin.

“No you don’t.” you counter, immediately.

“No I don’t,” just like that, he breaks. Cease-fire. How could he ever hate you? The statement was deflective, at best. Some way to make you ache the way he aches. At least then it would be a level paying field.

“I hate who I am when I’m like this. I hate— I hate my mind. It’s not… it’s not accurate, the way people romanticise it. I can’t be what they all expect of me.”

You’re doing that thing. The one where you don’t respond. Where you just listen, without interjecting, without cutting through his incessant monologues.

Sometimes, he feels like he dreamed you up. Like you don’t even exist, a stowaway in his brain, something to re-mantle whenever he’s lonely. Real people aren’t this good — this good to him.

“I don’t get to make mistakes. I need to have the answers every single second of the day. I can’t be me. You’re the only one, how are you the only one who notices? I’ve tried so hard, I’ve been so good—“

He’s tangled into you now, tethered like Daedalus’ forgotten son trying to stitch his broken wings back together mid-fall. If he could, he’d crawl into you. Find somewhere warm to safely exist. Without hurt.

“This isn’t just, I’m not like this just because I need you. Please— please remember that. I miss you always, even when I’m sober. Even before— before everything. I’m not in some—“

“What?” you finally (mercifully) interject. “Some drug-infused decline? Where you‘ll lean on anyone that will give you the time of day?”

Spencer flinches — not because you’re wrong, but because you’ve drawn blood from a wound he didn’t know he still had.

He hates that you’ve distinguished him as some mischaracterised energy vampire. Like you could ever be nothing. Like you’re just the closest fix he can find beyond a chemical high. Designer drugs, manufactured in a lab, they say Heroin feels like a hug from God.

Until your body becomes gluttonous for a hit that never appeases.

You— you are not a hollow high. You are slow and real and catastrophic.

Oh, you’re dependable, a want that morphed into all-encompassing devotion over slow dragging time. “Yes, to the former. No— no, definitely no to the latter. You’re not just some emotional crutch to me. You’re, I don’t know, you’re just… everything.”

Spencer swallows, pulls back, feigning composure. “I should be able to do this alone,” he mutters, “Normal people can. I should be—”

“C’mon, Spence. You’re not a machine. You were never built for that.”

Another sharp laugh. It pierces— you can almost taste the blood this time.

“I’m so tired,” he says in defeat. “I’m so tired of trying to be someone worth saving.”

Pressing your forehead to his, you’re kind to not mention the tears. To just let them occur, free fall. “You don’t have to be anything,” you murmur into his hair. “You just have to be. That’s enough. That’s enough for me, and i’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you. Always.”

“Will you stay with me?” He doesn’t mean tonight, you know that well enough. “Will you stay with me through it all?”

You’re aware of the burden it would imply, the jagged, ugly reality of withdrawal. The toll, sweat-soaked skin and cold fevers. Irrational begging, pleading for god, just one more fix. The way it would change him, change your untainted perspective of him. When you agree, it is not misguided.

You know what you’re signing up for.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”

If this is love, true unvarnished love, reciprocal and real, then he’s sorry he found you at a bad time. Give it, give me, a few months, he thinks, and i’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.

The End

Wally Clark x Reader

Two people died on September 23rd, 1983. One laid out on a football field before hundreds of people, and the other left behind on the cold floor of the boy's locker room.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Sexual assault, semi-graphic depictions of SA, including: almost direct aftermath, reader is naked in the beginning, mentions of blood, and implied loss of virginity via SA, flashback to SA; death, reader's death is overlooked, ANGST

Characters: Wally Clark, Reader, Dalton (OC)

Read it on AO3!

A/N: The Doors title. Hey ya'll. I cannot believe the love I've been getting on this page, and it's driving me past my writer's block more than anything. With school starting, I can feel the academic anxiety kicking in, but I use my writing as a coping method when I can. This story has very intense topics (as stated in the tags) and is not meant to idealize any topics in any way. This was inspired by @general-fanfiction's Hopes and Fears series (GO READ IT RN), and @whoopsyeahokay's October Sun series (ALSO GO READ IT RN). If this story is well received, or I just feel the urge to, I'll probably turn it into a series (bc this sucks as a one-shot). As always, please heed the warnings, and read only if you're comfortable.

Wally Clark Masterlist | School Spirits Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood was everywhere.

It slid down your legs and dribbled onto the cold floor of the locker room. Every inch of your skin felt like it was too tight for your bones, and all you wanted to do was reach down your throat and rip out your heart.

Copper flooded your mouth. The tang brushed against the back of your chattering teeth, and all you could think about was how you wanted to crawl to the nearby shower and let it run until one of the coaches found you and dragged you out.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Move. You told yourself. All of your limbs ached. Nothing felt real.

You didn’t want this to be real.

It was supposed to be kind. Gentle. An act out of pure love.

Standing up proved to be hard, and it was like no one was able to hear you screaming out for help. Filtered out by the people flooding the halls, hustling to the big homecoming game going on that night.

The tiled walls provided little help as you brought yourself to a standing position, walking slowly as you felt your feet brush against the pile of your shoes, pants, and underwear on the floor. The touch stopped your heart, breaking a new tier of hate and regret across your body.

He said he loved me.

You turned on the shower, cranking the knob to the hottest setting, knowing that the water wouldn’t get anywhere near warm. Water slid harshly over your body, and you felt it pelt against spots of dried blood on your thighs.

You wished you never come to this stupid football game.

You wished you weren’t as ignorant, or as gullible, or as love-blind as you had been in the past three months.

You wished you never met him.

His face felt bitter and sharp in your head, poking and prodding, as if trying to stick the memory of his hands on you for eternity.

Time passed irregularly, no one came in or out of the locker room, and you were sure that the football game had to have reached its end by all of the cheering and yelling you heard outside.

After using all of the hot water in the gym wing, you slowly walked to the lines of lockers, trying even glimpsing in the direction of your clothes. tried to open every locker until one popped open, revealing a pair of grey sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a muscle tank, blue gym shorts, and a matching varsity jacket with #57 stitched on the arm.

You grabbed the matching sweatsuit, balling it in your arms and silently apologizing to the boy you’d never return the clothing to.

He probably won’t even notice, you told yourself.

You turned the corner around a line of lockers and you could swear you were going crazy. A bare foot poked out from behind the last line of lockers, limply tilted against your pile of clothes, painted a chipped wine red.

You blinked hard, looking down at your own chipped wine-red toes, and you clutched the clothing you stole to your naked body. The cotton was soft compared to the cold tile bracing against your feet, and you brought your eyes to look back to the pile of clothing on the floor.

Bile pooled at the back of your mouth as you hesitantly stepped closer to the foot that hadn’t disappeared. You’re going crazy, you told yourself, but the more and more you stared at the limp, pale body - your limp, pale body - whose features were more of a brutal mass than a face, the less it was going away.

You barely made it past the urinals and into an open stall before you dry-heaved into a toilet.

You were dead.

You couldn’t be.

As you zipped up the stolen hoodie and sweatpants, you tried to remember it all. Kissing under the bleachers before the game, him asking you to come with him while he grabbed something from his gym locker.

Every agonizing second you asked him to stop, to stop pressing you into the lockers because one of the locks was digging into your back; his decrepit hands sliding at your waistline, pushing and prodding past the fabric of your clothes.

Nothing would come up from your stomach.

Could ghosts vomit? You asked yourself, slowly standing to your feet and walking back over to your dead body.

Conversations started to flood the hallway, every muscle in your body coming briefly to attention before you flew out the door and screamed into the rushing crowd of students.

“Hello?” You called out, reaching your arm into the crowd, only to watch it get run through like something out of Star Wars.

Your body became hot, and even though you knew deep down that no one could see you, you pushed your tears back down your choking throat and felt your cheeks heat up with shame.

You walked into the crowd, who was thinning out the further you got from the hallway. Your body tensed for a moment, seeing the lights of police cars and ambulances pulling up to the school. Expecting to see the paramedics rushing toward your body, you waited for them to split the crowd, to start heading toward the school, but they were bolting the other way.

Straight toward the football field.

This school has to be fucking cursed.

One of the players was splayed out on the field, his head gently being lifted as paramedics were tugging his helmet off his head. The football team from whatever school yours was playing against was sitting on the bench, whispering and pointing to another one of their players who was talking to a police officer further down the field.

57.

The number sewn on the jacket hanging among the clothes you stole stood out against the dark blue of the player’s helmet. People gasped and a woman cried out as the paramedic set the helmet aside, revealing the face of the school’s resident golden boy; a dark bruise crawled up his neck, and his mouth guard slid between his lips as his limp head hung unnaturally over his shoulder.

You walked closer, straight through the forming line of police officers, and looked into the field. At the edge of the bleachers, waving his arms around and yelling into a silent group of people, stood Wally Clark.

Wally Clark is dead.

Just like I am.

You took off running, the activity coming easier to you when you were alive.

Alive.

“Wally!” You called out, and the football player snapped his body to your voice, his eyes wide and seeming relieved that someone was talking to him.

You stopped, resting your hands on your hips as he hopped down from the bleachers.

“What’s happening? Why- why is no one talking to me? What did I do?” He asked, skipping the formalities. He came to stand on the field before you, the football gear he was wearing sending a rush of debilitating shame through your body.

You faltered for a moment, his face flashing in your eyes before you rubbed your face back to reality.

“You didn’t do anything, Wally.” You managed to push out, pushing your eyes anywhere but on him.

“Then what is happening? I feel like I’m going crazy, one minute I’m running with the ball, and boom- I’m at the bleachers, trying to get my mother to talk to me and she won’t even look up at me. I know she’s pissed at me about going on the bench, but I mean I got back in the game, and now I’m guessing coach is pissed at me on insisting to get back in and-”

“You’re dead.” You cut off his rambling, forcing yourself to meet his face without looking away after a second, “I mean, I think we’re both dead.”

First, he smiled. Like what you said was some kind of joke. After you said nothing, he started toward the sidewalk, where his mother was now alongside a stretcher being lifted into an ambulance. You could see the tears on her face from where you were, each step you followed Wally, the easier it was to see her sorrow.

Then, as he was following his mother, he suddenly was gone, like he was plucked off the Earth by God himself.

That was until you turned to see him standing on the football field, right where his body was previously lying, tugging at the roots of his hair.

You hovered your foot, leveraging that if you stood on the sidewalk, you would be slingshotted back to the men’s locker room.

You decided to trust your gut and instead talked to Wally.

“I can’t be dead, I mean, that would mean you’re dead, and I literally saw you in the hallway this morning,” Wally said as he paced in a small area before you, “and I know for sure that I saw you because you were hanging around Dalton’s locker, which was weird because everyone on the team thought he had some college girl or something he was hanging out with-”

You didn’t register some of the words he was saying, instead you tried to control your thoughts from ripping you back to your last moments on earth at his name.

“-I mean, do you even know how crazy this sounds?”

You took in a shaky breath, wiping your hands over your face to poorly conceal any emotions that unwillingly spread onto your features, “Yeah, but that’s the thing, Wally. I am dead.”

Saying you were dead for the first time out loud was a lot heavier than you thought it would be.

You’re pretty sure that if the insanity of Wally being killed hadn’t overridden your brain, you would be somewhere huddled up and screaming for some greater power to give you eternal rest.

“What? That’s not possible, I mean, the people you were here with would’ve noticed you were gone. Dalton would’ve noticed you were gone.”

You didn’t want to give his name as much power as you did, but your body tightened up hearing it. You didn’t correct him, instead opting to stare at the dark woods on the far end of the field, your eyes burning once more.

“Y/N,” you were a little surprised that he knew your name, and even more when he stood in front of you with the most gentle expression you’d ever seen, “what happened after school? How did you die?”

I love that my post with the most notes is a criminal minds incorrect quote that took 5 seconds of thought. 😭 personally I think my buzzfeed unsolved one about Emily was funnier but go off I guess.

Derek: are you the big spoon or the little spoon?

Emily: i'm the knife

Jj: *from across the room* she's the little spoon

Period Comfort Headcanons

Alive!Wally Clark x Alive!Reader (Modern AU)

Warings: Not much just basic period stuff and a lot of fluff.

-

This sweet sweet boy would probably be confused on what to do. He's not completely lost, he knows the basics like pads, tampons, mood swings, cramps, and cravings but that's where his knowledge ends. 

I feel like he's the type to freak out. Like genuine visible terrier when you tell him. Would cry if you told him how a period actually works. “Your fucking uterine lining sheds?!” Said as tears build in his eyes. 

For the love of everything do NOT send this man to the store to get you menstrual products. He will call you 50 million times to make sure he gets the right thing and will still come home with the complete opposite of what you asked for. It’s not his fault he's not used to this stuff. 

He’d also call his mom for help. She’d be the one to tell him about pain killers and heating pads. She’d make you boiling hot soup or hot cocoa to help with the pain. 

Snack galore. Will 100% go out at 3 in the morning to buy you a McFlurry. He hates seeing you in pain so if he can do anything to help he will and if that means sacrificing his sleep he doesn't care. 

Cuddles cuddles CUDDLES. This man is a living (just pretend) breathing furnace. Forget a heating pad, just have him lay on top of you. He’d keep his hand on your abdomen at all times.

He’d make you a little basket filled with snacks and products. (Once he finally learns what you use) He’d even write you a little card that says ‘I’m sorry your body’s torturing you.’ 

Would wear matching pjs and do skin care with you while you two watch a movie. He’d do this regardless of if you're on your period or not but especially when you're on your period. 

I know for a fact this man doesn't know how to cook but he’d try for you. When he inevitably burns the food he just buys take out. It’s the thought that counts. 

All in all he's trying and once he figures it out he's amazing. Just be patient with him because he’d feel so bad for you. 

(Okay thats all, sorry if it's shit. I was gonna do valentine day headcanons but according to my app i start my period tomorrow and need to cope 🥲)

October Moon

summary: Janet had stolen Amelia's chosen vessel. Mina had been killed a second time which had meant there'd been a space to fill. as a result, Mr. Martin had been tasked with carrying out Amelia's mission to complete her set before time had run out. unfortunately, Amelia hadn't taken into consideration that the ghosts had been their own people, with minds of their own, moving to their own rhythms.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER MOON pt.5

It was difficult to manipulate the living as a ghost. It took time, patience, a remarkable amount of foresight. Early on, Amelia had taught Mr. Martin what strings to pull, what seeds to plant, how to displace and harness the aura of a living person to influence their emotions and behaviors. Needless to say, it was a strenuous task and results often took months if not decades to come to fruition. So many moving parts, so many things out of his control.

The trick was to isolate the person. The more lonely, the more depressed, the easier it was to mold their aura into something Mr. Martin could use. Which was why, if things needed to be done quickly, he'd choose someone whose spirit was already broken.

That being said, he hadn't chosen the person Amelia had decided to replace Mina with. And there weren't enough hours in the day that he and they shared space when he could sew threads of hurt and betrayal through their aura.

This wasn't going to work and he knew it. But he couldn't argue with Amelia. Especially now, when they were so far past the deadline and time was running out. She was restless, furious, desperate. She could tell someone was too close to discovering her, no longer under her thrall, and she needed to vanish which she couldn't do without a new vessel. Without hers and Mr. Martin's.

This wasn't going to work. And he prepared to do his part anyway. Another ghost would be among them soon and it was his obligation, his duty, to get to them before they understood what had happened to them. Keep them close. Keep them in line. Keep them looped. He couldn't afford another sentient ghost to oversee when his Group had begun to lose their way. Their influence would be damning.

"If they accept, Everett, if they look back and surrender, everything ends."

This wasn't going to work. But, silencing his conscience, Mr. Martin prayed it would.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You and Wally had spent the remainder of the dance tangled together on the makeshift bed in the greenhouse. It had been surreal in substantial part due to the revelation of how you and he were connected. Bigger and more profound than a soul-tie. You were a fated pair. The rarest of couplings formed within the heart of Awen—the universe, the force that birthed and connected all things. A love story destined to be lived in life, death, and beyond.

Neither you nor he felt the need to discuss it, the truth settled into the fabric of your soul and his as if it had always been there.

When you'd finally emerged from the greenhouse, hair mussed and dressed wrinkled, you were lighter than you'd been in years. Free. Happy. Loved. It made you giddy, a skip in your step as Wally took your hand to walk to back to Xavier's truck. You had to collect Hana and Eli, and load the instruments into the truck bed to return to Hana and Lucas' garage.

Before Wally lifted you onto the tailgate, he kissed you, slow and deep and sensual, licked into your mouth and made you whimper when he dragged your bottom lip through his teeth. You crept back into your body, emerging from beneath the thick blankets with staticky hair and flushed cheeks. You could feel the chill in the air again and were thankful that you'd layered several blankets above and below you to keep your body toasty while your ghost had spent the night with Wally. In fact, you were a bit overheated, the chill welcome on your skin as you climbed out of the truck bed.

You got behind the wheel, Wally folding into the passenger's seat, and started the ignition, backing up easily since the parking lot was practically deserted at the late hour. You were going to drive to the front where Principal Hartman had instructed you and the others to load the instruments, but Wally waved that off.

"Go around to the side entrance, baby, it'll be easier."

"I think it's locked," You said, trying to recall what Mr. Hartman's reasoning had been as to why you and the others couldn't use it.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Wally give you a significant look, "Good thing you have a dead boyfriend who can open it for you."

Which, fair. Your abilities allowed you to bring together physical manifestations from both the world of the living and the dead. If Wally unlocked door for you in the world of the dead, you'd be able to open it in the world of the living.

Your heart fluttered when he used the word 'boyfriend', cheeks pinking sweetly. You liked how that sounded. So, respecting your boyfriend's suggestion, you pulled around to the side of the school and parked close to the wall just ahead of the door. Wally got out and told you he'd be back in a minute, citing that he'd needed to retrieve the key from Mr. South's office.

"Why?" You asked, frowning. "You're a ghost, you can just open the door if you want to."

Wally shook his head, "Nah, baby. If it's locked on your side, it's locked on ours."

That...didn't sound right. You'd seen Grandpa John flounce through many a locked door in the house and elsewhere. He'd even once raided Ginny's padlocked liquor cabinet (Andrew had been a rebellious teenager and she'd never trusted her nephew around her booze again despite his being a teetotaler since university). Ghosts didn't have to adhere to the same laws as living people. It didn't make sense.

Regardless, you didn't feel it was the right time to kick that hornet's nest. It was late, you were tired, and Hana and Eli were relying on you to drive them home. Thus, you diligently waited in the truck until you heard the metal clack of the door being pushed open. Wally grinned at you, stood back and let you enter, smacking your ass playfully as you walked by.

"I'm gonna go find Maddie." He'd seen her on his way to the basement, apparently, and she'd looked like she'd needed the company. "I'll be back before you leave." One last kiss and off he went, strutting down the hall to where he must've last seen Maddie.

You entered the gym, waved to Simon as he sat popping balloons. Hana and Eli stood beside the disassembled drum kit, chatting, and were relieved to finally see you when you approached them.

"I seriously thought you left already," Hana bemoaned, shouldering Lucas' bass and grabbing her keyboard. "I was going to kill you."

"Not today, Satan," You joked back as you gathered your guitar and Xavier's. "I parked at the side entrance, so we don't have far to go."

Eli looked surprised, "I thought it was gonna be locked, no? That's what Hartman said, isn't it?" He glanced at Hana for confirmation.

Hana made a face—the shits I give—and said, "If it's faster, I don't care."

Between the three of you, you were able to carry enough that you'd only need to make one more trip in and out. You didn't even see Principal Hartman in the gym, so you felt confident that he'd never discover you'd broken a rule. As you trudged under the weight of the instruments, you saw Maddie and Wally strolling toward the gym, Maddie appearing lost in thought and Wally silently dependable at her side, there if she wanted to talk.

He shot you a charming smile and a wink as you walked across the hallway intersection and you blew him a kiss behind Hana and Eli's backs. Wally caught it with his and held it to his heart, cheesy and adorable. Beside him Maddie rolled her eyes, but her smile was sweet.

Eli held the door open for you with his foot, Hana ahead of you both, gently setting down her load and unlatching the tailgate. You shuffled into the space beside her and shifted the guitar cases off your shoulder, leaning them against the side of the truck. Behind you, Eli had deposited what he'd carried on the ground and had already disappeared to go fetch his second and final haul.

And that's when—BANG!

At first, you didn't know what'd happened; it'd been so fast. A falling shadow, the truck bed dropped—the sound of a short, sharp explosion, the ground shook—then bounced back, and dust clouded the air above the truck bed.

When it registered, Hana was already screaming.

There was a body in the truck bed, limbs akimbo, face obscured. Heart in your throat, trembling, you slowly panned up to see where the person had fallen from. Your breath caught and you froze, eyes widening in horror. Someone leaned over the edge of the roof, their gaze locking with yours. You recognized the face those eyes peered through immediately, though his features didn't sit as they should beneath the expression on his face.

Oh God.

You felt hands on your upper arms trying to tug you away from the scene, Simon's voice repeating, "Don't look, come on, come here," but he sounded distant as the ringing in your ears got louder. You released a frightened, dry whimper, almost resisting Simon's attempt to help you. Your muscles were stiff, your lower lip trembled. You couldn't breathe.

No. No.

Dave's face peeked over the edge of the roof, but it was Amelia's eyes that watched you.

💀___________________________

PART FOUR - PART SIX

note: much love, besties! this was short 'n' sweet, but we're quickly coming to the end 😭

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: we're not about that life around here (•¯ ∀ ¯•) things got too outta hand and i'm still cleaning up the mess left behind by the demons i accidentally summoned trying to get the damn thing to work 🕳️👹......there's a dustpan over there if you feel like helping 🧹💨 or, if you just wanna stay up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS.

Y’all repost this post with your favorite Spencer pic in his fbi vest

Alphabet Soup

summary: prompt fill. the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it.

pairing: grey!Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut. AU - modern setting. romanticized toxic behavior. cheating. egregious use of the word 'baby'.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🧿

Alphabet Soup - H

H is for hot, hypnotizing touches and hard kisses at a party Wally should be focused on hosting. But how can he think when you swan in wearing that fucking dress, hair styled just right for him fist into when he has you on your knees. Janet commanded that he not invite you, gave him a look and a threat, and he didn't listen because fuck her, it's his house, his party, and he'll invite whoever he wants to.

Your friends surround you like the Secret Service, Xavier and Maddie and Simon watchful and out of place amongst the hypersexual pop squad and their clingers-on. It's a smaller party, harder to get away with what Wally wants to do (that being tying you to his bed and wrecking you over and over again until sunup), but he steals moments here and there to make you aware of how fucking horny he is for you.

Halfway through the night, Janet's hammered to the degree she doesn't give a shit that you're there anymore, her arm around your shoulders, convinced she's the best thing to ever happen to you because she rescued you from social squalor. Now everyone who matters knows who you are, she beams, hugging you like a sister, thanks to me. Wally helps you help her up the stairs to his old room—the struggle real—Janet handsy in a way she never gets without her audience to perform for.

She grabs and gropes and pouts for Wally to cuddle, to kiss her, to touch her how she knows he fantasizes about touching you. And it's the closest you and he have come to being caught on Candid Camera, holy hell, but she passes out before he's forced to fess up.

Once he closes the door behind him, he hunts you down, finds you in the bathroom down the hall trying to dab out the Sour Puss and Blue Curaçao Janet spilled (accidentally-on-purpose) on your dress.

"Just take it off," Wally smirks, arms folded, leaning his shoulder on the doorframe, "We both know it's gonna end up on my floor anyway."

"Yeah? You're right." Your reflection flashes him a coy look. Slowly, you turn, prop against the sink, eyes heated, "No harm in giving everyone a show, right?" Your dress pools at your feet when you slip it off, leaving you in dark green satin that Wally's cock highly appreciates.

He kicks the door closed with his heel, on you in two long strides, grabbing your hair and forcing your head back so you have to look at him. "Naughty girl," He grips your ass with his other hand, "You know that's not what I meant." A bite to your neck, a lap of his tongue to soothe the sting, "No one else gets this, baby. You're all. mine."

Wally hoists you onto the sink, insinuates himself between your thighs as soon as his shoves his jeans to his knees. He humps himself against the imprint of your pussy through the satin, his brain fogging from the friction. Your eyes are hazy, lips parted on sweet sighs of need that he hastily swallows. The music downstairs might be loud, but eventually, someone's going to come looking and he can't have them hear you. Those sounds are as much his as the rest of you.

In less time than it took to put Janet to bed, Wally has you on his cock, bouncing like a beauty queen in his lap as he sits on his haunches, one arm behind him to hold himself up, the other tight around your waist. Fuck, he's never felt this hopeless for someone. This hungry and desperate and obsessed. His hips buck in tandem with yours, driving himself as deep as he can get, wanting every inch of you to be his, his, his, "That's it baby, ride daddy's cock just like that, fuck—"

When you and he rejoin the party, he's dressed you in one of his button-downs, belted around the waist with the tie he wore to his cousin's wedding. His scent all over you, his come inside you, and nobody notices a thing thanks to too many shots of Hennessey.

🧿___________________________

MASTERLIST

also available on AO3!

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

October Moon

summary: things had begun to escalate after Quinn Wu had been pushed from the roof by none other than your brother-in-law. revelations had been made and everyone had been prepared to get down to business.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER MOON pt.6

The Ciorcal. A council that oversaw a clutch of families whose blood was infused with connectedness. There were many throughout the world, the number of families under each Ciorcal's governance limited to ensure the rules could be effectively enforced. Ciorcals weren't all powerful or meddling. Nothing like the Volturi in Twilight or the Ministry of Magic in Harry Potter. More like a rural Board of Revision who stepped in to make decisions when families couldn't agree on courses of action. Very mundane stuff that often involved pots upon pots of coffee during deliberations, and a lot of paperwork. Often, hearings took time to schedule since most councilmembers had real lives with real jobs and real social demands.

You'd never met them. You didn't know who your family had to report to if an issue arose with someone's connectedness. Only the matriarch had the privilege of reaching out to them in times of need.

The matriarch in your family was, of course, Ginny. And Ginny didn't seem pleased to have had to call one of the councilmen ('Godfrey', you'd heard her bark when he'd rambled on for too long about his grandkid's ballet recital) simply because Andrew had found a totem linked to a homicide that'd taken place in Mississippi in 2010.

The right thing to do, you thought, was to hand it over to police so they could test it for DNA or whatever. Only, there was nothing special about the totem to indicate that it'd had anything to do with anything apart from having been donated. They were normal-looking sneakers. Not even a pair that the victim had been reported as having worn. And Andrew had happened upon them at a Goodwill while browsing for costume pieces with his girlfriend. There was nothing Andrew could say that would sound plausible enough to avoid becoming the next prime suspect.

Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose, groaned, and then said harshly, "I understand that Marjorie has apples to harvest, Godfrey, but we need to———interrupt me again and I swear to every God and Goddess you can name I will choke you with your ridiculous bolo. I dare you to test me."

You tried not to laugh, pressed your lips together and grabbed Nanna's hand. You were both sat in the living room hunched over a puzzle, a relaxing pastime Nanna shared with you when you were stressed. And, oh boy, were you stressed. It was your sophomore year; you felt awkward and ugly and you had nothing to wear to Homecoming. And, although you knew it was stupid, Wallace J. Clark had started haunting you for real and you maybe-sort of wanted to impress him. Even if you couldn't have sought out, talked to, or acknowledged him in any way.

Ginny's agitated growl brought you back to the present. She tossed the cordless landline phone onto the couch and collapsed beside it, head on the backrest, fingers massaging her temples.

"All good, sister?" Nanna asked with a small smile, examining the puzzle pieces.

Ginny rolled her head to the side to scowl at her, "They're all idiots and I want a new Circle. In fact, I demand it. Who do I bring this up with!?"

Nanna's eyes glittered, "I think we'd have to move, if that's the case."

"Oh, hooey, we could petition to have them replaced, I'm sure."

"Really?" You wondered and glanced between Nanna and Ginny, "You can do that?"

Ginny returned to rubbing her temples, "Even if we can't, I will!" She exclaimed, truly frustrated. "Bloody sheep shaggi—"

"And~ that's enough puzzle time for one day," Nanna interrupted as she rose from her chair, encouraging you to follow her, "Let's get started on supper, sweetpea."

"I want steak!" Ginny called after you and Nanna, "With garlic mash! After putting up with slow-talker Godfrey, I've earned it!" And then, to herself, "It takes that man a thousand years to get to the point. I'm seventy-nine, for Chrissakes, I don't have time for that."

Nanna sing-songed back, "You'll get what you're given!"

"It's not too early to pass the baton onto you, you know." Ginny said like a threat, giving Nanna's back a pointed look. Apparently, dealing with the Ciorcal was a responsibility nobody wanted.

Nanna paused briefly and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, "Garlic mash, you said?"

Ginny grinned victoriously.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You were snuggled against Wally, back to front, between his legs on the floor at the back of the library. It was still too early on a Monday morning to worry about being caught. Charley sat in front of you and Wally, cross-legged with his back against Civil War history books. Ajay was sprawled across the windowsill. He listened as he gazed outside forlornly, still nursing Mina's ongoing absence.

Maddie leaned against Wally, her head on his shoulder, arms around her knees, clearly battling with too many thoughts. Lastly, Xavier stood at the end of the aisle, wary and alert and watching the door for anyone who wasn't on Team Parabnormal, as he'd called it. A loyal guardian.

He hadn't left your side all weekend, even when, on Saturday, you'd snuck onto school grounds to see Wally under Security Guard Barry's nose. Xavier had respectfully waited with Ajay while you and Wally had taken advantage of the makeshift bed that hadn't yet been dismantled. It'd been the distraction you'd needed after having witnessed Quinn Wu's almost lethal drop, and though Xavier hadn't been too keen for it, he'd driven Aurora's car and had diligently pretended he hadn't been chauffeuring you to a sex date with your boyfriend who'd been dead for forty years.

Xavier was a good friend. A good person. The only person you could trust with everything without having to explain in depth.

After Aurora had arrived at the school to collect you on Friday, she'd informed you that Ginny had had another episode. That Nanna had had to stay behind to wait for an ambulance because Ginny hadn't opened her eyes when they'd tried to rouse her after you'd called. She'd had episodes often throughout your life, but this seemed to be the worst of them. It reminded you that she wasn't as youthful and vivacious as she seemed. That she was a woman in her eighties with a body that no longer performed the way it used to.

Xavier had had Claire drop him off at your house before Aurora had left, wanted to be there should Dave have returned. He hadn't, but that Xavier had stepped up to protect your grandmother and great-aunt solidified for you that Xavier wasn't what Maddie and Simon believed, regardless of his prior misbehavior. He'd taken a taxi to the hospital with Nanna and had stayed until you and Aurora had arrived to relieve him.

For her part, Aurora had been a shell of herself when she'd found you after the dance. On the phone, you'd had to tell her why Sheriff Baxter had insisted she and Nanna and Ginny leave the house if Dave hadn't shown up. Shock, Nanna had whispered when you and Aurora had been sat in Ginny's hospital room, Aurora staring into space while you spoke quietly to Nanna. Currently, Aurora rotted in the bed of the Baxter's guest room, head under a pillow as if she could have blocked out the world.

They hadn't found Dave. Dave who might not have been innocent, but who hadn't been present when his body had pushed Quinn off the roof. Though his eyes had still been hazel, you'd known that it'd been Amelia looking through them. His situation wasn't like Christopher Nears whose ghost had been expelled from his body and trapped. No, Dave had been a—

"Golem?" Charley asked, head cocked like a confused puppy, "Like the clay monster things?"

"Yes and no," You offered, "It does usually mean clay monster things, but my family uses it to describe someone whose body is animated by energy that's not theirs."

Charley raised an eyebrow and, "So, a possession," he stated skeptically.

"Hard no," You said and held up your hand as you listed, "First, only a traveler can use a golem. Second, golems are temporary and the host's ghost is dormant in their body while their body is being used. Third, to be used as a golem, you have to have either full-blown connectedness, like me, or you have to have the potential to have it.

"Possession, on the other hand, can happen to anyone and the possessor has to be dead. A ghost with no body." Maddie's face pinched as she tried to understand. You elaborated, "Also, the host is aware of the ghost. Generally, the ghost is a super pissed off person who died traumatically. Hence why there's always records of lashing out and cursing and all that stuff."

"Got it. Golems, temporary. Possessions, a lot of projectile vomiting?" Charley added with a question mark.

You winced and tipped your head from side to side, "Either one can make you sick, actually. Think of it like an infection. The longer it sticks around, the harder your body tries to reject it. Either the body wins...or it doesn't."

"Jesus," Wally said under his breath, "This shit is wild."

Xavier interjected, "Can we please go back to the part where you said to be a golem you have to have magic?"

"It's not magic," You deadpanned.

"Don't really care." Xavier dismissed, and then, "You're telling me Dave has or could have magic?"

The corners of your mouth dropped severely, "Yeah. I know. Trust me."

"You had latent magic," Maddie mentioned to Xavier, "Same with Simon." She panned to you for support, "Right? That's why they can see us."

"It's still not magic, but I'd say yes." After a moment of reflection, you urged Maddie, "Trust me, though, if you knew Dave, you'd understand why it's so..."

"Fucking. Dave." Xavier finished on your behalf. You gestured to him, that.

Charley brought everyone's attention back on task when he asked, "Guys, if Amelia's already possessing people—"

"Borrowing," You inserted the correct terminology.

"Borrowing?" Charley blinked several times, "Okaaay. So, if Amelia is borrowing people...that means she has to have a body around here, right?" You nodded. "One she obviously wants to get rid of or she wouldn't be creeping around. And her whole thing is stealing bodies." Again, you nodded. "So, why doesn't she just...keep one of the bodies she borrowed?"

To be honest, "I don't think she can," you said, then chewed your lip in thought. "You could technically push someone's soul out of their body. Amelia did it to Christopher, right?" Maddie bowed her head, "But if it's for long-term use, you risk the body rejecting you since it isn't yours. Like an organ. Unless the chemistry matches, there's no guarantee a ghost can just keep the body. Which means, if they're in there too long and they're not a match, the body starts going through the stages of decomp. A lot slower than an actual dead body. But still...same-same."

The ghosts looked between themselves, Charley's features conveying to you that that usurping someone's body was something he'd never thought of trying.

"We're not assholes," Ajay reminded him, having read Charley's expression for what it was. "Although it would be nice to leave the school. Even for a day."

"We're. not. assholes," Wally doubled-down as he stroked your hip with his thumb, almost as if he was reassuring you that no one in his haunt was going to do something like shove a living person out of their body for a field trip.

You smiled up at him before informing everyone, "Besides, if you're inexperienced, you'd need a big source of energy to ensure you could successfully hold onto a body. Which brings me back to why Amelia can't just keep one of her golems. In that memory I got trapped in, Alastair said something about how the death of those cult members was what glued his and Anabelle's and Amelia's souls into their new bodies. I think Amelia would need to get a bunch of........." You trailed off, the realization dawning in fazed degrees. "Oh my god..."

There was an extended silence until, from the windowsill, "That's why we're trapped here," Ajay uttered, looking at the group. "Amelia's using us the same way she used the dead cult members, isn't she?"

Wally tensed, his body rigid behind you, thumb stilled on your hip, "What does that mean?"

"It means the symbols that I found were probably made by the Something-Something to trap their energy resource." Ajay's gaze was heavy as he clarified, "Us."

Charley glanced between you and Ajay before fixing on you, "But you said there were, like, fifty or sixty of them. Including us, we're only twenty here. Nineteen now that Janet crossed over."

"I don't think Janet was supposed to cross over," You said quietly, the gears in your head turning, "Maybe that's why Amelia tried to kill Quinn. To...to replace her."

Maddie pointed out, "Even if she succeeded, that still doesn't bring the total anywhere near fifty or sixty, though. If Amelia needs more than us..."

"If," Ajay said as he hopped down from the windowsill. "She could've perfected the ritual. It's just her now, right?"

"That we can confirm, yeah." Then you speculated, "Anabelle could be out there, too. Which, being Amelia's mom, I bet she is." Everyone sat in troubled silence for a moment before you suggested in a timid voice, "Maybe this isn't the only place she's hording ghosts." You glanced at Xavier, "I think it's..." A deep, shaky breath before you restarted, "I think I need to go back to the farmhouse."

Wally's arms tightened around you protectively, "Not on your own, baby," and pressed a kiss to your head, letting his lips rest there for a few seconds as he breathed you in.

Xavier said, "I agree with Grease Lightning, kiddo, you're not going alone," a short pause as he schemed, and then, "We can go tonight. My dad's working a double so he won't notice if we're not home."

"You're still staying at his house?" Wally asked, shifting to look at you and you could sense the jealousy he was trying so hard to conceal.

"Until tomorrow," You confirmed, "The locksmith's been booked solid since the break-ins started and couldn't get to us until tomorrow morning."

He pressed his brow to your head, "I wish I could go with you."

"You~ have an important job to do here," You reminded him, smiling softly and reaching up to run your fingers through his hair, "You guys are going to help Maddie get her memory back and then we'll be able to figure out what happened and if her disappearance has anything to do with Amelia."

Wally nodded into your hair, but his arms tightened further.

"I promise to cooperate," Maddie said with humor, having noticed Wally's reluctance to accept that you were going on a road trip with Xavier who she suspected had done something besides cheat on her to upset Wally. "I'll go along with whatever weird, kooky thing you guys wanna try." She lifted her hand, scout's honor, "No complaining."

"That's an offer we can't refuse," Charley chuckled and tapped Wally's foot with his toe, "Whaddya think, buddy?"

Reluctant, "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds awesome." He stamped another kiss to your head. Tentatively, eyes soft, he asked, "Do you think Aiden'll still be there?"

The question made Maddie flinch, because if Aiden's ghost had remained in the farmhouse, it was likely that Christopher's had also. Measuring your words, "I'm not sure. Honestly, I don't even know how I'm going to find the place. My memory is all fucked. I still remember it being in town."

Charley volunteered, "I saw Meheive on the mailbox, if that helps," his voice just as hushed and cautious.

"We'll start there." At least you knew what you'd be busy with at lunch. You mapped out the rest of your day, already itching to run to the computer lab and write your name on Mr. Balkin's log because those spaces filled up fast. "I'll see what I can find and then text you," you told Xavier, getting to your feet.

Everyone stood, ready to leave, except Ajay who returned to roost on the windowsill. When Wally inquired about Group, Ajay brushed it off, stating he wasn't in the mood; believed Mr. Martin wouldn't have any advice beyond what he'd already given Ajay on the Mina front.

Wally patted Ajay's shoulder and then returned to you. Leaned down and kissed you slowly, sweetly, pulling back to whisper, "I love you, baby."

"I love you, too." You replied, closing your eyes when you felt him kiss your forehead. "I'll see you at lunch."

At Wally's agreement, everyone but Ajay exited the library; you and Xavier went left, the ghosts went right toward the gym. You had a Mock Trial to prepare for as liaison for the school newspaper, and Xavier had Bio homework to catch up on so, at the end of the hall, you and he parted ways.

However, not before Xavier reassured with a joking grin, "I'll be there, kiddo. If things go sideways, at least we'll go down together."

You rolled your eyes, "Such a glass-half-full thing to say, Zav."

"You know me, always looking for the silver lining!"

"Idiot," You smacked his arm lightly and he feigned agony, wincing and rubbing his arm like you'd nearly amputated it.

"So cruel when all I wanna do is help," He moaned with an exaggerated pout.

Refusing to indulge him, you turned to head to your locker and grab what you needed for the Mock Trial, "You're a menace~!"

"You love me anyway~!"

Begrudgingly, you had to admit that, yeah, you did...

He was still a dickhead, though.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Wally had never seen that side of Mr. Martin. Jaw tense, features screwed up in vexation; his feathers ruffled in a way that they had never gotten before. Normally, Mr. Martin was a pillar of even tones and encouragement. The man who'd gracefully assumed the role of leader for their patchwork haunt. He was the glue, the calk, the cement that kept everyone together.

Until Maddie threatened to leave Group to find clues to clear Mr. South's name. The session had already been going off the rails at thunderous speed since Charley had kept probing Maddie for answers. Wally knew it was Charley's manner of trying to unlock her memories, but it only served to get under Mr. Martin's skin and put the man on edge. And, weirdly, spouting Mr. Martin's passive mumbo jumbo, Rhonda seemed to be on his side. She'd never bought into Mr. Martin's advice, as well-meaning as it was, yet, recently, she'd been following him around like a lost duckling and regurgitating his words like they were revelation.

What the hell was going on?

Wally was startled from his thoughts when Mr. Martin said, "Whether your memory returns or not, you're not in a position to help the accused, Maddie." At which Wally and Charley shared a nervous look. "We have no influence over what happens in that world."

Wally flicked his gaze to the back of your head, visible above the back of the first spectators' bench.

"Do we?" Mr. Martin prodded Maddie in a pointed tone. When she didn't answer, he repeated, "Do we have any sway over a living person?" And the expression on Mr. Martin's face might've been docile, but there was something beneath it. Something that made Wally uneasy. "Is there something we're not sharing with the group?"

One more there-and-gone glance at you, and Wally interjected, "Uh, speaking of repressed memories..." He leaned down to grab the psychology textbook he'd boosted from the library.

"We're not," Mr. Martin insisted.

Wally ignored him, desperate to take the heat off him, Maddie, and Charley, "Well, we can, so I will." Wally presented the textbook and assured Maddie that, "We're gonna help you get through this, Maddie, okay?" A hand on her back, his eyes sincere. "We're all going to figure it out." And he believed it was true. Between you and Simon and Xavier; and he, Charley, Ajay, and, hopefully, Rhonda, the odds were in their favor. They'd help Maddie remember and she'd be able to tell you what'd happened to her so you, Simon, and Xavier could go and valiantly retrieve her body like the knights in shining armor you and they were. Wally had faith in that.

"Thank you, Wally," Maddie answered.

What remained of the Group session was rocky and, either defeated or unsettled, Mr. Martin dismissed everyone earlier than he usually did. Before vacating the circle, Wally leaned in to ask Maddie, "Quick question," his voice low to avoid being overheard. She sat back down and waited for him to speak, "The day you ended up here...you didn't by any chance drink tea that probably tastes like soap, did you?"

A hundred questions passed over Maddie's expression as she thought about how to respond. Wally knew it was totally random, but figured it couldn't have hurt to ask. If that tea had drugged you and possibly made fifty to sixty wealthy socialites attend to the whims of a crazy woman, it very well could've been what'd caused Maddie to forget why she'd been in the boiler room in the first place.

Eventually, "No," she answered, and she sounded worried about Wally's mental health. "You think her sister snuck into the school to drug me with her favorite herbal sedative?"

"I just wanted to make sure," Wally defended, "And I'm not saying it was my girl's sister. Amelia could've golem'd—"

"Borrowed," Charley chirped as he came to stand in front of them.

Wally backtracked, "Amelia could've borrowed someone's body and slipped it into your drink at lunch or something."

"She could've spiked my odorless, colorless water with something that smells like a thousand grandmothers' perfumes without me noticing?" Now Maddie was grinning, cheeky, a glint in her eye.

Wally groaned, "If you're going to make fun of me for trying to help, I'm gonna find something else to do with my time." His gaze unintentionally slipped to you.

Maddie raised an eyebrow, followed his line of sight and then smirked, "You mean someone."

"Shut up." To get out of the hot seat, Wally stood and collected his backpack. Together with Rhonda, Wally was pleased to note, they left the gym. As they moved down the hall, "I have an idea," Wally announced, "but I need you to bear with me, okay?"

"Alright," Maddie said, followed by a semi-curious, semi-concerned, "Why?"

"Hey, you agreed to do whatever weird, kooky thing we wanted to try, right?" Wally grinned, "And I wanna start with those triggers I told you about. First up," he turned toward the cafeteria and, without comment, everyone trailed after him, "Do you remember what your last meal was?"

Maddie's nose scrunched as she tried to recall. "Whatever they served in the caf," she said, albeit unsure.

"Great, we just have to check their menu rotation and we'll go from there." Wally was excited for his experiment. His blood pumped and his brain buzzed similar to how he felt on game days. Jittery, but good jittery. Like he was on his way to do something with purpose.

Charley made a face of disgust, saucily recommending, "If it's whatever they try to pass off as fish, we're skipping it."

"We don't have to eat it." Rhonda said, linking her arm with his. Charley beamed at her as if she'd told him Mr. Figueroa could see Charley and wanted a word.

Beside Wally, Maddie snapped, "Thanks. Guys. Love the solidarity."

"Oh-ho-ho no," Wally shook his head as he draped his arm across her shoulders and gave her a friendly squeeze, "This isn't about solidarity. We're here to support you and to try to trigger your memories."

"And torture you with the school's trash fish." Charley added gleefully.

Maddie shot him a glare, shoulders drawing inward and mouth twisting in displeasure, "I think I'm good, actually. I don't need to remember anything."

Wally chuckled, "Too late for take-backs, Maddie."

"It's never too late," Maddie disagreed, "I take it back. I'm taking it back now."

Wally waltzed ahead and opened the cafeteria door, merrily saying, "You'll be fine. It's not like you can kill a ghost, right?"

The look Maddie leveled him with would've withered a lesser man.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Xavier drove in the direction of the old Meheive estate, the truck quiet except for the low drone of the radio. He'd dropped Claire off at her house after the confrontation with his father in the 7-Eleven, and picked you up outside his house. Nanna had returned to the hospital to sit at Ginny's side. Your mother, Alice, was conducting a reiki session at her friend's studio downtown. Aurora had relocated from the guest room to the den where she'd curled up to distract herself with reruns of shit reality television. No one knew you and Xavier were gone.

He'd filled you in on the lunchbreak escapade to the station; how he and Simon had found a clue that pointed to Nicole. As skeptical as Xavier was, you'd altogether refuted the idea that she could be responsible for Maddie's abduction. However...it made a twisted sort of sense to Xavier.

Simon had described the root of the resentment Nicole could've possibly harbored toward Maddie. Toward Simon. And Xavier saw how that could've led to a tragic outburst that had resulted in Maddie's current predicament. Plus, if it had been Nicole, that could've explained why Maddie's body was still alive somewhere. Maybe Nicole hadn't meant for things to escalate how they had and, heart heavy with guilt, Nicole had undertaken being Maddie's warped Florence Nightingale.

"Maybe..." You allowed, but, "It still doesn't feel right."

"Does any of this?" Xavier returned with a rueful smile.

You snorted, "True."

Twenty minutes later and Xavier turned onto a gated dirt road. The gate itself was dilapidated, yawned open, its iron panels slanted away from the frame as if trying to free themselves from their hinges. Xavier drove carefully down the dirt road, no lights to guide him apart from his high beams. The setting felt spooky, Xavier's blood curdling as he maneuvered around fallen branches and deep pits in the dirt. No lights. Just dark and trees and whatever hid within them.

One would think the town would've maintained the property. A heritage sight owned by the family of one of Split River's founders. Apparently, no one had had the incentive since, when Xavier drove to the crest of the horseshoe driveway, the house itself was completely run down. It had the essence of grandeur in its woodwork and architecture, but he could tell it had long since been abandoned to the elements.

He saw the ghosts at school, therefore knew that building was haunted, but it didn't feel it. The Maheive estate, however...it emanated profound melancholy, enough that it urged Xavier to turn around and put as much distance as he could between it and him.

Fighting his instincts, Xavier glanced at you when he parked, reached over and took your hand to give it a squeeze.

"You ready?" He asked softly.

You didn't respond. Simply inhaled a rattled breath and returned the squeeze before opening the truck door to climb out. You waited at the nose of the truck for him and, just as he reached you, his vision shifted. Or perhaps it was the world around him, because the house had suddenly changed. He rubbed the meat of his palms into his sockets and looked again, but the house remained pristine. Turrets proud and mended, shingles restored, paintwork smooth and intact.

"What the hell?" Xavier muttered, astonished.

Without looking at him, "Even homes have ghosts if they had enough life made in them," you said, then smiled sadly, "This is how the house is perceived in the world of the dead."

"So, why don't I see the school any differently?"

"It's still alive." You shrugged like that made an iota of sense. Xavier went with it, though, not sure if he wanted another magic lesson. Your voice in his head chided him that it's not magic, but Xavier was having a harder and harder time believing that. A ghost house sounded like something a wizard would say. And wizards? Notorious for wielding magic.

"So, is this how I'm going to see every abandoned building from now on?"

You seemed to consider that for a moment and then, "I think it depends on the building." You turned your head to gaze at Xavier and instructed, "Just look closer."

Xavier peered at the house, but he didn't know what he was supposed to have been looking for—wait. There. Beneath the reminiscence was the decayed reality. Two images overlayed to create a new composite. A house trapped between life and death.

"This is both very cool and very terrifying," Xavier commented.

He trailed behind you as you made your way up the front stairs, minding your steps. Carelessly trod over the fallen screen door that was also in perfect condition on its hinges. Watching you pull it open while not pulling it open was a trip that made Xavier a little queasy. The unnaturalness of it disagreed with his brain.

You hesitated with your hand on the main door's polished-tarnished handle. Understanding, Xavier took over—it was unlocked—and put a hand on your back to guide you inside when he pushed the door inward. He felt a chill zip through his skeleton, the hairs on the back of his neck standing as he stepped over the threshold. The air felt thin and cold. Inside, the house was stately, something one would see in a British period drama. Beautifully woven rugs and old-fashioned wallpaper; portraits and paintings in goldleaf frames; candlelight in the hall and carbon arc in the rooms.

Xavier's mouth hung open as he took it all in. "This is insane," he said as the urge to snoop rose within him.

What? It wasn't every day he'd have the chance to explore a ghost house from eighteen-dickity-six. While he could see the weathered and decrepit interior beneath the ghostly mirage, the mirage itself was still marvelous to behold.

As he'd done at the place on 10th and Lasher, Xavier clasped your hand. For support. For safety. For comfort. For all of the above. And right then, a bell rang. The clangy, old-fashioned kind with a clapper and string. The sound came from the back and, cautiously, Xavier led you further into the house, down the hall, into what had been yet still was a small kitchen. You and he froze when a woman trotted away from the dinner bell screwed into the wall, to the oven where she stirred something in a stock pot.

Xavier's heart slammed behind his ribs and his grip on your hand tightened. Spooked, he shot you a look, except you weren't paying attention. Not to him. Not to the woman. No. Rather, your eyes were cemented to a door at the back of the room. Jesus, was that the cellar door? Xavier's question was almost immediately answered when it opened and two people emerged. A man in military garb. And a young boy clutching a stuffed lion.

"Oh my God." Xavier croaked, breath caught in his throat. His stomach lurched as Aiden skipped to the oven and grinned up at the woman. Behind Aiden, the man—Christopher, Xavier speculated—called Aiden's name and gestured for Aiden to, "go sit at the table, champ."

Your hand shook in Xavier's and he could hear you taking gasping, little inhales that hiccupped when Aiden stopped in his journey to the next room. He turned his head and looked right at you, a toothy smile then sweeping his mouth.

"Sissy May!" He squealed and ran to you.

Xavier choked, swallowed, released your hand as you knelt to Aiden's level. Your eyes were glistening with unshed tears, smile forced as you greeted your brother for the first time in six years. Dear Aiden, who'd been in that house since his death, unbeknownst to his family that had grieved him.

Aiden appeared exactly as Xavier remembered him. Small and excitable, a kid with more energy than he knew what to do with. His crooked grin and brilliant green eyes that gazed at you with unconditional love. Xavier wasn't as strong as you; collapsed to his knees as he heard Aiden ask innocently if you and Zavvy had come for supper.

"We're having Martha's stew again and it's very good." He informed you, so matter-of-fact and polite, like Alice was around to observe his behavior.

Xavier recalled how similar he and Aiden had been, Aiden's restlessness mirroring what Xavier had been like as a boy. Alice had often been at wit's end just as Xavier's mother had. Which is likely why Xavier had felt a connection with Aiden unlike anyone else. A protectiveness and loyalty that had led him to including Aiden in everything Xavier did with you.

"We-we can't, Aiden," You apologized, voice rough as you spoke, "Maybe next time."

Aiden pouted at his rainboots. "You never wanna hang out with me."

Xavier felt hot tears roll down his cheeks. He placed his hand between your shoulder blades, a gentle reminder that he was there if you needed him.

You laughed, thick and wet, blinking up at the ceiling to control your own tears. A sniff and then, "You know, that's honestly the only thing I've wanted do for a long time...is hang out with you."

"Then why can't you stay?" Aiden grumbled, petulant, pulling the same guilt-trippy stunt he'd pulled countless times when you'd decreed that he hadn't been allowed to join the slumber parties you and Xavier had had as kids. Aiden's face remained downturned, but his eyes watched you through his lashes.

Frankly, Xavier wanted to know as well. He was happy to sit at a table and eat ghost food if it meant spending time with a child he'd considered his brother. Even for one night. Just one night.

"It's late," You explained, and to Xavier's ears it sounded as if you were struggling to get the words out, "And we have to be home before we get in trouble, but," you paused, whimpered, "I promise to come back, okay?" With that resilience and acceptance only children have, Aiden agreed and smiled again. "Can I..." you sniffled, "Can I have a hug before I go, Addy?"

"What's the magic word~." Aiden sang and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

You laughed through your tears, "Pleeeease can I have a hug?"

Instantly, Aiden crashed forward into your arms, tucked his head into your throat and let you embrace him. Xavier placed a hand on Aiden's back, a sob punching out of his chest when he made contact. He wrapped an arm around you, the other around Aiden, and held you both close. His body trembled. His teeth clenched. And he cried as soundlessly as he could so as not to disturb the moment. It wasn't long enough, the hug, but it healed something in Xavier's heart.

Christopher called Aiden's name from the other room and Aiden squirmed out of your and Xavier's embrace.

"I have to go," He said like a little gentleman, so articulate, and, "Love you, Sissy," he planted a sloppy kiss on your cheek. He did the same to Xavier, "Bye, Zavvy," before he cheerfully turned and speed walked through the entry to the adjoining room, stuffed lion crushed to his chest.

You and Xavier helped each other stand and, without having to direct him, Xavier crossed the kitchen and peeked through the entry way into what he discovered was a well dressed formal dining room. You pressed into his side to see for yourself that there were more ghosts around the enormous table apart from Aiden, Christopher, and the mystery woman Xavier assumed was Martha.

Men and women, young and old; a few teenagers no younger than fifteen. The ghosts' clothes spanned the decades from what Xavier guessed was the 1940s onward. As he stood in the entry, clearly visible, overtly analyzing them, he was surprised to realize that none of them seemed to notice. It was like you and Xavier didn't exist to them, Aiden included.

"It's a loop," You murmured, voice cracking, "Right now, we're not even here."

"But he just spoke to us," Xavier said.

You snorted, the sound weak and lacking humor, "They can come out of it from time to time, but as soon as they reenter the loop, they forget." After a pregnant pause, "How many do you count?" you whispered as your eyes flicked from one figure to the next.

Xavier tallied, "Twelve."

"Me too."

As soon as you spoke, Xavier felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Reluctantly, he backed away from the entry, away from Aiden who was slurping his stew, his spoon absurdly large in his tiny hand. The text was from Simon, an update informing Xavier and, by extension, you, that Nicole hadn't hurt Maddie. That she'd taken a misconceived route to buy herself a ticket to Chicago.

Xavier had to peel you away from the entry, had to hold you close as you seemed to turn hollow in the wake of witnessing your little brother forget you were there, his consciousness overwritten by the loop that'd seized he and Christopher for six years.

"Come on, kiddo," Xavier said calmly, "We got what we needed. We should go."

"There might be others," You advised, but you didn't argue when Xavier opened the passenger side door of his truck for you.

"There might be," He agreed, staring at the house, "but it's almost 9PM and we don't want to get caught, right?" He offered you a weak smile, accepting the hug you drew him into and rubbing your back soothingly. He kissed your head and helped get you settled in your seat before moving to the driver's side.

Revisiting that place had taken a toll on you—and, if he was being honest with himself, him—and Xavier wanted to get you away from there. He could tell you were sinking deeper and deeper into the memory of when you'd last been there, your gaze distant and glossy. Your curled up in your seat, slanted against the inside of the door. Xavier reached over the console and lifted your hand. An anchor. To remind you of what was real, where you were, who you were with.

Just as he was about to pull onto the freeway from the dirt road, you mumbled, "We need to stop at my house," your tone as fragile as it was firm

Xavier asked anyway, "What for?"

"Zav," and, slowly, you turned your head. Xavier was struck by how sick and shaken you looked. However, with what you said next, Xavier understood why, "Aiden didn't have Limon when he died..."

💀___________________________

PART FIVE - PART SEVEN

note: we begin our mad dash to the finish line anew 💣 i took @patrickispinky's advice and got some very much needed rest over the weekend, but i'm greased up and ready to smash this out ⌛

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: we're not about that life around here (•¯ ∀ ¯•) things got too outta hand and i'm still cleaning up the mess left behind by the demons i accidentally summoned trying to get the damn thing to work 🕳️👹......there's a dustpan over there if you feel like helping 🧹💨 or, if you just wanna stay up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS.