2020-06-02 - Ghost Stories

Patrick was reasonably sure he would be insane soon. The writing was literally on the walls at the moment, and he stood, hands on hips, looking at the words splashed on the upstairs hallway in bright red. He assumed it was blood. That was the sort of thing they liked to do, find some way to make it extra morbid.

HeLP me

"No, not today, I think." He shook his head, ignoring the glistening drips on the wall next to his shoulder, and trotted on up the stairs to his office. A passing glance out the window showed him Reginald Darrow out there, trying endlessly to move the fountain, and he rolled his eyes while he settled at his desk. They'd been impressively active the last few days, the inhabitants of the House, working overtime to celebrate one hundred and thirty years!

The lights overhead began to flicker irritatingly, pretending they were being turned off and on repeatedly. At least it might be pleasant to be insane, Patrick found himself thinking longingly while he squinted at the light that came on while he was staring at it, then went off again when he turned back to the work on his desk.

All.
Day.
Long.

Graham killed the engine, the lights, pushed the door open, climbed out of the car, keys bouncing on his palm. He'd had a good night, all told, made a few bucks at cards, almost got Andre to understand how to actually play black-jack, left early so he'd be home just a little after Elise got off work. The fish pouring out of the elevator was a little weird, and he kept trying not to think about that too hard.

Specifically, he was thinking about how he was going to leave it out of his recount of the evening's events when he told Elise about them. He cringed at the idea of explaining the ghosts of those fish to her when he popped the trunk of the car and scrambled backward so fast and so afraid that he fell flat on his ass. Feet kicking in front of him, he crab-walked until his back was against the wall, and he could slide up it, getting those feet under him. Slowly, nervously, he dared to look into the open trunk, watching the light from the garage leak in against the shadows of the few things he kept in there.

It was tidy. Graham took care of his car, right down to the trunk. He'd tossed a coat in there a couple weeks ago, when the weather changed, and meant to get it out now that it seemed like summer was pretty much here. That should have been the only thing in the trunk. There definitely should not have been a dark red duffel bag, golf clubs, trash, and a green quilt with deer on it covering what was definitely a body. And there absolutely should not have been horns poking out from beneath that hunter green blankie. The memory of that glimpse, one half-second when he popped the trunk and looked inside, made his heart hammer right up into his ears. It was terror, plain and simple, and he wasn't sure now whether he wanted it all to still be there or…

...the trunk was empty. Just his jacket. No mystery body. No chick he may have inadvertently gotten killed. He snatched the jacket, slammed the trunk, winced with regret for slamming the trunk, and hustled into the house.

Weird night.

2:82 a.m. Is that a time? Grant Baxter had no idea as the purple haze of smoke drifted in a low hanging cloud as time stands still. His back pressed to the bottom curve of the ramp, and feet propped up on his board idly rolling it back and forth...and back... and forth... and on again. The fantastic haze felt enough to make him feel a little weightless in the sense world woes seemed to expand and probability occasionally drifted into possibility on total accident behind glazed eyes. He did not want to be himself right now.

He definitely did not want to be that guy walking through the opposite wall of the ramp carrying a collection of limbs that might be his? Nope it's his other arm and head in trundle there. How that's possible without them should be asked secondary to how did he just walk though the wall of the vert ramp?! but it was not.

Seeing someone show up he almost inhales his joint as he sucks in a deep breath making the end flare orange and frantic. There's a cough that might impress a dragon and the heel of his hand rubs one eye to try to figure out if he's hallucinating or not. He notes, yup, that's a decapitated dude carrying his arm. He looks to the head and where it should be to speak, and pauses realizing that's kinda presumptuous and tries for eye contact instead, head tilting lightly cock-eyed to match visual plane. A slow nod follows with the croaked drawl, "Got you too man? That's some shit." He doesn't expect the guy to nod because he has no neck attached. Makes that difficult. Hand waves with the orange light dancing like a pinpoint, "Have a seat. Rest up man." The figure stops, detached face peering at the young man with whom he shares a nose and a jawline with. Interesting. It stands before him, bloodied and pieces in arm, eye narrowing curiously.

Bax holds out the joint for him, because etiquette yo. "Naw? A'ight." Taking a deep breath he squints looking around considering and rubbing the faint scar that circles his neck and never entirely went away when he lost his head. "Am I a ghost again? This like Dead Like Me or somethin where you got like a quota before you can retire and some shit?" The ghost does not reply, but stares either at the oddity or the chops on this kid. Fingers push back through his hair and the wheels of his board grip the surface as he rolls his foot out considering the implications of this. Weirdly the thought never really bothered him before. It's another adventure, right? he's been a ghost, hell a few times. The last? Getting obliterated? Well that sucked balls. There's a small mental tally to avoid being obliterated...today. or soon. Or ever again.

Brown eyes look up to the headless figure with a slight pang of regret. How he was a ghost and could feel his heart speed up in a panic attack? He's not asking. If he's talking to ghosts then he must be one. Again. "I didn't want to be dead again so soon, man. I appreciate you coming out, but there's things I wanna do. There's... something I want to paint and... there's a thing I'm only half through painting and Vyv ain't sang Lion King yet." There's a pause and he looks up from where his board is and back to the dismembered ghost with whom might bear relation leveling with him, "Yeah well it may not make sense to you, bubbe, but it's important. Trust me."

And now it's gone? Everything's like done or something? It's an odd anxiety making the inside of his chest inflamed. Eyes shut he murmurs with a resigned and pained disappointment. "Lemme finish this at least. Good shit. Don't wanna waste it, cuz." Taking another drag he wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. The regrets heavier than he thought. It's been a few days and things have cooled off dramatically from where they were. Maybe it was for the best but also? He didn't want them to, which is its own sort of scary realization. With a sniffle he opens his eyes pushing himself up. "yeah, alright, let's-.... allo?"

Looking around the ghost wasn't there leaving him standing there bewildered as shit. "What the Dickens..." Experiencing what can only be classified as some Ebeneezer level shit he looks around to see absolutely no ghost present. "This like... another chance or something?" Blink. Turning his head he looks out into the silhouette of the trees and starts wandering that way. "Well maybe my body's around here somewhere.

Tomorrow the neighbor might wonder why he's found passed out on the hood of their Geo Prism.
Tomorrow Bax has some priorities to make peace with.

There are little things in life that become so rote you don't notice them. Clarissa was so used to straightening the umbrella stand in the hallway with her foot when she entered that the first few times it happened she didn't even think about. It was the same with the water glass left empty beside the sink. Rinse, put it to the side, keep making breakfast. The light being on in the bathroom in the morning was the first thing that started making her uneasy. With the green initiative in town and being someone that others might look up to she was quite sure part of her bedtime ritual was to make sure all lights in the house were out, the bathroom being the last.

But it wasn't until the third day when she pushed the umbrella rack into place and thought 'God dammit, Pierce ,' that it all clicked into place. How she always knew he'd been home before her because he never failed to somehow kick the umbrella stand out of place. How he'd leave his glass on the counter after taking his medication every morning. And how many times had they had an argument about that damn bathroom light since she couldn't sleep with it on.

For the next few days she was very careful about the placement of things to the point where she took pictures of the clear counter, the light off, and the umbrella stand in its place every time she left. She cancelled the cleaners and the help for the week. Gave them a paid week off as a holiday bonus. And anxiously approached the house every evening. Because those were the only explanations. That a cleaner had been thirsty and left a glass out or some of their equipment had moved that umbrella stand. Those were the only explanations that made sense. The bathroom light was harder to explain, since the electrician she had out said nothing was wrong with that one and he didn't understand why that made her more upset than if he had told her it was broken. She not only shut the light out that night, but she fell asleep staring at the empty, darkened doorway.

In the morning the light was on. She stood there in her nightgown and stared at it for longer than she should have.

Then she took a shower in the guest bathroom.

She walked down the stairs with dread and sure enough, the umbrella stand was out of place again. She could see from her place at the bottom of the stairs that in the kitchen a single glass sat on the counter.

As she stood there, gripping the railing with a white knuckled hand and trying desperately to rationalize her way out of this very unrational situation, she heard the door to the study click shut. That was more than enough to spur her into terrified action, running towards the door and pausing only long enough to haul it open with one hand while her other grabbed her jacket to sprint outside into the early morning, white as the proverbial ghost she left behind.

The world is a strange place. One moment you're travelling the country, selling your art at tourist hot spots. Moving with the weather and the seasons. The only home is your camper and the road. And then everything changes. One town changed everything. One little stop on her way south from Seattle to the warmer climates of California and Nevada. And Gray Harbor changed everything.

Home was now an actual place. Something she could begin to comprehend. As she sat on her bed, in her room, in a house shared with two pretty awesome people and some animals. She had a -pet- even! Something that she'd never really known. Oh sure, one or two foster places had a dog or a cat. But it wasn't hers. And Flerken, purring in a small cinnamon roll of cat in her lap, was definitely hers.

Kailey glanced from the photo of her mom at a bar with a bunch of other people to the calico kitten. With a small smile she reached down and gently scritched her belly with glittery purple nails. The usually fiesty beast just rolled onto her back and began to purr louder and so more belly rubs comenced. As her eyes drew back to the photo she wondered again why it seemed strange.

No one except her mother, with her short and curly blond hair and piercing green eyes, was familiar in the picture. Yet something about it was. The polaroid was dated 1997 and written in quick pen on the back: The Guys. "Do you happen to know why this picture's pestering me? Can you see?" She asked the cat in her lap, flipping it down to show the dozing feline. Flerken peered with slitted eyes and then yawned and rolled back into her cinnamon bun self. "You're no help," Kailey said with a smirk and then a sigh. The picture, along with a few others, were set aside.

"I like puzzles. Except when they're my own life," She continues to talk to the cat as she picks another picture from random from the photo box. Her mother had loved to take pictures. Or that's what Kailey remembered anyway. Always with a camera of some kind, her mom was. Colleen, her mom, even would hand her the disposable or polaroid on occasion to take pictures. They went everywhere and until now Kailey hadn't much thought about the locations. But after talking with Everett she had begun to suspect and wonder. The places they had gone and visited. The places they stayed at were always a little unusual. Haunted spots or places like the Oregon Myster Spot where physics just forgot how to function.

She stared at the next picture. It was also dated 1997. Stormy skies looked out over an boardwalk made of faded wooden slats that are constructed near a pebbled beach. It stretches out over the water and various booths and touristy places are on display. Of course 90s fads are in swing here. Colleen stands in front of a shop that Kailey knows all too well. The 50s style soda and ice cream shop not having changed it's exterior all that much over time.

"Oh my stars," Kailey says softly as she stares at the picture of her mom. Arm around a guy and his around her shoulders. They both have ice cream cones that they're giving the other a taste of. It's quite goofy and cute and sweet and all together has her flustered and flabberghasted. "That's Sweet Retreats," She drops the photo and it lands on the kitten. Who doesn't care. What she does care about is losing her bed as Kailey unfolds her legs and slides out of bed.

For a second she pulls out her phone intent on doing something, but pauses. Who is she going to call? Or text? No one knows anything about any of the photos. With a sound of frustration she instead pulls up her music. And starts it playing. Dark alternative rock begins to beat from the phones small speakers as she sets it on her desk. Turning back to stare at her bed with it's light covering of photos and a couple of boxes. Slowly she walks back and picks up the photo before grabbing her jacket and her keys.

Out the door she goes. Into her van and with a single-mindedness finds herself driving to Sweet Retreats. The music continues to stream from her phone and with it feelings and memories. Kailey grinds her teeth without realizing it and while isn't quite speeding, she's certainly going 5 miles over with everyone else. She can't quite get there fast enough because she has to make sure she isn't seeing things.

But she is seeing things. The van parked she jogs, despite the heavy burden of her belly, up the stairs and onto the boardwalk where the ice cream shop waits. It's sunset, like in the photo, but the skies are clear and painted in red, yellow, and purpling towards night. But still there they are. Two people sitting on the bench near the front of Sweet Retreat. Kailey looks at the picture, then back up. Mint chocolate chip for her mom and rocky road for the man. They were still twenty feet away, that couple. She could be wrong.

But the shimmered in a way people didn't. In a way that specter she'd seen at the Open Mic had. Kailey found herself walking towards the couple eating their ice cream and watching the sunset. "I'm gonna get out of here. I can't stand it at home. They don't understand," Colleen was saying as she kept her ice cream from running. Kailey stared and found herself rooted to the spot.

It was the unknown man who spoke to her. Made her jump. "Miss, you all right? You look like you saw a ghost?" He said in a warm, concerned voice. And he was looking right at her. Kailey looked over her shoulder, but no. It was her he was talking too. And now the specter of her mom was staring at her too. "You look familiar..."

"NOPE!" And Kailey turned and ran back to her van. Where she quietly began to sob. Her phone began to play the sad chords of Mad World.

"This. Town. This. Fucking. TOWN!" She ignored the tourist who eyed her screaming quietly in her van. And they, in turn, simply moved on. This town indeed.

It was a holiday in Gray Harbor, the anniversary! Exciting activities all over town depending on where you went. Lyric had only been to the library, work and home. Except the open mic night. Harry had performed for the group. Harry the ghost, a man who had been killed in the 80s right here in Gray Harbor.

The ghosts were plentiful in this town. All the ghosts except one she wanted to come back and talk to her. One she hadn't seen since the night she was killed in the trailer she'd lived in till that very night. Her mother.

Here she was at the cemetery making her usual weekly visit. There was a trio of graves she'd visit, loyally, every week. First, her mother. Kneeling beside the grave, she places the flowers in the heavy stone vase built onto the headstone. Fresh yellow roses. Hoping, waiting, nothing happens though. Like she had expected. She still talks to her mom about the past, the same memories she brought up all the time. Mostly it involves music and laughter from one of the rare happy occasions she'd shared with her mother before she'd been killed when Lyric was six. With a promise to visit next week she meanders along to her second stop.

Once again she kneels beside the grave of the child she'd tried to save from the icy lake. Again there's no visit from the ghost of her, but she hadn't really expected there to be. This one she leaves daisies on, cheerful and happy, the very image of innocence. The same apology is given too, to the silent heavens, for her inability to rescue her from the lake. Swiping away a tear, she gets to her feet and looks off towards the third grave she will visit.

"I'm coming, Brandon." Soft spoken words of reassurance as she gets to her feet and walks over to where the other child is. Only, before she can get to the grave she hears the familiar childish giggling and the figure peeks out from behind a tree only to come towards her in his Superman costume. "Oh I'm so happy to see you again," she sits on the grass, letting the kiddo take the lead. "Guess what?" Smiling at him, "I brought you a candy for your bucket." Reaching into her bag she offers him a whole Snickers.

Brandon leans down to hug her and she hugs him back, tousling his hair once he moves to sit in front of her. "Thank you," he says and holds out the bucket for her. Once it's dropped in, he puts the bucket beside himself.

"It's finally getting warmer out, I can stay a little longer today. " Lyric reassures.

Brandon motions to the other graves she had visited and tells her, "They don't come out to play, but there are other kids who do. Wanna come play with us? There's lotsa us."

"You want me to come play? I'll come play." Leaving her bag there by his grave for now, she gets to her feet. "What are we playing?"

Brandon smiles with pure, innocent mischief as he collects his bucket and stands. "Hide and seek! You're it!" The announcement made before he runs off, giggling, disappearing among the headstones.

Smiling, Lyric starts counting. "Ten, nine, eight, seven," her voice is loud enough to carry and there is a lot of giggling coming from the trees and deeper in the cemetery. "Six, five, four, three, two.. one! Ready or not! Here I come!" She goes off towards the trees, laughing too.

It was playtime in the cemetery, Happy Anniversary, Gray Harbor.

Rhys leaned back in the chair, kicked his feet up on the desk just because he could, and looked around the office. His now. Okay, only because Felix had moved on to the casino and Joey preferred sticking with his own turf, but all the same. Progress. Perfect is the enemy of the good, right? Right.

And this was pretty good. Better in every respect than his little office downstairs, for sure. Bigger, plusher, better appointed. Aaaaand: the window. If there was one thing he'd coveted in this office -- well, one tangible thing -- that was it. He swung his feet back down to the floor and stood, moving to stand just behind the one-way glass and look out over the club below. Granted, it was a lot less impressive to look at during set-up, but still: he could see everything going on down there. Cleaning staff mopping the floors, a runner moving trays of cleaned glasses back from the dishwasher to the bars, two of the bartenders-- gossiping? His eyes narrowed a little, watching. He wasn't the sort of manager that didn't appreciate the importance of morale and general camaraderie, but the work still has to get done. And something about their expressions...

"I swear," he'd overheard one of the bouncers saying quietly, with the same kind of expression, to another the day before, both men he knew had done other work for Felix. "It was Collins. Walked right through the employee lounge clear as can be. Walked right through the wall. Hole right through his chest." But everyone knew what Collins had looked like when his parts turned up in that dumpster... however they thought they'd gotten there. He sighed. Was he actually going to have to have a chat with people about telling ghost stories?

Behind him, there was a quiet rustle.

He turned on it sharply, hand already beginning to move. No one should be up here unannounced.

No one was.

Huh.

The small pile of papers on the desk had slid out of true, slithering a few spread inches; that would make the sound. Okay. So there's a draft in here he's going to have to find.

He tapped them back into place and returned his attention to the window. The bartenders had split up and were going about their bar-preparing business. Good. Easier to leave things in the hands of assistant managers while he's focusing on the casino when he knows the club's taking care of itself.

Idly, he wondered how many ghosts would be wandering this place if they actually existed. How many people'd gotten themselves in enough trouble to see that tiled room in the basement last of all, over the years?

Behind him, there was a tink and another rustle. A glance showed the pencil holder'd fallen over, pens and pencils sliding out onto the desk.

...okay, so there's a major draft in here he's going to have to find.

Or.

He studied the room, hands on hips. "I don't believe in ghosts," he told the empty air, "so if you are one, you're going to have to do a lot better than that."

All was silence for a good five seconds.

"Yeah. Didn't think so."

Sliding back into the chair, he reached across the desk and righted the pens, then woke the computer back up. After all, these books weren't gonna balance themselves.

A hospital morgue had a very particular sort of smell. Alexander liked it. Which was probably one more among a whole host of things that made him just a little bit off from true. But he still took a moment to breathe in, before opening the door. He'd come looking for Yule, but could tell immediately - and without even reaching out - that the medical examiner wasn't here, right now. The room just had that empty stillness of a place without people.

Without living people, anyway. The steel beds were empty, the lights above them dim. The whole room was dim, with most of the lights turned off. Just enough left to keep people from crashing into things. Cost-saving measure, he supposed. He'd say that it gave the morgue a spooky air, if asked - but why would anyone ask? Morgues were always a little bit spooky. Here, the dead gave up the last secrets they were ever going to, speaking in blood, tissue, and bone.

He should go. He'd deflected interest in his presence on the way down, but he didn't want to just keep pushing on people's minds. Not with the consequences. But instead of leaving, Alexander found himself walking further in, going to one particular table. He laid his hand down on the cold metal, closed his eyes. "Sorry," he said, quietly.

When the other hand covered his own, he had to joke back a scream. His eyes flew open and he staggered back, flailing by instinct at-- at--

Nothing.

There was nothing there. And then there was, just the faintest outline of a person. White coat. Red hair. Dark eyes that smiled sympathetically at him. Sometimes I forget, he heard, although there was no sound to hear. Penny turned away as he tried to catch his breath, working on something at the table. An autopsy, perhaps, although whatever corpse she saw wasn't far enough on this side of real for him to see it with her. "Penelope?"

His voice was harsh, hoarse in the silence. She didn't answer, but one hand lifted, beckoned, invited him to stand beside her. So, with careful steps, he did. She didn't acknowledge him again, but he watched her head bend, and her hands work in an invisible dance - lifting, cutting, measuring, parting. He imagined he could hear her voice, professional one moment, teasing him gently in the next.

But it was silent. Of course.

So he just watched.

You're a dead ringer for your Great Great Uncle Gavin, the family has always told Tor. He didn't see it at first, but as he's gotten older and baby fat gives way to more angular features, he's started seeing it in the line of his jaw. The pictures were old and faded, but yes, he could see what they meant.

Normally, being told you resemble a long-dead relative would be a bit spooky, kinda cool, but otherwise no big deal.

But this is Gray Harbor, and Uncle Gavin died by hanging.

The circumstances surrounding the man's death weren't spoken of in detail, but when you come from a family with crime roots as deep as his, it doesn't take a vivid imagination to put the pieces together. And he's recently learned his family has Baxter blood.

Tor stirred from his sleep by a creaking sound, like wind pushing an old chair. But the trailer was made of metal, with nothing that would create that very particular sound of something moving wood. He rolled over, willing himself to stay in sleep, but the noise persisted. He opened his eyes and caught a shadow of a figure cast on the wall. Tor turned, opened his eyes and swallowed a scream that threatened to erupt from the pit of his stomach.

Hanging from the ceiling, suspended by some unseen force, was his doppelganger, right down to the beaten up leather vest and shaggy hair. The figure's eyes were dead, his skin pale, fingertips blue and fingernails caked in mud and blood.

He pinched his eyes closed and tried to steady laboured breathing and fluttered heartbeat. The creaking persisted a moment longer, then stops with a rush of wind. No trace remained, except the image that Tor would never be able to banish from his head.

Business past picking up and marched into growing busy. Returning to his usual throne, Everett sat at the far table, his chair facing the door. The paper, the real paper, the one made from actual trees, because there was no substitute for the tactile sensation or the smell of the ink and fiber under his thick fingers.

There's a trick to it. Folding the paper so it looks like you're reading the business section while you're actually reading Garfield. Having to hold the paper edge up with one hand while the other turns the edge. Even though he'd done it before, mostly due to Ian's teasing, it still required the whole of his attention to pulling off, and then the Candy Hulk lifts his gaze over the edge of the daily, just to make sure nobody noticed (or cared to notice) his deception.

With his subterfuge passed off, Everett returned to find out what the Wizard of Id was up to when the bell over the door didn't ring. He knew it didn't because he usually shoots a glance at the door when that happens and he knew of everyone in the store right now. Not one of them had any right sounding like his father.

"Get off your ass and get me a beer, coward."

Before he lowered the paper and lifted up his green gaze, he knew what he was going to find. If ever a man looked like he wanted a fight, any fight, that was Reed Woods. Built like a brick wall, his blonde handlebar mustache began to show signs of age along with the temples of his close haircut. Scowling down at the seated, stunned Candy Hulk, the elder Wood lunged a feint, pulling back his right fist as though he was going to punch the seated man.

The action caused Everett to fall back, wanting to avoid another lesson. The chair tipped past the balancing point, his feet struck the table, knocking over his coffee cup and causing a spill while he fell back. The paper, his paper, flew out of his hand, separated in the air as the pieces fluttered back down, cartoons covering his face as he landed with a solid thud.

"Uh!" The air knocked out of his lungs, he heard a fading sardonic laugh before he recovered from being stunned, and crumbled the paper off his face, looking around frantically.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but a crowd and employees staring at him with mixed emotions. He felt his cheeks burn while he rolled slowly to his feet then picked up his chair. There was a show, inspecting the chair, an attempt to save a blushing face while stealing a look at the people in the store. He wasn't there, and the laughter at his expense now was more Earthly.

Eleanor has been spending more time at August's cabin, so he doesn't have to spend as much time in the city. She's slowly begun to feel less tense there, and less paranoid overall about things like the woods, and mirrors. He no longer has to cover up the one in the bathroom for her, or all the windows, at least not during the daylight hours. It's a dimly lit day though, and she's off. August went in to work, so she's by herself there, and has spent a while tending to the animals, something she finds very zen and peaceful. Animals do not judge, and their acceptance is based on something deeper than what you wear or how you style your hair. It's refreshing.

Ellie comes in from the drizzle and shrugs out of her slicker, but her hair is soaked. She heads into the bathroom to get a towel to dry off and catches her reflection in the mirror. Only, she's not alone there. Every fluid in her body turns to ice. She freezes where she stands, and a puff of mist escapes her lips, her breath chilled from the sudden drop in temperature that she suddenly knows is not just fear, but physical.

Adelaide Lewis stands beside and just behind her in her reflection. She hasn't aged a day since the last time Eleanor saw her, a few months before she died. She still looks withered from the cancer that ate away at her, a thirteen-year-old girl who would never go to high school, or college, or have a family. But there is a significant difference. Her eyes. Her eyes are cold and black as night, instead of the bright blue they had once been, a compliment to the golden corona of curls she'd been blessed with in life.

"Addie?" she whispers, hoarsely.

"He won't let me go," the girl hiss-whispers back at her, her brow furrowed in anger. "Not until you help him. We wouldn't help him, and now I'm trapped here. I want to go to the light. I need to go to the light, Ellie. Help him, so he'll let me go."

It's a brief moment, so brief, but the bathroom light flickers off for a moment, and then back on, and the vision is gone. The watery feeling in her bowels and the sudden weakness in Eleanor's knees is still there though, and she turns away from the mirror, sliding down to the floor with her back to the sink, shivering. She won't leave that spot for another hour, afraid to move somewhere she may see another reflective surface, where she may see the ghost of her dead childhood friend again.

It's late, or early, by some regard. Finch wakes up from a strange dream. Dream with a little "d". Ignacio is sleeping soundly beside her, and she doesn't want to wake him. He's been working so hard on his physical therapy, and staying off the opioids during it, she just can't bear to disturb him in a moment of peace.

She slides out of the bed and into her fuzzy slippers, sending out a thought to calm Miss Mags who is curled up above Iggy's head on his pillow, the little rat practically nesting in his hair. A little pink, bewhiskered nose twitches in the air to make sure she's ok, then settles back into De Santos' dark locks to sleep once more.

She's in a Cornell tee, three sizes too big, that is her nightshirt, and a pair of shorts beneath. It's Gray Harbor, she's lived here all her life, she knows better than to sleep naked in case she gets yanked into a capital "D" Dream. She shuffles out into the hall, intending to go downstairs and have a late night snack, just to shake off the heebie jeebies from the bad dream. She gets to the stop of the stairs, when a sound stops her.

It's a sibilant whisper, a female voice, echoing from somewhere behind the doors that close off the damaged part of the house. She hesitates, pondering waking Iggy. But no, he needs his rest. She moves to the doors, unlocking them with a flick of her fingers. She can do that now, sense the matter around her, and manipulate it. Not as strong as Itzhak, but plenty enough to turn the tumblers in a very old, very simple lock. It costs her, she feels the trickle of blood seeping from her nose, and pinches it shut with her fingers to make it stop.

The door opens under her other hand the old-fashioned way, as she moves into the hall beyond. Her senses are trifold in the Glimmer sense now. Unlike her father, who only has the Reader art, or her mother, who only has the Mover one, she also has her Great Aunt's Shaper sense at a frightening level. It's why she has very little fear of whatever she might discover. She is easily the most dangerous thing in this house.

It's cold and damp beyond the doors, the holes in the roof and walls in this part of Mallard House made trying to heat or power it useless, so it's been left to nature's whims. Some rooms are slowly being repaired, mundanely, which she finds frustrating. She could do it much easier with the Art, but then it might draw Their attention. Herself? She doesn't care, but if it calls them to the house, it brings the danger to Dove as well, and she can't abide that. Her grandmother has been through enough.

Old leaves swirl in eddies of dust as she passes down the hall, following the siren song of the whisper. The closer she gets, the more she realizes it's not a whisper at all, but a full on shout of rage, dimmed and muffled by something. Distance? Maybe. Time? Yes, time. Because standing at the other end of the hall is a translucent figure, looking like a woman in her mid-thirties, but one who wears the fashions of the 1920s. Her short-cropped hair is in pin curls with a feathered headband, and she's wearing what was likely a magnificently brilliant flapper dress, but all the colors are faded, from clothing to skin to eyes.

Finch pauses, because the figure is familiar. She's seen portraits in the hallways, photos in scrapbooks, flashes of a memory here and there when touching objects in the house before she had better control of her Reader ability. It's Piper Celaeno – Her great, great, great aunt. The murderbird prior to Great Aunt Starling.

"Maaaallard! Here brother brother brother!" she calls out. The police reports said she'd slaughtered the males of her generation with a kitchen knife, but she isn't holding one. No, on closer inspection, she's holding ten. Well not knives, her fingers. Her fingers have turned into taloned claws and in a moment of understanding, Finch realizes the fringe on her dress isn't fringe at all. They're feathers, sweeping down her arms back and legs to her knees. Her legs are not human any longer either, they are a bird of prey's, with a digitigrade backward-bending knee, and three long clawed toes in front, one behind. Her dark hair doesn't have a feathered headband adorning it, there are feathers growing out of her dark hair. She has turned into the Harpy herself. Celaeno is riding Piper.

"That's why they never found the knife," she whispers to herself, as she watches her ancestor stalk down the hall, head whipping around in birdlike motions, sudden and sharp, looking for any sign of her elder brother, who built the house that bears his name. Claws rake down the walls, tearing the wallpaper, marks Finch had figured were just from animals and the passage of time. No, they were made by Piper, the night she fell to the curse.

She watches it play out, the hunt for Mallard room by room. Finch knows she will find him in the last, the room her mother once occupied. She doesn't follow, grits her teeth and covers her own ears at the screaming cries of both the victim and the Harpy. She shudders, her skin tightening with every passing moment, feeling like it might rip apart and birth those feathers on her own body. There is a pair of gunshots, then the screaming stops suddenly, and there is only a gurgle as Piper emerges from Wren's room, feathers and claws covered in blood. She's retrieved Mallard's gun after killing him. He shot at her, but missed both times.

She stands in the hall, and the feathers begin to fall off her, one by one, drifting to the floor, then riding out on unseen winds. The scaly texture of bird-skin sloughs off her legs, which crack loudly as the knees bend forward again, a sickening sound as the bird feet painfully merge into human ones. She is in a simple nightdress and she looks at Finch as if waking up from a dream. Then down at herself and all the blood. She glances back into Wren's room and makes a strangled sound in her throat.

Finch turns away when Piper begins raising the gun towards herself, and she flinches at the ghostly gun shot, heard as if through a long tunnel. When she turns back, the hallway is just the decrepit one she remembers, empty and silent. But the images are burned in her mind. This is the fate that awaits her if she doesn't end the curse somehow. She lets the nosebleed resume, because she needs her hand to find the way back to the bathroom with her eyes blurred with tears.

Rebecca sits in her bed, lights out, but her laptop on, as she works on some details of an advertisement in the local paper for Patisserie Vydal. She's been working a lot lately, and she knows she's been neglecting other bits of her life. Itzhak has moved in with De la Vega, though, and he seems truly happy, so she's not too worried about him.

"You don't need to worry about him. He's happy. He doesn't need you for that," comes a voice nearby. The voice is familiar, a female one, not too different from her own, but younger, fuller, and sounding as if coming from a room or two away, while being right beside her ear at the same time.

Rebecca looks sharply to her left and there she is. The translucent form of her little sister, Kelly, who died at the hands of William Gohl's spirit, two floors below her in this same building. She's changed her apartment location, but clearly hasn't broken any ghostly bonds it may have to the murder of her sibling.

Kelly looks like she did in life, except for the gaping wound at her throat. It isn't bleeding at least, and in her ghostly state, there is no color. She sits on the edge of the bed, giving her sister a warm smile.

"Kelly-bear?" Rebecca whispers, tears leaping into her eyes.

The ghost nods and tilts her head a little to regard her sister. "Only here for a little bit. Something about the anniversary of the town, makes things really thin here tonight. But I want you to know I'm all right. Heaven is a lovely place, and none of this was your fault. I also know about you wanting a baby. I think you should do it. I think it might heal something in you, bring you and our parents back together. And I think you'd be an amazing mom." Kelly's smile is sweet and kind, just like she remembers.

"Itzhak said no. So he won't be the father," Rebecca rasps out a little. She wasn't hurt by it, not in the traditional sense, but she was disappointed.

"That isn't a reason not to. You don't need him for it. You have money, and technology and doctors can handle the rest, Becca. I've never known you to want something this bad. It won't be a mistake." The sincerity in Kelly's voice seems to cement something in Rebecca.

"Ok, then I'll do it. But not here. It's not safe here," she says quietly.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's the understatement of the century, sis," Kelly says with a laugh. "Go home, it's not as strong there. It'll be safer. He'll forgive you for leaving, so will your boss. It's not forever, just until you're ready to come back."

And in a blink, Kelly's ghost is gone, and Rebecca is alone in her room again. Instead of going back to her work, she opens up a home finder program, and begins to look for places to rent near her brother in Thousand Oaks, California. It's not forever, just a rental, she'll be back some day. But the decision is made.

Victoria Grey is new to town. She's only been here about a month, and she's already seen some pretty crazy shit. But this is where Felix needs her, so this is where she is. And where right now happens to be near St. Mary's Church. She had hit the Safeway for some cigarettes and whiskey, and decided to take a walk. The Hanging Bridge is where she's landed, smoking a Marlboro and watching the waters of Gray Pond with a frown. The mutant bear thing was bad. The ghost in the bar was odd. Javier De la Vega being in town and a goddamned police captain is ominous at best.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sounds of shouting coming from a church on the other side of the bridge. She straightens from where she'd been slouched on the rail and squints into the darkness. The voice is raised in anger, and it is...preaching?

"The Lord trieth the righteous: but the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth! Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and an horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup!" The man's voice is compelling, charismatic, and his words are clearly biblical. Psalm 11.

Vic traverses the remainder of the bridge and heads towards the church, where a translucent figure in the garb of a late 19th century preacher stands, bible in hand, shouting his messages out to...no one. Well no one but her. He doesn't seem to see her though, so he must be seeing an audience she cannot.

The preacher continues, plagiarizing men of the past and the good book as he goes, bringing out every phrase that can condemn man to hell for their wicked ways. "There is nothing that keeps wicked men at any one moment out of hell, but the mere pleasure of God! Know ye this is true, yet the people of Gray Harbor traffic with the devil for unclean powers! You shall all be spitted over the fires of the pit, and devils will torment you for all eternity!"

Vic snorts, continuing to smoke her cigarette, and watching the ghostly play continue. If she once believed in God, the horrors man inflicts upon his own have swept it away from her.

"Revelations tells us: But for the cowardly and unbelieving and abominable and murderers and immoral persons and sorcerers and idolaters and all liars, their part will be in the lake that burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death." The man's eyes are ablaze with belief, the most frightening thing in the universe as far as Vic is concerned.

Belief is what made her become a cop. It's also what made men and women join the Sinaloa cartel. It's what made Carlos Vargas so good at the arts of torture. He believed his was serving a higher power, one linked to his heritage and his boss. It's what left her with a nightmare on her back, and her life in the choke hold of Felix Monaghan.

"Fuck you buddy. Hell is right here on Earth," she mutters under her breath. "We're living it every day." She turns and walks back across the bridge and heads for her truck. Fuck ghosts. Fuck this town. That whiskey is getting consumed tonight.

Living near the water was something Erin loved about her home and now with the weather getting warmer she was out visiting her rock more often than not on her time off. Today though, she was at the cemetery, leaving flowers for her parents, her uncle and aunts, various cousins. The whole Addington area, mostly.

It hadn't even occurred to her that it was the town anniversary. Not really. She'd known but it had slipped her mind. There were still so many unanswered questions she had about the death of her uncle and everything that had happened that night and since. Including the funeral.

As if thinking about him brought him to be, Erin notices movement down by one of the headstones and glances that way only to do a double take as she realizes it was her Uncle Thomas! Wait, no one was there at all. Just the sound of the wind through the trees. Lifting a hand, she runs it over her eyes and looks again.

Still nothing.

God. Would she always be haunted by him? And the part she had played in his death?

Suddenly the Church grounds had become spooky and creepy and even threatening and she straightens to go back to her car. She knew she'd find him at night in her dreams though. He was never far away. Nor was the guilt she felt for his death.

"It's just the lunch rush, it'll be gone by 1:30." Faith reassures the new cook who seemed a little harried by the sheer amount of orders in at the Firehouse. Both for here and to-go orders. "Just take it one at a time and we'll get through it."

The new cook does take the advice and starts working through the tickets one at a time, finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel as the orders are expedited by another cook.

Faith notices movement over by the pole, like someone had slid down it. Someone wearing one of the old style fire helmets. "Sarah, do you see that?" A nudge to the other cook while the fireman holds a finger to his lips in a shhh motion. The new cook looks up from her working and glances around before shaking her head. "See what?"

"Nothing," Faith says, looking towards the pole again. No one was there. But she had caught his badge number. Looked like it was time to do a little investigating of her own!

Later. After the lunch rush was over.

There was always talk of ghosts. Especially by the drunks after closing time as they huddle beneath the boardwalk. Rarely were the police called for someone seeing the dumping of a body in the harbor.

Still, here was Dani, taking the report. True, she was only a patrol officer, but she knew how to take statements. "So, he dumped a body into the harbor?" The question had to be asked.

The slurred response in the affirmative was jotted down but the officer looks up with a brow raised when it was pointed out there there was more than one body. "We'll check it out, Paul. Yes, thank you for giving us a call." Not wanting to encourage him but not wanting to discourage him from reporting real crimes either.

It was a fine line to walk.

Once the statement was taken, Dani walks down to the shore and pulls out her phone and takes pictures of the sand and the water. There were definitely footprints in the sand but there were no floating bodies.

This time. Thank God.

There are many sounds one would prefer not to hear in one's kitchen. Explosions, certainly. Large unexpected splashes and clatters. The sharp fzzzt! of something electric and expensive becoming less electric and more expensive. Also, shrieks.

Vyv was already having a bad day before three out of four of the above happened near-simultaneously behind him. No explosion, at least, though when he whirled to see what was going on, there was enough custard everywhere to make it look as though there'd been one of those as well. David the kitchen assistant was standing quite still, one of the ramekins he'd dropped still wobbling where it hit his boot, and his complexion was as pale as--

--well, as the figure he was staring at. It was translucent, black hair whipping around its head as though buffeted by wind, the dark colour scheme repeated in hollowed eyes, thick blood streaming from them and out of his mouth, and a Nine Inch Nails t-shirt.

Vyv stared at it for a beat, then pointed toward the back door. "Out."

David stared at the chef, an odd touch of hope in the expression; over by the chocolate tempering stone Sofia did as well, though her expression was more worried. "Chef, I'm sure David didn't mean to--" she risked, while pans hanging above began to shake and clatter together.

"Out!" Vyv repeated, the pans suddenly going quiescent again as he grabbed them with his mind, pointing more vehemently toward the door. He glared at the apparition, which glared back. Measuring cups began to lift from the counter and stopped short. A pan on the stove started to tip and tipped right back.

"Pfft. You're no fun. What's even the point of being a ghost if you're gonna be like that?" Sulking looked very little more threatening on a ghost teenager than a live one, blood notwithstanding.

"Not in my kitchen, no. Out. Find somewhere else to haunt." The patissier paused a moment. "Boardwalk's busy this time of year. Maybe check out Sweet Retreat."

"Oh, man, I remember that place!" the ghost said, quite literally brightening, then starting to fade away as he drifted toward the door. "Bet I can make some kid wet his pants..."

Vyv and David both stared at the spot he'd disappeared for a moment. Sofia stared at them. "...what just happened?" she asked, already beginning to doubt her memory of what she'd heard.

"One of the refrigerators shorted and David continues to aspire to represent his country in the 50 meter butterfingers," Vyv replied crisply, looking to the latter and adding, "Clean that up. Everyone back to work. I have an electrician to call."

"Yes, Chef," they chorused, the first of many sounds Vyv did prefer to hear in his kitchen.

August finds the toy when he's out hunting turkey. Spring season ends with the close of the month, and he's been doing pretty well. No birds yet that day, but that's alright. He can use the time to walk in the forest, something he's been needing a lot more of thanks to Them and Their playgrounds.

He's moving along an older trail, one that probably lead out towards old homesteads in the 1800s. Loggers, mostly, who'd carved out their lives among the trees they were cutting down at the Addington Sawmill. Most of the cabins are long gone, though one or two remain, preserved as historical sites. The majority were abandoned and slowly succumbed to nature, leaving nothing but the occasional chimney ruins or pile of logs placed at curiously square angles.

His foot lands on something too soft to be a rock, too bumpy and firm to be a plant. He stops, lifting his boot, and sees a small, dusty shape of dark brown fur. He expects it to be a dead animal, and nudges it to test this theory.

He's right, after a fashion. It's a stuffed toy, made from real animal fur. He picks it up, dusts it off. Carefully; this is an old toy, if stitching in the little felt collar at its neck and the hard stuffing within are any indication. He turns it over in his hands, inspecting it. An otter, it looks like, so otter or muskrat fur. That dates the toy considerably, as there hasn't been a fur trade in the Pacific northwest for ages.

He considers it for a time, feeling the soft, thick fur under his fingers. There's a collar on it, a simple band of felt hand-stitched with what was probably once a name. Now only two capital letters remain, the rest having come unraveled: M W .

Maybe Ellie will have some ideas, or one of them can try reading it. He puts it in his jacket pocket, carefully tucking it into place, and continues on down the trail. In a couple of hours he's all but forgotten about the toy, and is back to appreciating the walk, since the turkeys are having none of his bullshit today. Until he hears someone sobbing.

It's not normal sobbing. There's a strange, hollow quality to it, like it's at the end of a long tunnel, or the person is down in a well and August is on the ledge looking in. Neither of these is possible, though, not where he is. It puts him on edge immediately; he's got zero time for Veil nonsense. He pulls his shotgun around, flips off the safety, and moves towards the sound. Weak as his faded Glimmer is, he thinks he can get a psychic shout to Eleanor if things go back.

He turns a corner in the path, shotgun ready with the muzzle pointed at the ground...and stops.

It's a little girl, except, not. There's an eerie, spectral quality to her that matches her strange hollow sobbing. She's in something like a day dress, with black boots meant for use in the winter when it's cold. She has a strong jaw and a square face, the kind that looks awkward on a child but would have made her a handsome woman. Her thick black hair is carefully braided, and she's clutching a tool large coat around herself. An older sibling's.

But what stands out the most is the quality of her clothes. Those aren't machine-made leather shoes. They're handcrafted. The jacket is a shearling coat, an actual one, not one of the faux 'sherpa' sorts, bearing similar irregularities to suggest it was made by hand. The dress is a simple floral pattern with hand-stitched lace.

How long ago had she died out here? A hundred years? More?

She glances up, sees him, and says, "Have you seen Mr. Wilkins? I lost him when we went on our walk." She sniffs, tries to wipe her eyes dry. It's very much a behavior of 'an adult is here now, I need to act responsible'.

August shoulders the shotgun. M W, he thinks. "Yeah, actually." He's struck with an urge to say things like, 'honey did you come out here alone to look for him' and doesn't. There are no parents to return her to, no home waiting for her.

Her eyes widen and she climbs to her feet. "Y-you have?"

He nods, pulls the raggedy old thing out of his jacket pocket. Her face transforms into a smile of relief.

"Mr. Wilkins!" She runs over and August offers up the otter, which she grabs from his hands and pulls into a tight embrace. August flinches, feeling a jolt go through him, like an electric surge. His heart hammers in his chest, his head pounds.

The little girl is oblivious. "I thought I'd lost you! I'm so sorry, I won't ever be that careless again." She sniffs, her tears of a very different sort now.

She stays like that a while, hugging the stuffed otter. Eventually, August can't help himself. "Honey, did you come out here all alone to find him?"

She looks up at him, wincing, which is its own answer. August sighs, and she grows defensive. "I took George's jacket and wore my strong shoes and I know all these trails."

August can fill in the rest. She knew them, in the daylight. But she stayed out too long, and it became dark. She got lost. Her family never found her, but something did. Exposure? A Veil creature? A mundane one? What did it matter.

He sighs. "I'm sure you do. Better than me." He looks around, trying to think of any cabin ruins nearby. "How about I walk you home. Make sure you get back okay."

"Okay," the little girl agrees, looking morose. A lecture is coming. She knows it. But she hugs the otter again, and that seems to dispel her concerns. She has Mr. Wilkins back. The world is right once more.

She sets out on the trail, and August follows. It's a lovely day for a walk (as it had been for a hunt), and they talk along the way. Her name is Zoe, and her father is a logger (of course). August tells her his middle name, hedging his bets ('Josephus?' 'It's Roman.' 'You're from Rome?' '...no. My mom's people are.' '...oh.'); she tells him about her older brother, who's going to be a soldier, and her little sister, who is a terrible brat.

They get about a mile or so before Zoe announces, "It's right up here!" and runs on ahead. August picks up the pace, but not quick enough. She rounds a bend, he follows--and she's gone.

It's not a clearing, really, just a bear patch if dirt in the forest. He squints, though, and thinks he sees the impression of a square shape, a black and reddish spot where bricks would have formed the hearth. There's a few game trails leading out from it which might have once been walking paths for people who lived here.

He waits, still, for a time. Then, "Zoe?"

Silence is the only answer. He nods, sighs. "Take care of her, Wilkins, you raggedy bastard," he murmurs. A jay scolds him from the top of a fir. He makes a face at it, mutters, "No one asked you."

He turns and heads back down the trail to his car.

It wasn't that Aidan wasn't used to having a ghost around. He couldn't even remember a time he didn't have his (it didn't like being called 'his', but it was a dick and he didn't much care what it liked at this point) hanging around, making nasty comments at him and sometimes moving stuff around. Like he needed any more voices other people couldn't hear being assholes at him.

So that part wasn't weird. The weird part was that this was a totally different ghost, and by the way a few of the audience were staring past him to where it was leaning in to see what was inside his hat, he wasn't the only one who could see it.

Also it-- she looked about 10.

This was definitely not part of the act. Crap.

The little ghost girl tilted her head. "Where do you keep the rabbit, mister?" she asked, reaching for the hat. It lifted, tilted, before Aidan grabbed the brim and eased it back down onto his little table. There was a gasp or two as the hat rose, and a light smattering of applause when he got it down again. Aidan considered quickly what this must look like if most of them couldn't see her. All he needed was another ghost moving his stuff around--

...well, actually...

"Um, the rabbit's got the day off to go to a baby shower," he improvised, "You wouldn't believe how often she puts in for that." It got a couple giggles, even if it also got some concerned looks. That didn't follow on from the previous patter. And was he talking to thin air? "What's your name?"

She gave him a skeptical look regarding the rabbit, but answered, "Emily."

"Hi, Emily, I'm the Amazing Aidan. Want to be my assistant today?"

She squealed, bouncing on her toes. "Yes! Can I wear sparkles?"

"If you brought some." That one was going to sound weird to most of them, wasn't it. He moved on quickly. "I'm going to give you paper, a pencil, and an envelope, and I want you to pick someone from the audience, and give it to them. And by the mystical powers vested in me, I will read... their mind." The practiced stuff was better. But most of the audience were too busy watching the stationery seemingly floating over to one of the men in the front row to notice if it wasn't his best stuff. "Ladies and gentlemen and small yappy dogs: the lovely Emily!"

The great thing was, it didn't get old. The people who couldn't see her were straight-up astounded by the 'invisible assistant'. The people who could at least seemed the normal amount of impressed by the glimmerless 'mind-reading' and sleight-of-hand tricks. When the hat 'floated' its way around the audience, it came back with about twice what the morning's take had been.

How do you buy a ghost an ice cream? He was pretty sure she deserved a double scoop.

Lilith is running. She decided out of the blue in the afternoon that she needed to. Granted, it's not quite the downtime she wants, Lilith actually just wants coffee or a nap. She'd been at work since seven in the morning, so come two o'clock, she's starting to fade pretty hard with the afternoon slumps and still has a few hours left to go. Winter made her lazy, she barely got up to run or swim or do anything in the gym, despite Byron keeping to task like he does. And the way they live, sometimes running fast for your life is important. Also, she wants to be able to keep up with the man when she starts cracking down on herself. It's a matter of principle.

It's actually clear and a lovely spring day, at least during a break in the drizzle and clouds. Usually, when she runs and leaves the Bayside apartments, she uses a beach path or runs the main thoroughfare of Bayside Road before cutting into a loop. Today, she takes a running path she hasn't taken in a long, long time for reasons outside strategics of her starting point on Elm. Therefore, she ends up at the Hanging (Stone) Bridge. Suddenly, it's not such a lovely day afterall.

Her breath and adrenaline drops once she arrives on the stones and she can't help but slow to a walk down an awful memory lane. She remembers flaying Alexander open to the bone and the way his blood was hot on her body when he collapsed atop her, right before she passed out. She remembers Byron shooting at her and almost falling, she remembers snapping the bones in his wrist with retaliation. Lilith remembers the horrible skewed break she made in Magnolia's leg after trying to set her on fire. She had been possessed and more than anything, they were trying to put her down so she couldn't jump and hang from the noose around her own neck. All that commotion over a ring.

But she doesn't necessarily feel bad over that, no. She feels bad because the curse went into her blood. Lilith's actions made her responsible for her father's hanging at this bridge the summer before. He jumped, compelled by that possession and curse, she still hears the snap of his neck. And no, he WAS NOT a good father, or even a great person most days, but it doesn't matter. If she hadn't touched what she touched, if she had done something before it all got bad...

Lilith looks down off of the edge of the bridge and stops entirely. She knows it's a mistake, she hears the ropes creaking. She sees Jack Michael Jr. and Jack Michael Sr. hanging there at sway, eyes open, necks at broken angles of violence. She also sees Hank Winslow hanging over the water closest to where she stands, and his neck is at a terrible angle while his eyes look upward at her, not out distantly away like the other two ghosts of men. Honestly, the woman isn't sure if she's a victim to her own trauma and memories or if these are actual spectre imprints of memory. She opts to stare and reflect soberly, guiltily, right at her father's dead blue eyes.

Suddenly, they blink, those dead eyes, the eyes of all the Hanging Men. More show up, the ones before that gave the bridge their name, countless unnamed persons from the history of Gray Harbor. The creaking of ropes gets louder and louder and louder until it's all Lilith can hear, interspersed with terrible breaking echoes of snapped necks.

Jack Michael Sr. tells Lilith through the cacophony, "You're supposed to be hanging with us, pretty girl."

Hank Winslow tells Jack Michael, eyes finally moving away from Lilith to stare dead at the other hanging man, "Nah. She's a Winslow. We fight the reaper tooth and nail. We're like cockroaches, goddamn hard to kill."

Jack Michael Jr. asks Hank Winslow, "Then what the hell happened to you?"

The dead and hanging specter of Hank Winslow just grins his hangdog grin, "I was a shit father. I had it coming. It's easier for her now."

The elder and passed on hanging Winslow pauses and looks back up at Lilith, who has put her hands up over her ears while looking down, trying to drown out the noise of the creaking ropes, the snaps, the conversation between dead men that have nothing to do but hang there for the rest of their undead existence. She still hears, though, of course.

Hank Winslow sways on a breeze over the water while hanging by his neck and stares at his daughter, "You've got the whole world in your hands, kitten. It's better, isn't it?"

No. It's really not. Not when things are like this.

Lilith runs all the way back to the shop and drinks vodka instead of coffee for most of the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.

Byron Thorne didn't need to be present at the casino since its Grand Opening. Everything, so far, was running smoothly. Or smoothly enough. He had just spent the last few hours giving yet another tour of the place to several of his long-time investors and business associates, trying to convince them that Gray Harbor was coming into its own, finally and would be the perfect place for a vacation or something more long term. He'd spoken of the Masquerade which is held around Halloween among other plans that he had made to help spruce the town up.

After a few cocktails, a business dinner and a lot of walking, he finally calls it quits for the day, some of his guests having checked into the casino's hotel proper, while others continue to spend to throw away money on the casino floor. Byron, himself, heads down to parking to kick back and relax in the luxurious comfort of his car. He takes the moment to send a text out to Lilith, letting her know that he was on his way home before he starts his engine.

It's not a long drive from the casino to the Bayside Apartments. One just had to drive down Bayside Road.

Pulling off from the Grand Olympic's half-mile bridge over the bay, Byron's dark eyes lift to view the reflection from his center rear view mirror. A car that he hadn't noticed on the turn was right behind him. Not that he pays this any mind at first, simply driving along, craning his neck to the side to relieve some of the tension of the day.

The fact that this vehicle was driving incredibly close to his own is what catches Byron's attention and due to recent events, just the idea that it's a car tailing him brings on this heavy set feeling of dread. A dread that makes him reluctantly reach out to the driver in an attempt to gain any sort of hint on what the person's intentions are based on their emotions.

Nothing.

"That's not goo--" He's about to say before he feels the Wraith jolt after being rammed from behind by the mystery vehicle. It's difficult to make out who was driving up behind him with those high beams practically blinding him from getting a better look. Once the siren starts to whine, however, that's enough to tell him that whoever it was, they were in a police cruiser.

If anything, that should have set his mind at ease. It wasn't the car that he'd been thinking of. Still, since whoever was driving this... Charger, from what he can tell now, the lights dimming, struck him, Thorne's not quite sure what to expect when the man behind the wheel waves him down. Against his better judgment, Byron slows down. I mean, the car did hit him and there was bound to be information exchanged. He should be angry and concerned about the damage done to his overly expensive ride and yet, he couldn't muster up that anger right now. Instead, he was wary.

Turning to the side to look over his shoulder, he sees the door to the cruiser open and the silhouette of the driver stepping out of his vehicle. Facing forward again, dark eyes lift to look on his rear view mirror, watching as the figure make his approach, a flashlight in hand.

I should call the station and let them know what just happened. Hell, I know most every officer there, whoever the hell this is is going to get an earful, I fucking swear.

The figure continues their approach.

But why couldn't I sense anything from them? It's not that my abilities never fail, but...

Byron's gaze flickers back to the center mirror, before he rolls his window down to take a glance at the driver's side mirror and that's when he feels his heart stop within his chest, hands gripping tightly on the steering wheel.

A familiar voice calls out to him as the detective draws near, "You're a disappointment. If only the town knew what kind of snake they had lurking in their fold. After tonight, everyone will know just who you really are."

The man was Stephen Thorne, dressed in his detective's suit with a long overcoat to protect against the cold. But you don't feel the cold do you, dad?"

Before the detective can shine his flashlight into his vehicle, one hand reaching out for the handle on the Rolls' door, Byron starts up his engine, veerig out, nearly knocking the man over in his haste. From within the rearview mirror, he can see the man, his father, scrambling back into the Charger.

Those high beams flash once more, the police vehicle in hot pursuit of this 'criminal scum'. Byron does all that he can to try and lose his tail, flooring it while trying his best to keep ahead of his pursuer. There was no outrunning a cop car with a veteran driver on the force behind the wheels. Barreling down on him, the Charger is soon neck and neck with the Wraith and Byron can see the driver as plain as day, his own window still rolled down. That's when he feels the other car pull into his with full force, trying to run him off the road. The cop car careens into his a few time, wavering back, then going for the dive again, all while forcing Byron to keep control of his own car as to not go crashing into the security walls to any number of mansions and large homes that litter the neighborhood.

He almost loses control at one point, but is able to pull ahead if for just that brief moment. There, the driveway leading to the Bayside Apartments was just at the next turn. All he had to do was get there and security would be all over the place if the other vehicle continued its pursuit. It doesn't help that the police charger was meeting his speed once more and it's right in the nick of time that Byron makes a sharp turn to the right, pulling right into the driveway leading to the Bayside Apartment gates. Apparently, the cop car wasn't expecting this, thus overshoots and drives off ahead.

Byron doesn't stop there, driving forward, his eyes nervously looking behind him at the darkened Bayside Road as he calls out to the guard at the guard house, "Open up." Which Frank promptly does, noting Byron's near panic when his boss flags him down. The gate opens and the Wraith speeds on through to disappear in the safety within.

There's no sign of the cop car. Maybe Byron really did lose him.

A few minutes after the gate shuts closed, a vehicle eases its way down the length of Bayside Road. It was not a police charger, no. It was more of a classic car. A red 1970 Dodge Charger RT. It slows down when driving directly past the entrance to the luxury buildings. After a moment, its windows roll back up and it continues further down the dark road.

Standing near the end of the pier, a solitary figure's face practically illuminated each time he drew a moderate lungful. Holding the poison in for a short count, occasionally looking behind him to the beginning of the pier, he bundled himself up further against the cold night air of the late May night air; watching the fog rolling, forming shapes he would sooner forget inside white, boney talons before the next gust came and blew them into a distorted shape.

He stopped smoking, holding the cigarette to his lips between his fingers and squinted. A light. A speck spotted through the fog. As he stared, it grew, he swore, larger and there was another. High off the water he was used to when he took his strolls. And then a noise to accompany the specks, undiscernible at first. But as the pricks of lights got closer, and the first formed into a lantern floating in the air, the sound began to unmuffle.

<br /><i>Into the Humber and up the town,
Pump you blighters, pump or drown.
<b>And we're waiting for the day,
Waiting for the day,
Waiting for the day
That we get our pay.</b></i>

<br />The lantern passed by, the other lights becoming lanterns as well, far off the pier as the fore light as attached to a mighty rotten timber which attached itself to a rotten figurehead of a woman riding a dolphin. And attached to this, the wood and earthy smell of rotting wood raised over the sea and smoke to assault his senses as the barnacled and seaweed belayed ship until the power of tattered sails broke through the fog as it passed the pier.

On solid planks, a lit cigarette fell; ambers sparkled and blew themselves out from the dropped cigarette. From his footing at the end of the dock, he could see figures, mostly humanoid figures as they moved about the deck. They paid him no heed, but even still, he could clearly see one draw a cutlass then push the fleshy, gnawed hand against another crewmember's shoulder before the two corpses danced with bravado. As the rear of the vessel began to come into view, the Captain's quarters were lit, even though the stain glass windows provided no hint as to the horror within.

<br /><i>Her coal was shot by a Keadby crew,
Her bottom was rotten and it went right through.
<b>So we're waiting for the day,
Waiting for the day,
Waiting for the day
That we get our pay.</b></i>

<br />The vessel continued its silent coast, cutting through the dark, through the curtain of the fog as though it weren't there. And the figure, he continued to stare. Continued to stare until he was sure it wasn't any longer. Then stepped on his still glowing after noticing it was there and kicked it into the drink. Tucked his long coat a little tighter to huddle into it before reaching into his coat to look at the open cigarette pack. With effort, he threw back his arm, and threw them off the pier.