Chapter Text
August, 1969. Coolsville, Ohio
It comes in late August. Troy stares down at it: the cardstock invitation is gaudy, purple, and has a border with skeletons and dancing pumpkins. The Hawthornes really did appreciate Halloween decal, he thinks.
It reads: You are cordially invited to Pierce Hawthorne’s will reading on September 10, 1969.
The gold lettering is the boss (Annie said once that it was embossed, which doesn’t make sense, because there’s no boss for the letters to go into), and Troy runs his fingers over them as he considers whether or not he should go. He figures he’s not the only one invited to the reading. He assumes most of Mystery, Incorporated will be there, but the thought of seeing Abed again makes him wince.
He’d gotten a letter earlier this week about delaying the funeral another month (it would have taken place on the 30th of August) because the stars were unaligned and Space Buddha had failed to vaporize Pierce, or something. He hadn’t really been able to follow it, but he’d been immensely relieved by the opportunity to delay seeing the rest of Mystery, Inc. together.
He squints down at the message, reading it over again. He wonders if Pierce left him a bunch of money. That sounds awesome.
(Seeing Abed again sounds way less awesome.)
September, 1969. Twenty minutes outside Coolsville, Ohio.
Orange and red leaves crunch under his shoes as Jeff Winger stares up at the old mansion. It’s falling apart: the purple tiles on the roof are coming loose, and the gargoyles look weathered and droopy rather than appropriately frightening. He glances over to his right; Britta stands beside him, frowning.
“The old man really was dedicated to the Halloween aesthetic.”
“Yeah, well, no one said the Hawthornes had taste,” replies Jeff, looking up at the mansion with an unimpressed stare. He raises an eyebrow, then glances over to her, adding, “It’s good to see you, Britta,” just to be polite, but it’s hard to sell. He doesn’t want to see any of Mystery, Inc. at all. He just wants to take his money and leave.
“Been a while, Winger,” she says, turning to give him a once-over. “I see you’re embracing flare pants.”
He shrugs, trying to look nonchalant. “They’re in style.”
“Please,” she says, “You care more about style than you do about the law. Don’t pretend like you didn’t spend an hour this morning picking them out.”
“I’m not a lawyer anymore,” he retorts, ignoring the jab, “I’m a consultant.”
“Tomato, to-mah-to.” When he looks at her, he raises both eyebrows as he recognizes she’s in bell bottom jeans as well, paired with a black flowy top. Britta’s always cared about how she looks just as much as he does; she just would never admit it. Britta sighs. “I liked you better when you had sworn to give all that stuff up.”
“Careful, Britta,” he says, “People might think you’re anti-establishment, the way you bash on lawyers. Add a headband and they might even call you a hippie.”
Her expression shifts to more fond than annoyed as she smiles at him. “I missed you, too, asshole.” She pulls out a folded envelope from her back pocket. It’s wrinkled, like she’s spent a lot of time carrying it around. Jeff knows what she’s holding up; he pulls out his matching envelope and flashes it at her, and she nods. “So you did decide to show up,” she remarks.
“Money’s involved.”
She snorts. “Don’t pretend like you aren’t sad he’s dead.”
Jeff rounds on her, incredulous. “Sad? I’ve been counting down the days until Pierce Hawthorne kicked the bucket for years. I’m not sad, I’m overjoyed.” He pauses, then looks up at the old mansion, with its rickety front porch and broken front window. “Or as overjoyed you can be at a bequeathment in the old mansion of your dead acquaintance.”
Britta rolls her eyes. “Friend, Jeff. He was our friend.”
“No, he wasn’t,” replies Jeff. “Come on, let’s go in.”
“Eager?” she asks, smirking. “You’re the same money-obsessed asshole, aren’t you?”
“Yup,” he says, walking towards the house. “And proud of it.”
She rolls her eyes again, and follows behind as they approach the front door. They pause on the front steps, uncertain; a crow caws in the background, perched on a nearby tree.
“Imagine living here,” mutters Britta to herself, kicking at a pebble on the porch with her sandal. “It must have been so creepy.”
Jeff makes a noise of agreement, brushing a cobweb out of his way and ducking slightly to avoid getting dust in his perfectly gelled hair. He pauses, then. “Don’t tell me you feel sorry for the old man,” he says, taking the clawed knocker in his hand. “He was an ass.”
“Our ass, though,” says Britta.
He snorts. “Britta, he constantly made fun of you.”
“You made fun of me, too,” points out Britta. “None of you guys ever took me seriously.”
“At least I actually respected you.” A beat. “Abed took you seriously.”
“Not really,” says Britta, and points at the knocker that’s resting in Jeff’s hand, poised above the door. “You gonna knock, or are we just gonna wait until his ghost lets us in?”
He makes a face at her, and brings down the knocker to make three loud bangs. On the third, the door swings inward with a creek, and Jeff frowns at it. Britta pauses, too, studying the frame. “Sheesh,” she says, “you’d think someone would have built this door better for its frame. I mean, it’s not even in keeping with the color scheme.”
“Shut up, Britta. What do you know about house maintenance?”
“What, because I don’t have one?” She frowns at him, this time her face falling a little bit, and stalks into the house. “This is why we aren’t friends anymore,” she calls behind her, walking through the halls as she starts searching for the parlor.
The inside of the house is as rundown as the outside. The photos in the hallway are dusty, and a few of the glass casings are cracked; their metal frames are dull. The lights flicker slightly, and the tacky art deco wallpaper is peeling. There’s even an ugly troll figurine on the shelves. “This place is disgusting,” says Jeff to himself, running a finger along a wooden bookshelf and wincing as it comes back grey with dust and soot.
It doesn’t take long to find the parlor, though; even if it’s been a year or two, Jeff remembers this mansion pretty well. By the time he gets there, Britta’s disappeared—she’s always had less of a sense of direction than he does. It used to be almost comical, how easily Britta could get turned around.
Now, it just annoys him. He turns to find her, and swears. “Crap.”
“What’s wrong?”
The sound makes him jump. He whirls, searching for the source, and—
His eyes land on Annie Edison, a year or so older but very much the same: she’s in a lilac button up with a dark plum sleeveless dress over it. She’s sitting on a patterned couch, legs crossed primly, eyeing him with the hurt air and round eyes that she’s always been good at wielding like a weapon.
“Annie,” says Jeff, frowning.
She sniffs. “Good to see the only time you show up for your friends is when there’s money involved.”
“God, you sound like Shirley,” snaps Jeff, crossing his arms.
“I know you don’t mean that, Jeffery,” says a low voice from the hallway, and when he turns, it’s Shirley looking down at him, disappointed. As she approaches the parlor, she spots Annie and her expression shifts. All of a sudden, Jeff is invisible and Shirley practically glows, beaming. “Annie!”
“Shirley!” squeals Annie, jumping up from her position on the tacky floral couch and practically running into Shirley’s arms for a hug. “I missed you so much! How’s your diner, your kids?”
“Oh,” coos Shirley, “They’ve gotten so big! It’s really a shame you never visited.”
“You were always so busy,” counters Annie, “and our schedules never lined up.” At that, she wilts a little bit, tugging at her hair like she feels guilty, then frowns and brightens again as she looks over Shirley. “But we’re both here now! I want to hear how you’ve been doing!” She pauses, and gasps, “Do you have any pictures of your kids?”
“I do,” replies Shirley warmly, pulling out her wallet. “I keep some polaroids with me,” she says, smiling, and Annie crowds her space to ‘aww’ at the pictures.
“Good to see you both, too,” Jeff says stiffly.
“You’re the one who said you didn’t want to see us again,” snaps Annie, looking up. “Don’t get all guilt-trippy.”
“Oh, you mean like you and Shirley?”
Shirley gasps. “Jeffery!”
“See, you say things like that and then wonder why no one missed you,” replies Annie, turning and shoving a finger into his chest.
“I missed him,” says another voice. Shirley turns, and then so does Jeff: it’s Abed, hair a little longer and curlier, in a mustard striped cardigan. He gives Jeff a closed mouth smile that’s really more just him pressing his lips together into a line, then waves to everyone. “We can be mad at him and miss him at the same time.”
“Abed!” cries Shirley, running over to wrap him in a hug. “How are you?”
“I saw you just last month,” says Abed, matter of fact. “Nothing’s changed.”
“I didn’t know you were visiting Shirley,” says Annie, crossing her arms.
“No hug for Abed? What, are you two mad at each other?” asks Jeff, looking between Abed and Annie.
“She was my ride,” replies Abed, pointing to Annie. “I just left the parlor to go poke around. Really creepy stuff. This could be the start of a Agatha Christie novel.”
Annie’s eyes go wide, and she bounces on her feet. “Oh! I love her stuff.”
“I know,” says Abed. “You leave her books around the apartment. I think we could fit into the narrative pretty well; we’re a diverse group, we’ve got tension, we’re basically investigating the murder of the heir of Hawthorne Wipes, even if we’re not doing it officially yet. It could make a very appealing story.”
“Wait,” says Jeff, “You’re living together?”
Shirley makes a noise of disapproval.
Abed and Annie both nod, ignoring Shirley.
“Right. And Abed’s still on the movie gimmick?”
“I’ve been expanding to books,” says Abed, shrugging. “Annie and I have been getting recommendations from the nice librarian as our local library.”
Jeff raises an eyebrow. “Mariah?”
“How do you know any librarians?” asks Annie. “I know for a fact you never actually read. It’s too much work.” The last sentence she says in a mocking tone as she crosses her arms again; Abed looks to her and nods with certainty, making a finger gun in her direction to indicate he agrees with her.
“I slept with her,” replies Jeff, getting a whack on the shoulder from Shirley.
“Jeffery!”
“Cool. Cool cool cool,” says Abed, nodding towards Jeff with an impressed air. And then, “Where’s Britta?”
“That’s what I was trying to figure out,” says Jeff. “I came in with her, but I forgot that someone has to keep an eye on her at all times or she’ll disappear.”
They all groan. Britta and Abed were always like that: the first to disappear in a potentially dangerous situation, whether it be because a church or house or school or mine was haunted, or because they were in serious states of disrepair. Abed just liked to explore, whereas Britta just got lost.
“I can’t believe I still have to babysit her,” grumbles Jeff. “It’s been a year.”
“More than a year,” corrects Abed. “We should go find her.”
“The bequeather should be here by now,” points out Annie. “If none of us are here, they might leave.” She pulls out her envelope, and hands it to Abed. “It says that we need to be here on time or we won’t be able to attend the reading of the will.” She frowns. “I think that was mostly just to make sure Jeff wasn’t late, on second thought.”
“Even still,” says Shirley. “I don’t want to miss anything because Britta got lost.”
“Wait,” says Jeff, “Where’s Troy? Didn’t he come with you guys?”
Shirley shakes her head. “I haven’t seen Troy in a couple months. Only Abed comes to visit me.”
“It has been a year since you all saw each other,” says Jeff. “It’s only natural you’d all drift.”
“More than a year,” says Abed again.
“You could have reached out yourself, you know,” Annie says, frowning. “I did try to visit.”
“I know, An-nie. But Jeffery never did.”
“Jeff’s an asshole,” replies Abed. “But we knew that. We spent three years solving mysteries with him.”
“Three and a half,” corrects Annie. “If you’re going to be specific about time, we should at least also be specific about how long Mystery, Inc. lasted. And it lasted three and a half years.” She looks meaningfully at Abed, who shrugs. “And to answer your question, Jeff, Troy didn’t come with us. We haven’t seen him in…”
“Seven months,” says Abed.
“Seven months,” repeats Annie.
“You mean, Troy and Abed aren’t friends anymore?” cries Jeff, looking over to Abed, who shrugs, and then frowning down at Annie. “And you let that happen?”
“I didn’t ‘let’ anything happen, Jeff,” she sniffs. “Abed’s his own person, and so is Troy. Ask Abed about it if you’re so curious.”
Shirley nods. “Besides, if they choose not to talk about it, it’s not our job to pry.”
“Oh, that is rich, coming from you,” snaps Jeff.
“I don’t know what you mean,” replies Shirley in a low voice.
“Are you kidding me? You’re always gossiping and prying!” snaps Jeff, and Annie’s frown deepens.
“You really shouldn’t say things like that, Jeff,” says Annie, crossing her arms. “We’re not friends anymore. What was teasing is now just plain mean.”
“Good,” replies Jeff, and then stomps over to the couch. “Let’s just wait for whoever Pierce hired.” He sits down on a nearby armchair with more force than he means to, then crosses his arms and places his feet on the coffee table, trying not to look so worked up. He glances around at the parlor, which has just a bit of sunlight coming through a cracked window, and pauses. “Hey, where’s Abed?”
“Again?” cries Annie, also looking around. “Abed!” she calls.
“That boy always wanders off,” sighs Shirley unhappily, and sits down on the couch, placing her bag on her knees.
“He’ll be fine,” says Jeff, pulling out a newspaper from his back pocket. “Look, Annie, I do read.”
He doesn’t see her roll her eyes, but he knows she’s doing it. Instead, he inspects the room as they fall into an uncomfortable silence. It’s just as dusty as the rest of the house. The only thing clean in the room is the portrait sitting over the mantel; the portrait is of Pierce, unsmiling, but in his early forties, maybe. He doesn’t look so disheveled or old as he did when the rest of Mystery, Inc. knew him.
“Bastard,” mutters Jeff up at him, then returns to his newspaper.
Troy walks up to the mansion and inspects it, frowning. It’s really fallen apart since he moved out and Pierce died, huh? The grounds are growing out of control, too. The hedges lost all their shape and stopped looking like those super awesome cubes and bears, and have become more like lopsided spheres.
Jeff’s car is parked in the driveway, as are a couple other cars Troy doesn’t recognize. The only one he recognizes is Jeff’s. It’s mostly because Jeff has always been proud of the sleek black sports car and had made a point of showing it off; Troy’s pretty sure it was the only thing that Jeff could keep from his old, sleazy lawyer life.
That’s what Britta would say, anyway.
He thumbs his invitation as he walks up to the house. The door is slightly ajar; it looks slightly different from how he remembers it. This whole thing is weird. Troy doesn’t want to see anyone from Mystery, Inc., and he especially doesn’t want to see them under the circumstances of Pierce’s weird will-reading party. Whatever that means.
Since it seems he’s the last one here, he allows himself an extra moment outside to steady himself. He doesn’t even know why he’s nervous.
Pierce is dead. He should probably be sad.
Then again, judging by the last thing Pierce said to him, Troy’s less than sad about the whole dying thing. He is sad. He’s just… also mad? And frustrated? And really, really doesn’t want to be here, because Abed’s probably here, and in reality he’s more freaked out about alive Abed than dead Pierce.
Though now that he’s thinking about it, Pierce would haunt them. The old man was petty enough to. So maybe Troy should be nervous about Pierce haunting them over Abed not talking to him. He’s not talking to Abed either, anyway. It’s Abed who should be nervous, not Troy, because Troy is the one who’s angry.
Yeah. Abed should be nervous.
Troy should be on the lookout for ghosts.
He walks in.
All in all, the place isn’t terrible. He does walk in and immediately sneeze because of the dust. (He has hay fever, it’s not his fault, and his sneeze does not sound like a girl’s.) But it is, functionally, the same as he remembers it: the hallway is still decorated like Pierce ripped his taste right out of the 1920s, except also with that spooky tint that’s always given Troy the creeps.
He continues down the hall, doing his best not to look at the pictures, but he still feels the weight of their gaze on his back. He’s pretty sure that the Hawthornes took pictures so that they would look like their eyes moved to follow you. It’s something Pierce would do, anyway, so it makes sense.
As he walks, he spots the evil troll Pierce always insisted to keep up, and stops. “Hello, old enemy,” he says quietly, turning to inspect it.
It stares at him, unblinking and creepy.
He thinks about eating it—he knows that’s the only way to defeat a troll, but he’s not sure if that’s respectful to Pierce. Pierce would be pretty upset if he found out, but Pierce is dead. Wait. What if eating the troll makes Pierce haunt him? He can’t really handle a ghost Pierce right now, especially if the troll puts up a fight.
He frowns.
The troll blinks at him, once.
He jumps back, panicked. “Jeepers!” he cries, feeling stressed tears begin to prick at the corner of his eyes. He must have imagined it. There’s no way the troll blinked at him. It never did when he lived here.
He begins to back up, but only succeeds in walking into a bookshelf and hitting the back of his head with a WHACK. He curses and ducks, feeling his throbbing skull. “You did this,” he hisses, and the troll continues to stare, unblinking. He’s pretty sure he imagined it by now. He’s just freaked out because Pierce could be a ghost.
That’s all.
(Right?)
He’s turning, and then he sees the troll’s pupils actually slide towards him, and he shrieks. They stay there, trained on him.
“Troy?” says a voice up ahead.
He jumps and shouts. “Stay back!” he cries, whipping his arms up into fists.
“What?”
His gaze lands on—Britta, actually, looking freaked out. “Troy, are you okay?”
“The troll blinked at me,” he says, suddenly feeling stupid. “And its eyes moved!”
“Okay,” says Britta, slow, like she doesn’t believe him.
He feels a pang of annoyance. Of course she doesn’t. Britta never believed him. No one did, really, except for Abed, but Abed’s—
It’s complicated. He doesn’t want to think about it, or his brain will start crying and he might also start crying, and that would suck. “Whatever,” he says, instead. “I think I’m just freaked out ‘cause Pierce is dead. I never thought it would happen.” He pauses, and adds, “Plus, it’s weird being back here.”
“I forgot you lived with him,” Britta replies, suddenly looking abashed. “I’m sorry, Troy. I should have believed you.”
He shakes his head. “I know you’re only saying that to be nice.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
He glances back to the troll, but it’s returned to normal, so he turns to Britta and walks towards her. “It is nice to see you, actually,” he says, wiping his sweaty palms on his pants and inhaling. “How are you? I know it’s only been a couple months, but you look good.” He gives her jeans a nod. “I like the bell bottoms. They suit you.” He frowns, wracking his brain for what Britta’s doing now. “Is the animal shelter working out okay?”
“I can’t believe you remembered!” gasps Britta, pleased.
Troy gives her a thumbs up. “You told me about it last time we got high.”
“Don’t tell Shirley,” says Britta darkly, walking up to him to give him a long hug. “I’ve really missed you, Troy, seriously.”
“I didn’t miss this,” says Troy, sweeping his hand around the hall. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Me, too,” she admits. “And I can never find anything.”
“When I first moved in, I had to put up signs,” responds Troy, in part to make her feel better. “But then Pierce made me memorize a tour, and then I didn’t need the signs anymore.”
Britta frowns at him. “A tour?” She scoffs. “And here I was, feeling bad for the asshole. You know who showed up, by the way?” She bumps Troy with her hip.
Troy freezes, suddenly feeling his stomach twist. “No?” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as panicked as he is. His palms are clammy again; he wipes them on his pants and suddenly the floor is way more interesting than searching Britta’s face. Please don’t say Abed, he thinks, please don’t say Abed, please don’t—
“Jeff Winger!”
He relaxes, then angers again. “Really?”
“He follows the money,” Britta replies darkly, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. She leans closer to Troy, expression becoming disgusted as she whispers, “Did you know he’s in consulting?” in a tone that indicates she thinks Troy will be equally disappointed and annoyed by this information.
“You can make a job out of insulting people’s cons?!” cries Troy. “Why didn’t I know about that?!”
Britta frowns at him. “Sometimes, Troy, you’ve got to be kidding.”
He folds his arms. “You’re right,” he says, “Jeff would never be that awesome.”
“Consulting is like being a lawyer without any of the qualifications,” says Britta, eventually, in her gentle tone of voice that makes Troy feel babied without knowing why.
“Oh,” says Troy, sighing. “So he’s Evil Jeff again.”
“What?”
He begins to guide her down the halls to the parlor, and stops to inspect a mirror. “It’s Abed’s thing,” he says. “It’s kinda stupid, actually.” In the mirror, his reflection’s expression drops. He drags a finger across the surface, clearing a stripe of dust. He watches through the mirror as Britta’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline.
“You’d never call Abed stupid,” she says, slow and confused.
He opens his mouth to say, Abed and I aren’t friends anymore, but is distracted by a flash of light; he flicks his eyes to his right and sees— Pierce’s image hovering in the background of the mirror. “Jeepers!” he cries again, whirling around, and sees only Britta’s concerned expression and an empty hallway. “I thought I saw something…”
“Troy,” she begins, in her therapist voice.
Troy holds up his hand to shush her, and shakes his head for good measure. She sighs and nods, shutting her mouth.
“Come on,” he says. “The parlor’s this way.”
They walk the next couple minutes in silence as Troy leads the way and Britta trails behind him. He feels a little guilty, since Britta’s the only one Troy kinda sorta stayed in contact with, but he figures Britta will forgive him for being testy. She’s good at figuring out other people’s emotions.
When they walk into the parlor, they’re met with three pairs of eyes on them: Jeff is sitting in Pierce’s old armchair, his feet propped up on the coffee table, looking at them from his newspaper; Annie squeals and waves hello from her seat on the couch; and Shirley, on the other end of the couch, beams at him.
They all look pretty similar, all things considered. Jeff is in a navy button down and flare pants, Annie’s still got her hair clipped back in that familiar way, and Shirley’s in a blue dress with that familiar black bag she always carried with her. The only difference is the way they look at him, like he’s a stranger, or maybe an old friend. Certainly not a family member.
“Troy!!” says Annie, leaping up to hug him. “And Britta!!”
“Hel-lo,” trills Shirley, waving from her seat on the couch.
Jeff sets down his newspaper. “You found Britta. Congrats.”
“Ignore him,” says Annie. “He’s just grumpy because he’s facing the consequences of being a jerkwad and no one’s excited to see him.”
“Jerkwad?” repeats Jeff, mocking. “How old are you, sixteen?”
“Humph,” replies Annie, crossing her arms and spinning on her heels away from Jeff. Shirley narrows her eyes and gives him a look of disapproval, shaking her head before mirroring Annie’s gesture, crossing her arms and turning away. “Anyways,” says Annie, “I really missed you! How have you been?”
“Good,” says Troy, his mouth suddenly dry. “Shirley, how are your kids?”
Shirley beams. “They’re very good. Elijah wants to be a plumber for halloween now.”
“Plumber?” asks Britta.
“Troy repaired my sink two months ago. For free,” says Shirley. “The boys were very taken with him.” She turns to Troy. “You should visit more often. I will bake you brownies.”
“You’re spending your retirement from solving mysteries doing plumbing?” snarks Jeff in the corner.
“No,” says Troy, shrinking into himself. “I’m also doing A/C repair.”
“Fuck off, Jeff,” snaps Britta. “That a strong enough sentiment for you?”
“I don’t usually agree with cursing,” adds Shirley primly, “But I think Britta’s right.”
“Thanks, Shirley,” Britta says, surprised.
“Aw, you guys,” says Annie, “I’ve missed you all. Except maybe Jeff.” She turns to Jeff and looks disappointed. “Jeff, you’re really souring this reunion. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen everyone!!” She sighs and turns back to the group. “You all have to tell me what you’re doing. We should also organize coffee,” she adds, digging in her purse for what Troy knows is her planner “—so we don’t go this long...”
“Oh, that’s nice,” agrees Shirley, moving towards her own purse for her own planner. “We could do once a month at my diner?”
“Britta? Troy?” Annie asks, looking up from her purse. “How does that sound?”
“How does what sound?” says a new voice. Troy whirls, and sees two figures in the doorway. One is so familiar his stomach sinks. The other is the speaker, bald and in what Troy thinks is a women’s pantsuit. They smile and give everyone a little wave. “You were right, Abed, they are all here,” they say, turning to Abed beside them, “That’s good. It’ll speed things up.”
Abed nods. He scans over the room, gaze catching on Troy for a beat longer than everyone else. Troy feels suddenly winded; Abed looks good, in a cardigan and converse and hair curling at the back of his neck. His eyes are dark and mysterious as he surveys Troy, and he nods subtly, to indicate something Troy can’t figure out.
“I’m Craig Pelton,” says the figure beside Abed. “I was hired by Pierce.”
“There’s no way in Hell you’re a lawyer,” says Jeff, placing his newspaper down. “I know every lawyer in a thirty-mile radius.”
“I’m not,” says Craig. “My friend Frankie Dart is handling the law specifics.”
Jeff hisses and recoils as if burned by the name. “Frankie? She’s basically a glorified accountant. She’s not a lawyer!”
“Would you rather it be Alan?” points out Annie, rolling her eyes. “He used to represent Pierce, remember?”
There’s a collection of groans that affirms that everyone does, in fact, remember Alan. “No one should allow you near chloroform again,” says Troy, closing his eyes as he remembers the terrifying experience. When he opens them, Abed’s nodding vigorously, which makes his stomach twist.
“I said I’m sorry!” replies Annie hotly.
“I know,” says Troy, giving her another hug.
She rolls her eyes fondly at him.
“We should all sit down,” says Abed, and walks over next to where Annie was sitting. They all nod in agreement; Britta takes the armchair across from Jeff, and Shirley moves to the other end of the couch, where she was originally sitting. Annie also takes her original spot, leaving a small space for Troy next to Abed.
He stares at the space uncomfortably. “Should I stand?” he asks in a quiet voice.
Abed blinks. “For visual symmetry, you should sit.” He pauses. “Actually, it could indicate some kind of tension, but I think Craig standing over us is a better indicator of the scene.”
“Well,” says Craig, “I think we’re waiting on one more person, so you all should sit.”
Troy squints at them for a moment, then shrugs and goes to sit next to Abed. The couch isn’t really built for four people, so he’s pressed into Abed and Shirley’s side. Shirley gives him a rub on his back, smiling, and Troy tries to give her a tight-lipped smile in response, but he’s distracted by the press of his thigh against Abed’s.
Abed barely looks at him, studying Craig instead, and Troy suddenly feels uncertain of where to put his hands. When he folds them on his lap, his shoulder brushes Abed’s, and he wants to flinch away; when he shrinks into himself, he just feels awkward and uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to have his arms hover at his chest, though, or place them along the back of the couch, because he doesn’t want to look like he’s making a move for Abed, either.
He ends up putting his hands on his knees and trying his best not to notice the fact his shoulder is touching Abed’s, which really means he notices it a lot.
He turns to Craig, who is pacing awkwardly. “We’re waiting on one Ben Chang,” they say, looking over their papers and counting heads.
“Chang?!” cries the group in unison.
“I know Pierce did not bequeath Chang something,” Shirley says darkly.
“What are you doing? Trying to guilt Pierce from beyond the grave?” replies Jeff, raising his perfectly manicured eyebrow.
“Shut up, Jeff,” says Britta as Shirley does the sign of the cross, shaking her head at him.
“But our invitations said if we were late, we opted out of our bequeathments,” points out Abed, raising his index finger. The movement jostles Troy’s arm, causing Troy to start thinking about how close they’re sitting again.“I know that was mostly a measure to make sure Jeff showed up on time, but I figured that since it was written on everyone’s invitations that it still applied to everyone.”
There’s a rustling of paper. Eventually, Craig replies, “Apparently Chang is exempt from that,” as they frown down at their documents.
The group all groans in unison.
“So he's going to make us wait,” sighs Annie. “I can’t believe Pierce even wrote him into the will. I thought he and Pierce hated each other!”
“Yeah, he was a pretty useless cop,” says Britta a little wistfully at the mention of Chang, and Troy can tell from the look on her face she’s thinking about her anarchist relationship with Chang. Jeff glances over to her, and his face twists as he probably thinks about it as well. To Craig, Britta adds, “He tased me once.”
“Oh my,” says Craig.
Troy decides to ignore Britta and turns to Annie. “Chang and Pierce had a weird hate/love relationship,” he explains to her, except it’s kind of awkward, because he’s speaking through Abed, who’s taller than both of them. “He used to come over a lot when I lived with Pierce.”
“Hm,” says Shirley primly, which probably means something, because everyone’s faces change, but Troy doesn’t really know what. Abed looks confused, too, in that he studies everyone’s faces and looks annoyed that he can’t replicate them.
They all settle into an uncomfortable silence for a while. Troy is trying not to look at Abed, or really think about him too hard. Annie is looking expectantly at Craig and so he can’t make eye contact with her. Britta’s chewing a piece of her hair (gross!) in thought as she studies Jeff, and Shirley is fiddling with something in her bag.
Craig keeps looking around, then at their wristwatch, then at Annie nervously, and then back at their wristwatch.
Troy finds himself staring at Pierce’s unsmiling portrait, if only for something to do. It’s just as creepy as he remembers it.
“This is probably an elaborate scheme to get back at all of us,” Jeff says eventually, relaxing in his armchair.
“Don’t say that,” says Annie immediately. “He’s still dead, you know.”
“He was an asshole,” snaps Jeff. “Why does everyone keep defending him?”
“We’re not defending him,” Shirley replies in her lilting tone. “We’re being respectful.” She pauses, and in a darker tone, she adds, “You should try it sometime.”
“Whatever,” says Jeff, rolling his eyes. He checks his watch, which looks expensive. “I haven’t got forever.”
“Oh, now you’re on a time limit?” cries Britta, “But you still drove thirty minutes out of your way to get what you hope is money from our dead friend? You can’t wait ten more minutes for Chang to show up?”
“Chang is insane,” retorts Jeff. “For a couple hours—and yes, Britta, in hopes of a paycheck—I can maybe handle whatever you all are doing—” he waves his hand in their direction, pausing for a moment to glance between Troy and Abed with an unreadable expression “—but it’s asking a lot of me to handle Chang as well.”
“I miss when you were nice,” sighs Troy. “Plus, I don’t wanna wait either, but I’m not complaining, and I’m pretty sure this house is haunted.”
Jeff sneers. “I was never nice.”
“You’re closer to Evil Jeff than you were,” points out Abed.
“What does that—you know what? I don’t want to know.” Jeff crosses his arms and stares down at Abed. “Besides, you all showed up for the same thing I did. At least I’m honest about my greediness and not making false promises of getting coffee once a month.”
Annie gasps offendedly, and Shirley shakes her head.
“Oh, come on, you guys have to know that it’s never going to happen.”
“It might!” says Annie, folding her arms. “Not that you’d ever know, since you’re not invited.”
He rolls his eyes, and opens his mouth to retort something that’s probably clever, when—
“Aw, has Jeff Winger upset Mystery Inc.?” calls a voice from the doorway.
It’s Chang. He’s in uniform, even though Troy’s pretty sure he’s not a cop anymore; he slouches in the doorway, eyes darting around the room. Troy swears he hears a crow caw as he enters, smirking slightly. “Didn’t know you guys could handle being in the same room together anymore,” he says, shrugging.
“Fuck off,” says Britta, scowling.
“So we’re all here?” says Craig nervously.
Chang nods in their direction and walks over to the unsmiling portrait of Pierce Hawthorne, before the dude got, like, bald and stuff. He leans against the mantle, crossing his arms. “Hit us with the money,” Chang says, a slow smirk growing on his face. Except it doesn’t look much like a smirk as it does a deranged smile, but Troy’s pretty sure Chang’s trying to smirk.
Hard to tell, with Chang.
“Pierce requested I read some things to you guys before I give you anything,” Craig begins, twitching nervously. “Fair warning, they’re really mean.” They make a face down at their lap, as if pleading with the papers to change. Troy’s not judging; he’s seen weirder stuff than letters rearranging. “I don’t want to read them, but I have to, so I figured I’d warn you all before I started, so if anyone wants to leave—”
“It’s okay,” offers Annie. “I think we all expected this.”
“Yeah,” adds Chang. “Just hurry up. We all knew the old man was an asshole and I have nothing to hide.”
“AN ASSHOLE?” booms a voice above them that sounds suspiciously like Pierce’s, only distorted. “I’LL KILL YOU, CHANG.”
They all gasp and turn towards the source of the voice, but there’s nothing there. “Jinkies!” cries Annie as Troy peers up at the rafters of the roof, hoping maybe there’s a mini Pierce hiding up there with a megaphone.
There isn’t.
“Jinkies?” sneers Jeff. “Really, Annie?”
“Shut up,” Annie replies hotly.
Instead, the room begins to fill with fog; it’s cold and moist and hard to breathe. Troy feels his insides slick with fear, reaching out to grab Abed beside him and holding tight. “I told you guys this place was haunted!” he cries, looking around the room as everyone’s faces get harder to make out from the swirling purple fog.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” says Abed. “I would have said I believed you.”
“I’m too afraid to be mad at you right now, but I’m still mad,” Troy informs him, squishing closer into Abed’s side.
Abed cocks his head, frowning, and then nods, taking Troy’s shoulder and holding him close. “Cool,” he says in a toneless way that means he’s upset, “cool cool cool.”
His eyes are darting around, trying to find the source of the fog; the edges of the room are already blurry and hard to see. Troy feels a little dizzy.
“Pierce?!” cries Troy from his spot in Abed’s arms. “We’re sorry!”
“YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN SORRY A LONG TIME AGO,” booms the disemboweled voice (“You mean disembodied,” Abed will correct him later, and Troy will scowl). “NOW I WILL RISE FROM THE GRAVE AND HAVE MY REVENGE.”
“As a ghost, do you rise from the grave? Genre-wise, that’s more of a vampire or zombie thing,” Abed says, directing his gaze at the portrait, which is partially hidden in the mist so that Troy only gets flashes of painted-Pierce’s hair, and eyes, and severe mouth. He frowns, and looks over to the window; he’s still searching for a source of the sound.
“Oh God, is Pierce a vampire?” wimpers Troy.
“Shut up, Abed. Troy, Pierce isn’t a vampire. He’s dead. This is all probably prerecorded, or something. You’d think the two of you would have picked that up by now, since we spent so much time together literally debunking supernatural events,” snaps Jeff, who is partially hidden from the fog. Troy can just barely see his shiny black shoes.
“Ooh!” gasps Annie suddenly, clapping her hands together excitedly and startling Abed. The mist swirls around her hands, clearing somewhat at the movement. “And the fog could be from a fog machine!!”
The house groans as she says this, shaking slightly.
“Why do you sound so happy??” cries Troy, leaning into Abed. (Abed, he notes, still smells like laundry detergent and Special Drink.)
“I do not like this,” mutters Shirley beside him, doing the sign of Christ again.
He can just make out Britta rolling her eyes. “Maybe Pierce has some unfinished business, Jeff! We should respect that he needs an apology.”
“He’s dead, Britta,” retorts Jeff.
“SHUT UP!” bellows Pierce’s ghostly voice, and the fog begins to whirl. “YOU GUYS NEVER APPRECIATED ME WHILE I WAS ALIVE. AND YOU’RE GOING TO REGRET THAT NOW.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Shirley says to herself.
Suddenly, the fog begins to whirl faster, and Pierce’s voice shifts into a cackle. Troy whimpers again, and Abed pats his arm comfortingly, using his other hand to take Troy’s left hand and squeezing three times. The gesture is familiar; Abed used to do it when they were solving mysteries and Troy got particularly freaked out.
“We’re not afraid of you!” shouts Britta. “This just feels like a high-powered fan!”
“Shut up, Britta!” hisses Annie.
The air begins to whip around their heads; the fog is beginning to worsen as Pierce cackles so loudly it starts to make Troy’s head hurt. The house itself begins to creak, and Annie also makes a sharp noise of fear, leaning against Abed’s other side. At this point, Troy can barely see her.
He hides his eyes by burying his head into Abed’s shoulder. (Abed smells really good, he notes kind of distantly, and then reminds himself that he might die and there are a lot more important things going on, and also he’s mad at Abed, remember??)
He jumps as there’s a sudden loud CRACK, jolting as he tears his gaze up back to the parlor, but can’t make out anything besides blurry figures. And then—
Someone screams.
Pierce’s laughter cuts off.
The room settles into silence.
A couple feathers float down from the ceiling as they all collectively hold their breath; the parlor is completely still. No one speaks as the fog slowly clears and reveals only seven equally frightened faces, even though Jeff is doing his best to not to show it, making him look kind of constipated rather than relaxed.
Craig is curled up on the ground, their papers scattered around them, rocking and whimpering. Annie rushes up to them, placing a careful hand on their back. “Hey,” she whispers, “We’re gonna figure this out. It’s okay.” She begins to gather the papers, and Jeff walks up to her to help.
“Really?” she says to Jeff, surprised.
Jeff pauses from where he’s begun to kneel and gather the legal documents. “It’s Pierce’s will,” he replies, shrugging.
She scowls and hits his shoulder, then returns to comforting Craig.
Meanwhile, Abed scours the room, looking over each person and item. There’s a vase cracked on the ground, and something black—ashes, maybe—have spilled out of it. The feathers seem to be from a pillow that hit the roof too hard. He counts heads silently, then frowns, turning to the spot where Chang was, and then does another once-over.
Chang’s not in the room.
Abed gives Troy’s hand a squeeze. Troy glares at him and rips his hand out of Abed’s.
Abed pauses at that, cocking his head, then nods, pulling the arm around Troy’s shoulders back into his lap. Immediately, Troy feels guilty, and then angry at Abed for making him feel guilty, so he crosses his arms. Abed turns away from Troy to look at the group, all in various states of shock and stress, and says, “Pierce took Chang,” matter of fact. “That’s probably who screamed.”
“Chang’s missing?” cries Britta, suddenly glancing around.
“Abed, that’s impossible,” responds Jeff in an unimpressed way. “Pierce is dead, remember?”
Abed shrugs and gets off the couch, walking over to where Chang was.
“Uh, ghosts?” retorts Troy in his best duh, Jeff, voice, and looks in the direction Abed’s heading.
His gaze settles on the portrait of Pierce, chewing on his lip. A much younger Pierce Hawthorne stares back at him.
Troy realizes with a start that the portrait is smiling.