Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Davey doesn’t know much about his grandmother. His mom tells him that she’s just passed away and that there won’t be a funeral. He doesn’t cry and can’t be sad, because that woman is an enigma, a subject that his whole family has kept under lock and key since he can remember, guarding it with their lives.

He’s asked everyone. And all he knows about her is that she’s his grandmother on his mom’s side, that she did something unforgivable to her daughter one day and ran away. His mom won’t talk about her because it hurts her, because of the trauma, because it’s easier to forget. So she’s a mystery who doesn’t even have a name, who’s been erased from the Jacobs family tree, torn forcefully from her branch and left somewhere to rot.

He isn’t sure if he feels sorry for her, or if he’s just curious to have answers. Either way, she’s dead now, and his mom certainly isn’t upset about it. What she is upset about, however, is the house she’s left in Davey’s name.

“How did she leave it for him?” She says, “She didn’t even know David existed! I never told her, and I don’t know anyone who would.”

Esther’s been on the phone to her sister for the past hour, at first celebrating the passing of a “witch”, now ranting about the circumstances surrounding the inheritance of her home in Santa Fe. Davey’s always noticed the way his mom refers to her as a witch, a sorceress, a snake, you get the idea, rather than by a name. God forbid she’d ever call her “mom.”

“Mom.” Davey says.

She doesn’t listen. Her hands fly around like blades on a windmill and Davey can hear his aunt’s voice crackling down the speaker, trying to soothe her. But Esther’s bordering on hysterics, her eyes red and her face blotchy and pale.

“If she thinks I’m letting him go out there, she’s got another thing coming!” She says, pulling on the ends of her hair, instead of getting the straighteners off the side, which are steaming and look like they’re about to set on fire, “That witch never did a good thing for me, if she thinks she can redeem herself with David, she’s madder than I thought. There is no way I’m sending him out there to her - her lair!”

“Mom.” Davey says, louder this time.

Esther waves a hand in his direction in a not now kind of gesture. She flicks the switch off, the hair straighteners letting out a relieved sigh, no longer glowing magma orange. Her sister is rambling gentle Yiddish words, telling her not to worry.

“Ruth, listen to me,” Esther says, “That woman robbed me of my childhood. I will not let my son suffer the way I did. We are better off keeping her out of our lives, like I have tried to do for the past forty-one years. I swore I would not think of her again, not after…”

She crumples, sobbing into the phone. Her sister’s voice picks up, calling for her husband, saying she’s going to get in the car and come over right away. Davey wants to help her, and he knows as he says it that it’s wrong, but it comes out anyway, like a wave rolling over sand, too strong to contain.

“Mom,” He says, “I want to go.”

She stares at him with horror, mascara running down her cheeks. She mumbles to herself, getting up shakily and coming to stroke his face with her trembling hands. She looks at him like a mother watching her baby die, saying goodbye through the pain of a grief that’s already setting in.

“No, no, no, no.” She says, her head shaking again and again, “You don’t know what she was like. No, no, no.”

“I just want to see the house,” He says, “That’s all. I’ll come back if it isn’t safe.”

His aunt pulls into the driveway ten minutes later, putting a blanket over Esther’s shoulders and leading her towards the sofa. She smiles calmly, though it’s laced with underlying sadness, and Davey wonders how many times she’s had to deal with this, how deep the scars of whatever his grandmother did really are.

“I’ve talked to Esther,” She says, in that soft voice that Davey’s always found relaxing, “She’s worried, but I told her you’ll be okay. She just cares about you, David, you know that.”

“I know.”

“And our mom gave no reason to be trusted,” She continues, sighing, “Not that I’m old enough to remember what happened anyway.”

“I know.”

His aunt then pushes him gently into the front room, where his mom is sipping from a cup of tea, looking considerably calmer and more rested. His aunt has that healing effect on people - it’s like witnessing a miracle. Esther smiles slightly at him.

“I’m sorry for overreacting, David,” She says, “I just struggle to get onboard with anything that’s planned by that woman.”

Davey understands. He’s trying to get a grasp on why his grandmother could possibly want him to have this house, whether it benefits a dead woman in any way. It’s just so sudden and unexpected and it feels there must be a catch of some sort.

“It’s okay,” He says, “Does this mean I can go?”

It seems so hard for her to say yes, biting her lip, toying with the folds of the blanket, glancing up at the photo of her and her sister in Santa Fe as children. Davey’s heard all about that trip; it seems to be one of the only parts of her youth that Esther isn’t pained by, a positive memory in a sea of negative ones.

“Go and check it out,” She says quietly, “But promise me you’ll be back in a couple of days.”

“I will. I’ll ask Jack if he’ll come with me.”

Esther smiles a little, nodding to herself, “I like Jack.”

Satisfied that she’s been put at ease, Davey goes up to his room to call Jack. They’ve been best friends since forever and dating for almost a year, and this whole situation spells out Jack in capital letters; he’d never forgive Davey if he missed out on it.

“You have a haunted mansion!?” Jack says, “That’s so cool.”

His face is dark and pixelated on the screen, but Davey can’t help but smile at the way his eyes light up with an almost childlike excitement. In many ways, Jack is old for his age - you have to be, with a life like his - but sometimes he just seems so juvenile in his ways, so enthusiastic and impressed by things like this. It just makes Davey fall in love with him all over again.

“You fancy a trip then?” Davey asks, “Spend a couple of days in Santa Fe? Try not to get eaten by any monsters my grandma’s left for us?”

Jack grins, “Our first holiday together! I’m already packing my bag.”

In case Davey didn’t believe him - which, of course he does, it’s Jack, who once, in high school, painted this huge backdrop for the play before he was even accepted as the set designer - Jack holds a small suitcase up to the camera, which he isn’t holding onto properly, as the lip falls open and a pile of clothes drop out onto the floor.

Davey laughs, “You’re so ridiculous. See you tomorrow.”

Jack leans forwards and presses his lips to the lens, which is gross, but somehow cute as well, and Davey keeps laughing. He doesn’t know how the hell this happened, but he’s happy it did. Years of pining for his best friend really paid off, and he couldn’t imagine a better person to protect him against whatever spirits his mom thinks are lurking in Santa Fe. Jack would probably beat up a brick wall to defend Davey if he was asked to.

It’ll be fine. They’ll have a look around, and relax a little. Davey can call his mom every night to assure her they’re safe, and maybe they can just have a fun time out west. It’ll be a nice change of scenery, that’s for sure. New York isn’t without its charms, but it can start to wear on you after a while. The fresh, country air will do him some good. And Jack will be there.

The more Davey thinks about it, the more confident he is that there’s nothing to worry about. His grandmother died, the house is his; if he doesn’t like it, he can sell it. He pictures it being a beautiful cottage, with terracotta walls and flower baskets hanging off the walls. It has a garden and the sun is always warm. There’s a whole town to explore there.

Jack isn’t the only one who’s feeling the thrill of this adventure; Davey finds that his mind is full of fantasies of lovely houses and lizards scuttling through grass as he lies down on his bed and wonders what people wear in Santa Fe. Will he have to go shopping, or does he have enough in his wardrobe to take?

Chapter Text

Jack stands in the hallway, a suitcase in his hand. His hands fiddle with the handle absentmindedly, a way of trying to abate the anxiety he finds himself struck with. He’s never been on any kind of holiday before, so while this is also his first one with Davey, it’s his first altogether.

He never had a family to take him anywhere. Even now, it’s just him and Crutchie, and neither of them can afford that kind of extravagance. So, this is a big deal - a very big deal. And he’s been freaking out about it all night, gushing to Crutchie about what they’re going to do once they get there and how he’ll finally be able to send someone a postcard. This is an experience that most people are first exposed to when they’re kids, too young to see the importance of it, but Jack’s had all these years to plan what it’ll be like when he makes it out of the city, and now he’s nervous that this won’t live up to that.

“You packed sun cream, right?” Crutchie asks, carrying a light duffel bag over.

“Yes, mom.” Jack says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m just lookin’ out for you, Jackie. We all know you can’t do it for yourself.”

“I resent that, asshole.”

Crutchie holds his arms open and Jack sighs dramatically before going in for a hug. He’s never been further than a ten mile radius from his brother until now, and it’s going to feel like having his heart torn out of his chest, still beating, held in front of his face and ripped apart, but it’s a step that has to be taken eventually. He doesn’t want to spend his whole life in this flat, where everything is broken or breaking.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Jack whispers into Crutchie’s chest.

“I know,” Crutchie says, “I’ll miss you too. But you can call me whenever.”

They only met each other a few years ago. Jack’s current foster father had had enough of his attitude and set him on his way to a home that already had a kid: Crutchie. They went through some shit in that place, but they went through it together. In some ways, the dark days were the things that bonded them, forced them to decide between looking out for each other or practising self-preservation.

As soon as Jack turned eighteen, he signed all the documents to become Crutchie’s legal guardian, so they’d never be separated again, and would never have to see anything like what they saw in that house. It lies, an unspoken rule between them, that they are never to mention those horrors, not under this roof nor any other.

“I’m excited,” Jack says, “But scared too.”

Crutchie lets go of him, handing him the duffel bag - which is full of photos of the two of them and the letters that they used to write during the brief period when Jack outgrew the foster system, and Crutchie was still under some old drunkard’s care. It’s almost painful looking at them, seeing this gesture made so deliberately, with the message written on a piece of paper at the top: for if you feel homesick.

“Go show Santa Fe what they’ve been missin’ out on,” Crutchie says, laughing, “And stay as long as you want. Just don’t have too much fun without me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Jack says.

He turns back for one last quick hug, listening to the familiar sound of Crutchie’s laugh as his arms latch on - it’s frightening in a way; he never thought he’d have to let go of his brother. But then he’s out the door, jumping into the car that miraculously passed safety inspections, and turning on the radio.

Crutchie’s face appears outside the car window, which Jack winds down.

“Don’t call me if you think the house is haunted!” Crutchie says, “I may study the paranormal for fun, but I am not goin’ to deal with you callin’ me every time you think you’ve heard somethin’ spooky.”

Jack pulls up in Davey’s driveway after about fifteen minutes. He doesn’t enjoy driving, just like the rest of the world don’t enjoy him being allowed a licence. He only just passed the test and is almost classed as a menace on the roads; his steering is all over the place. It’s shocking that Davey agreed to let him drive, considering the last time this happened, they almost crashed into a bush.

Davey’s trying to wriggle out of the death grip of his mom, who is kissing him over and over on the top of his head. Jack catches his eye from in the car, struggling to contain laughter, and Davey shoots him a death glare.

After making his way out of Esther’s clutches, Davey makes his way over to the waiting car.

“Love you, Mom!” He calls over his shoulder.

He opens the passenger seat door and instantly bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God!” He gasps, “Jack! What are you wearing?”

The thing is, Jack figures that Santa Fe is a lot warmer than New York. He’s never been there, but that’s his guess. So, he went down the sensible route of dressing appropriately for the weather. And he always wears pretty crazy things, because that just sums him up, but the way Davey’s eyes are popping out of his head suggests he believes this is on a whole different level.

“Dunno,” Jack shrugs, a little embarrassed, “Santa Fe’s hot, right?”

“Yes,” Davey says, “But a crop top?”

His eyes haven’t moved an inch from the exposed skin of Jack’s stomach, which he seems to be enjoying too much to act completely offended by. Maybe that was another reason why he wore it, to get a reaction out of his boyfriend. And Davey certainly hasn’t disappointed on that front.

“What are those jeans?” Davey practically screams.

“I dunno what they’re called,” Jack says, “They’re them ones that are tight at the top and wide at the bottom.”

Davey finally gets into the car, waving goodbye to a very confused Esther who’s still standing on the bottom step, holding a hand to her heart like this is the hardest thing she’s ever done. Jack can empathise a little bit; the expression on her face reminds her of the way it felt leaving Crutchie.

He’s never left Crutchie because he always had to be there to protect him. If he ever left, that man did not hold back - he had no restraint for the little crippled kid who didn’t have his bodyguard there to save him anymore. No, Jack was never allowed a break, a walk outside, a holiday.

He reminds himself that things have changed now, and Crutchie’s fine without him.

“And why did you wear them?” Davey asks.

Jack grins widely, “They make my legs look long. And they accentuate my-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“-ass.”

Davey takes a scrunched up bit of paper off the floor and throws it at Jack’s head, the latter laughing loudly, taking great pleasure in the way Davey’s face flushes.

“Do you wanna see?” Jack asks with an innocent smile.

"No!" Davey says, "I definitely do not."

Jack wiggles his eyebrows, smiling still, "Are you sure?"

"Oh my God stop." Davey groans, "You know I'm fighting my pride and that I definitely want to see. Just drive, you idiot."

They drive for about half an hour, Davey turning off the radio constantly, complaining about Jack’s terrible music taste, to which Jack reminds him that the choice of music belongs to the person who owns the car. He glosses over the fact that this car is actually Crutchie’s and that it’s just on a temporary loan with the message that Jack must not, under any circumstance, get even a scratch on it.

“Hey Dave,” Jack says, turning to look at Davey, “What do you think it’s like in Santa Fe?”

The car glides worryingly close to surrounding shrubbery while Jack keeps looking at Davey with what could well be an expression of uncertainty. He’d been looking forward to this, but now they’re heading towards this unknown place, nervousness is spreading through his blood.

“Eyes on the road!” Davey says.

The car swerves back into the lane, narrowly missing a tree, birds flying up from out of its leaves, other drivers honking their horns at Jack’s haphazard handling as he spins the wheel and gets them back in a straight line.

“Sorry,” Jack mumbles, eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead of him this time.

He sees the way Davey’s breathing deeply, the terror that had just grasped a hold of him, and thinks about what Crutchie would say if he crashed the car. Not only that, but it would risk the life of one of the two people in the world who genuinely cares about him. Jack couldn’t live with a conscience like that burdening him.

“I think it’s warm,” Davey says, untensing his shoulders, “In Santa Fe. I think the people are friendly. I think there are bookshops on every corner and parks at the end of each street.”

“That sounds nice.”

Davey is nice, Jack thinks, nicer than he ever thought he’d get, the kindest, most wonderful human being who was foolish or brave enough to choose Jack out of everyone, because Davey would have anyone he wanted. But, at the end of it all, he chose Jack, which is more than enough of a reason to smile.

“Look at the trees!” Jack says.

Davey chuckles quietly, “I’ve never seen so many.”

They drive at the motorised equivalent of a walking amble, drifting along slowly to take in the sights of a place that is nothing like New York. The sky is dark and full of stars, and every single sandy building is illuminated by rich orange lights. There are cafes and restaurants around each bend and if you look up high enough, there are mountains - lush green and snowy capped. Jack’s never been into walking, but he wishes he could climb them, see what everything looks like from up there, the world sprawled out like a map beneath him.

“Can you take a picture?” Jack says, “I’ve gotta show Crutchie this.”

“Way ahead of you,” Davey laughs, “Already got one and sent it to you and Mom.”

“You’re the best.”

It’s so beautiful. Everything looks like it fell out of a fairytale, and Jack can’t help but think that it will all disappear and melt away when he steps out the car, giving way to the desert around, nothing more than a breathtaking mirage. It’s just so perfect, not a single scar to the earth or skyscraper or concrete slab, just rocks and eagles and fresh air.

Jack sees shops selling souvenirs and makes a mental note to buy Crutchie something to take back, a ragged little place that says it specialises in retro clothing, which he has got to check out as soon as they settle in, butchers and bakeries that advertise authentic food from New Mexico. He doesn’t know what he was worried about; this place is a dream.

“Did we take a wrong turn?” Davey asks, looking at his phone, probably at a Sat-Nav, since no one trusts Jack to drive.

“I don’t think so.”

Though, truthfully, Jack had been wondering the same thing himself. They’ve made their way up and out of the picturesque town centre, along sprawling back roads that are covered in bin bags and mangy cats, barely squeezing the car between the rows of ugly terraced houses that leer down like tall zombies. The whole place is a total contrast from the reassuring Santa Fe they’ve just been through, somewhere that sends chills down Jack’s spine, like icy fingers tracing their way across his back.

The car sputters, the red light flashing to say it’s low on fuel. There was a gas station back in the town, but that was a good twenty minutes ago, and chances are they’re almost at the house anyway. May as well just get there now.

Davey jumps out of the car as they approach a broken gate, a plaque on the crumbling rock above inscribed with words too small to read. He gets back in with a grim expression and a miserable shake of his head.

“It’s the one.” He says, doing his seatbelt back up.

Jack nods. Maybe it’s nicer on the inside; just because the gate’s fallen into disrepair, it means nothing about the condition of the rest of the property. Maybe Davey’s grandmother just didn’t care about keeping her gate shiny and new.

Or not. The car fights its way through undergrowth - out of control brambles and ivy that seem to cling to its metal body. Jack feels slightly sick: so much for not scratching Crutchie’s car - it’s going to need a whole fresh coat of paint after this. He can hear the thorns snagging on the hood, ripping off chunks of the blue Crutchie was so proud of.

Then the house comes into view, and suddenly this is less of a holiday, and more of a survival mission. Jack doesn’t read many books, but he’s watched plenty of films, and this place could well have been the set for any gothic horror movie - even the premise is fitting: creepy old lady dies, leaves grandson the house, terrible things ensue.

It’s decrepit, barely a frame, with half a roof and windows that look like they’ve caved in and doubled in size since the original build. Humongous, inky black crows fly from the rafters, screaming with glee and warning, their feathers sparse and patchy, their red eyes watching. Clouds block out all the stars that could be seen in Santa Fe, dowsing the house in an eerie darkness, hiding secrets and whatever is waiting around the next corner. Jack’s heart pounds like a hammer in his chest, his legs feel flimsy and useless as he looks at those windows and the hole where the door should be, gaping open like a hungry mouth, the jagged splinters protruding downwards its monstrous teeth.

Everything is pointing towards them not going in there. Jack isn’t scared, not even as the forest behind him rustles, making him jump out of his skin and turn on his heel. No, this isn’t scary, but he still isn’t so sure they should go in. That mouth could eat them alive the second they step over the line.

“Dave…” He whispers.

Davey nods, swallows, blinks. He takes Jack’s hand in his own and starts walking up to the house. From this angle, it looks creaky and fragile enough to sway too hard and collapse on them in the wind. Something howls in the trees. Jack’s heartbeat is racing out of control at one hundred and fifty per minute.

Davey enters first. There is no great explosion, no movement from the house itself, no disaster. So, Jack follows. From inside, he can see up through the missing roof, where more of those crows nest on the beams, and beyond that, the foggy canvas of the sky. There’s no light inside, and the floor is covered in warm puddles that make Jack regret the jeans at last. Rats scuttle out from their hiding places, fleeing the noise of two pairs of footsteps that seem to echo through the wasteland.

Pieces of wood swing from the ceiling, ready to fall down on someone’s head. Rusty nails jut out from the walls, where they once held something in place but now are just harbingers of infection and pain. The stench in the air is one of stagnant water and gone off meat, animal faeces and a damp that set in a long time ago. No one has looked after this house for years, it would seem.

Jack’s hand stays firm around Davey’s and together they take another step deeper into the cursed place. And then this feeling passes over him, like being thrown head-first in a bucket of ice, but it burns at the same time, feels like he’s being pulled out of his own body, and he screams, loud and rough and it feels like it’s cleaving his throat in two and -

- And he’s polishing off a gun, brass, loaded, ready to kill. Guilt sits on him but he knows it's too late -

- He wanders this house. It is still in its days of glory, a respected manor that will never see his portrait on the wall -

- Here he is as a child, playing so innocently with a friend who would one day turn on him -

- He cries instead of sleeping, a little boy who hurts, who everyone hates -

- “Mister Conlon, please,” a woman says, “You do not have to die. There must be another way.” He kisses her goodbye and tells her not to stay up late tonight, that he will either be back for tea, or not at all. She sobs into her handkerchief and tells him that she loves him. He does not say it back -

- He waits, gun on the table. If only he had not made so many enemies -

- The night before the duel, he thinks it would be allowed for him to treat himself. He opens the bottle of wine and pours himself a glass. He feels it instantly - his throat closing in on itself, his body shutting down. He drops the glass, sees it shatter on the floor.

“Poison,” The voice comes from him but it is not Jack’s, “The coward.” -

“Jack!” Davey screams, shaking his boyfriend roughly, “Oh my God, Jack!”

Jack’s eyes open. He’s on the floor, but doesn’t remember how he got there. Davey’s crouching in front of him, his eyes shining with tears. He feels stiff and sore and all the things he saw flash before him, a barrage of information he has no right to possess.

“What happened?” Jack says, his voice croaking in his dry, dry throat.

“You just collapsed,” Davey chokes out, “You - you were shaking and rolling around and - and your eyes. They were white. I was shouting your name but - you - you couldn’t hear me. I thought you were dying.”

“Not me,” Jack says to himself, “But someone died here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what I saw.” Jack says, “It was like someone else’s memories were being shown to me. I think I’m just tired.”

Davey nods, but he doesn’t look like he believes it. Jack doesn’t either. He knows this wasn’t just a hallucination, something conjured up by his mind - it was so real, so alive. He just saw someone else’s life flash before his eyes.

Chapter Text

For Davey to say he’s scared would be grossly understating it. He is absolutely, positively petrified out of his mind. He keeps glancing at Jack - whose ass does look good in those jeans - expecting him to fall down again. It was the most horrific thing he’s ever seen, watching his boyfriend contorting in agony, writhing in a puddle on the floor of some old nightmare house.

It made him want to walk right out and leave. Get back in the car, refill the tank, and go home as fast as possible. But the promise of a holiday is hard to get out of his head, lodged in firmly, and despite the decaying house and the mystery of what just happened to Jack, maybe this can still be the fun trip they planned.

They carry their bags up the stairs, which are winding, like those in an ancient castle, with barriers that have broken off in some places, and holes in every third step where some unlucky soul’s foot has gone clean through. The air smells of fear, or maybe that’s just because of how totally intoxicated with terror Davey is.

He’s jittery and restless and his head flips back and forth, searching for anything that could be waiting to pounce from out of the shadows. His attention is drawn like a spotlight to the paleness of Jack’s skin and the sweaty sheen that glistens on it. For want of a better phrase, Jack looks like he’s seen a ghost, and not a harmless one.

There’s a bedroom on the first floor (there is a grand total of five floors) that is more or less intact. The four poster bed still looks usable and the only floorboard absent is right in the corner, which is full of rat droppings - and Davey will definitely not be going near that. The curtains that drape across the window are moth-eaten and mouldy, and the window itself has no glass in it, letting a cold breeze in, but it’ll do.

Jack sits on the bed, hugging his knees to his chest and staring out into the hallway. Again, Davey is comparing him to a child - a frightened one who’s waiting for his parents to assure him that there are no monsters living in his room. And it’s so unusual and wrong that Davey doesn’t really know what to do. He puts an awkward hand on Jack’s back, the dampness of his skin from the water he fell in a reminder of what’s really going on, feeling the way his boyfriend seems to relax a little at his touch.

That’s okay, it’s enough. As long as Davey can solve this, they’ll be fine.

“It’s been a long day, right?” Jack says, “And I didn’t sleep too good last night.”

He laughs a little to himself, though it’s more of a pained gasp than anything else, certainly not enough to convince Davey that he’s not shaken by this.

“So, I’m just seein’ things,” Jack says, nodding, “My mind’s over-active and I’m just a little on edge. Ain’t real, whatever I saw.”

Davey doesn’t reply. It sounds like Jack’s just trying to talk himself out of believing crazy things, he isn’t expecting Davey to say anything. But still Jack’s body is a bit too tense and his eyes are just a little frantic, like if he moves them for even a second, something will come and take his mind somewhere unreachable again.

Jack sits there for a moment, just staring, before he comes back to life, taking the crop top off and throwing it onto the floor. Davey doesn’t have the heart to tell him how dirty that floor is, not after what he’s just been subjected to. It’s pleasing to see a bit of normality still; Jack’s never had any dignity and will be mid-conversation and then start stripping - it’s like he was born without the part of your brain that lets you feel shame.

“Take a picture; it’ll last longer,” Jack says, taking off his jeans too, “Maybe send it to your mom, show her what a nice trip we’re having.”

“Shut up.” Davey says, throwing the sheet off the bed into Jack’s hands, “Cover yourself up.”

“Or what?”

“Or I sleep on the floor.” Davey says, folding his arms triumphantly.

Jack pouts - literally, like a toddler. He gets on the bed, pulling a disgusted face when he lies on something, which he pulls out from under him and turns out to be a dead cockroach. Just like Davey asked, he covers himself with the sheet, which is somewhat disappointing, since it’s always nice to look at him, but Davey’s got to stay true to his instruction and can’t be seen wavering now - it would please Jack way too much.

“You know what?” Jack says, yawning, his eyelids fluttering open and shut as he rolls his face into the pillow, “You can drive yourself back. You don’t appreciate me enough, and I’m not gonna stand for it - I…”

He trails off somewhere along the way, closing his eyes and turning onto his side. He sure wasn’t kidding when he said he was tired; Davey finds himself struck with a faint flicker of hope that maybe Jack did imagine it all and there’s nothing wrong with this house. He laughs anyway, kissing Jack on the cheek, knowing full well he’s already fallen asleep. It’s unfair how pretty he looks when he’s sleeping.

Davey gets into the bed next to Jack, their bodies pressed pretty closely against one another - the bed is a tad smaller than it had first appeared. It’s a good job Davey’s used to the fact that Jack moves constantly in his sleep, tossing and turning and grabbing onto anyone who’s within range and hugging the life out of them. He’s quite a restless sleeper, and it isn’t rare for him to have night terrors.

The house creaks around them. Birds beat their wings somewhere overhead. Four-legged vermin gnaw away at wood, scratching their filthy claws across the damp-ridden, spongy surface. Everything seems to be plotting, stalking, hunting. Davey can’t sleep.

When he shuts his eyes, he sees Jack on the floor. When he opens them, he sees Jack groaning in his sleep, moving around like he’s trying to escape from something. Davey wishes there was something he could do to save him, but just like how Jack couldn’t hear him earlier, he’s a million miles too far away at night.

Davey puts his phone on. The picture he sent to his mom earlier has been sent, and she’s replied asking: How’s the house? Davey tries to reply, telling her it’s fine, but all he gets next to his message is a little circle, endlessly chasing its own tail. No signal. Brilliant.

He’s supposed to have called her already, but she’ll have to wait. His phone is next to useless in these walls. She’ll probably be panicking now, but he can explain it all tomorrow when he goes somewhere that has a signal.

His grandmother must’ve been bedridden, or else she would’ve done something about the house. She must’ve been stuck here, forced to watch it all come to pieces around her, with no family to help her. He still wonders why she left it for him. Why not Esther? Or aunt Ruth? If she really wanted to redeem herself, she should’ve given the house to her daughters.

Unless she has something totally different in mind altogether, a whole other motive for giving a teenager the idea of a harmless holiday. Because if she’d asked his mom, there’s no way she would’ve gone. His aunt probably wouldn’t have either. Davey is likely to be the only Jacobs who would even consider travelling out to Santa Fe and staying in the house. That can’t be a coincidence.

His mind is awash with fear and he can’t sit still. He hears Jack sighing beside him, spares a look at his boyfriend’s face pressed into the pillow. But it doesn’t make him happy like it normally would. There’s something else tugging at his stomach, and it isn’t welcome. The walls seem to have eyes, every noise is something that could come hurtling towards them, defenceless in this bed, and slaughter them before they have time to react.

Davey gets out of the bed, leaves Jack, with his arms wrapped around the other pillow, and prays to any and every deity in the universe and each spirit in this godforsaken house that he makes it back to this bedroom alive.

Portraits line the walls. There would once have been more, but some have fallen off over the years. The ones that remain are faded and decorated with drops of rain and a musty scent. Their beady eyes watch, their stern faces scalding him for being here. His footsteps sound like cannons firing, each one making the house complain with a deep shudder of the foundations.

A noise is coming from the bathroom at the end of the hall, a ceaseless dripping, like someone’s left a tap running. Davey edges towards it, peering back over his shoulder, prepared to see someone standing behind him. The sound gets louder as he gets closer, something that would, under any other circumstances, be irritating, but here, Davey’s heart starts beating erratically, the drip amplified by the silence that suffocates all life out of this place.

He thinks he shouldn’t have left Jack alone in the bedroom.

His feet stop outside the bathroom.

He opens the door, and the noise it makes is like the wood is dying, like he’s killing it by moving it. His throat is dry and his breath is short and snatched. He needs to get a grip; it’s just a tap.

It’s not just a tap.

“Do you know when my mommy’s coming back?”

There’s a boy in the bath. He’s small, dressed in the slacks and vest of what appears to be a Victorian paper boy, a flat cap on his head. He’s hunched over, shivering, but his face is without any life. He’s as white as a sheet of paper and though he’s crying - that’s what the dripping was, Davey realises - his tears are the same shade, like someone’s forgotten to colour them in. His eyes are wide and fearful and his body-

His body is translucent. If Davey looks hard enough, he can see the other side of the bathtub through the boy.

Davey trips backwards, banging his head on a thick lead pipe. He screams, shrill and high and desperate, his hands shaking so violently it sends jerking tremors through his whole body. There’s nothing to pick up, to slam into this boy and stop him from doing whatever awful thing he’s about to do. Completely vulnerable. Davey is at the whim of this child.

He screams again and again. It feels like something in him is going to rupture with the pressure. The fear is overwhelming, seeping into every crack and line and telling him he’s going to die. His throat is begging for him to stop; it tastes like blood and tears, but he can’t. The back of his head throbs where he hit it.

The boy covers his eyes with his hands, screaming too. Davey gets one more look at him - he just doesn’t look solid, it’s so freakishly wrong - before the boy disappears, leaving nothing but thin air and a grimy bath. Davey keeps screaming for another minute or so, before his heartbeat goes from being a hurricane, to a simple storm.

He gets up on unsteady legs, grabbing onto the wall for support, and tries to get back to the comfort of the bedroom as quickly as he can. Every sound he hears is another child with black eyes, another body that isn’t quite there. He hurries, the cut on his head stinging from the sour air, not wanting to see another one. He can’t take it.

Is he mad? Davey thinks he’s going mad. It’s the oxygen here - too thin. He and Jack have breathed it in and it’s already affecting them, making them see things that aren’t there. They need to get out of here. Davey’s mind moves faster than his legs can, and he stumbles on a loose floorboard that slams into his shin. He can see the open door of the bedroom now, getting closer, almost within reach.

He turns around so fast he ends up falling. Whooshing noises surround him, the wind picking up like the start of a blizzard, gentle footsteps speeding past. He tries to get back to his feet, but his torso feels too heavy, his mind clouded by the pure, unyielding panic that sinks its talons into his chest.

A portrait falls off the wall, landing on the floor in front of him, its eyes staring right into his. Davey can’t even scream this time, his tongue is thick and useless and it seems to be choking him. Vases are knocked off of cabinets and metal clattering follows a stream of knives and forks that drop from an open drawer.

Davey gets to his feet and runs as fast as he can, leaving behind the sobbing child who turned into nothing and the flying items of the corridor. Much to his relief - and surprise - he finds Jack has slept through it all. Davey clambers into the bed, Jack’s warmth burning against his frozen limbs. He buries himself deep in the sheets, as close to Jack as he physically can, his body still shaking, his mind still lurching in alarm.

He will not sleep tonight.

Jack stirs, not opening his eyes, but letting out a quiet hum and wrapping Davey in his arms. He didn’t hear a thing. Davey wishes it was that easy.

Chapter Text

If anything, the house is creepier by day. Sunlight pours in through the gapped roof, shifting its sinister glow over everything that makes Jack reluctant to ever get out of this bed. Even something as simple as a wooden board is turned into something of a nightmare by these rays. In fact, the only thing in here that doesn’t paralyse him with fright is Davey, who is still asleep, who he can’t bring himself to wake.

He keeps thinking about that frosty patch of air, the woman pleading with a man only known to Jack as Mister Conlon, the gun, the poison, so vivid, popping with colour and volume in his head, like he was living it himself, but seeing through the eyes of someone else, spectating a show about a tragedy from long ago. Jack doesn’t know what the hell he saw, or if he even saw it at all, but he can’t shake it out - he doesn’t know what it is, but it just won’t quit.

Davey’s grandmother can’t have been the only person to die here, on this land. The gun and the poison and the sobbing in his mind can’t be his own fabrication - Jack doesn’t have that much creativity; he’s the kind of guy who paints landscapes, not builds detailed backstories for men without names. This man walked through these corridors once, Jack’s sure of it. He doesn’t know why he’s so certain, but his heart is confident that he is right.

He’s always trusted his instincts, and by now they’re so perfectly tuned that they couldn’t miss a thing. They were what united him with Crutchie in the darkest days of his life, and what led him down the better path and stopped him from doubting himself and turning back when his mom died. He’d be a fool to ignore them now, when their track record is perfect to date.

Davey moves beside him, half-opening his eyes and squinting at the sun.

“Don’t go,” He says quietly, his words slightly slurred, “Stay here.”

Jack laughs, “I can’t. Someone’s gotta buy some food, ‘less you wanna starve.”

He’s surprised when he sees fear appearing in Davey’s eyes, soft and gentle and barely awake, but present - just a growing flame of desperation, a begging strangely reminiscent of the woman who called out for Mister Conlon not to go. And what happened to Mister Conlon when he went anyway?

He died. Or at least, Jack believes he did.

“Don’t go,” Davey says again, this time sounding a little bit more needy, a bit more afraid.

It’s enough to arouse suspicion. Jack looks at Davey, at how exhausted he seems, hiding under the covers from the rest of the house. He’s been around broken children for most of his life and recognises fear anywhere; he’s taught himself every method for handling it, ways of soothing other people’s pain. Crutchie always told him it was a shame he hadn’t stopped somewhere along the way and learnt how to help himself.

“Did something happen?” Jack asks.

Davey shakes his head slightly, then gives a limp shrug, then bites down on his lip. Jack takes his hand in his own; it’s clammy, meaning something’s worrying him, and the fingers hold on tightly, like that’s enough to stop Jack from going anywhere.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Davey says, glancing out onto the hallway. Jack follows his gaze, and is just confused - there’s nothing there, why would there be?

“I was so tired, Jackie, but I kept hearing things,” He says, his tone tugging at Jack’s heartstrings, making him want nothing more than to reach out and heal this, “So, I went for a walk.”

He looks out into the hallway again. Jack recognises those wandering eyes. He saw children so lost in their minds they didn’t know which way was up, children who’d been used for so long they’d forgotten how to trust adults, children who couldn’t eat anymore. He’s an expert in psychological scars, carries a few too many of his own, and would never wish it upon anyone, let alone Davey, who is so wonderful in Jack’s eyes that he would do anything to help him.

“There was a boy.” Davey whispers, “In the bath. Crying. And he spoke to me.”

“Someone was in the house?” Jack asks, his voice rising a little.

This place isn’t secure. People won’t know anyone’s staying here. God knows how many people sneak in here under the cover of darkness to smoke and do drugs and hook up with each other. Unless they noticed the car, they wouldn’t know. People could be breaking in and doing whatever they want.

“I saw him,” Davey says, “But, Jackie, I don’t know if he was…alive.”

Jack’s blood runs cold. “What do you mean?”

Davey chokes back a quiet sob, his head in his hands.

“He was see-through.”

The words fall on Jack, crushing weights that just send him back to the foyer of the house, the sensation as he lost his will, the torrent of scenes selected from someone’s story that played themselves through his head unpermitted. He thought, maybe, it was just his mind, it was fatigue. But two incidents…Davey seeing something unnatural…

He wishes he could call Crutchie. He’d know what to do. He’s been studying paranormal happenings for years now. But he was very clear that Jack was not to call him in a blind panic just because he’d convinced himself the house was haunted. He’s all out of options, the only thing left to do is the one thing he’s good at: talking other people out of their minds, helping them to believe that things are okay.

So, Jack moves Davey’s head into his lap, running his fingers through his hair. It makes him think of those years in group homes, surrounded by suffering children who just needed a well-intentioned lie every once in a while to help them escape reality. Jack would sit with them and tell them about the day when this would be over, when they’d all have families that wanted them and lives of their own. Seeing other people cry hurt him more than anything else.

“I know what you think you saw,” He says softly, “I got pretty scared yesterday too. But I think our minds is just runnin’ away with themselves. We’re just walkin’ ‘round expectin’ ghosts, aren’t we? ‘Cause this house is so big and creepy. But ghosts ain’t real, and everythin’ seems a hundred times worse at night. There’s nothin’ in here except you and me, I promise you, Dave. You should just sleep, and let your mind rest.”

Davey looks out into the hall one last time, before sighing and closing his eyes.

“You’re right,” He says, “I’m sorry. You can go to the shop now, if you want.”

Jack wishes he believed a word of what he just said.

The walk into Santa Fe takes almost an hour, but Jack figures the exercise will do him good. He didn’t count on there being so many overgrown plants, though, and spends the majority of the downward trek brushing branches out from in front of his eyes and snagging his ankles on knotted roots that burst from the soil. Fucking nature. Pretty to look at, but a pain to be near. He’s almost grateful for New York’s avalanche of concrete and silicone.

It’s a miracle he doesn’t fall and land on his face, but eventually the ground evens out and buildings come into view. First, the dank and grotty ones that are hidden from the prettier parts of the town, then the gorgeous ones that captured his heart when they drove by yesterday. He pulls out his phone and takes a couple of pictures, sending them straight to Crutchie. See what a functioning adult he is, how well he handles himself and another person, how he’s managing all this way away by himself.

He wants to make Crutchie jealous, to prove him wrong.

The pictures do nothing to put Jack’s mind at rest. He knows that deep down, he’s barely keeping it together, and that this is all a facade, a show put on for the rest of the world that he knows what he’s doing, that he isn’t quaking with fear internally, that this isn’t the first time in years that he’s willingly been without his brother.

All those years of selflessly helping others, Jack’s never had much spare time on his hands. What little he did get he’s filled with his brother, or with Davey, or with art, maybe what he really needs is some time to himself, away from it all.

He finds the cute shop from yesterday, clothes hanging in the window. He doesn’t have much money, but this is totally worth it. Supporting local businesses is important. He strolls through aisles, picking up this stunning skirt that’s tie-dyed sunset orange, fading into warm yellow towards the top.

The man at the counter frowns as Jack hands it over, his thick eyebrows forming a w shape.

“You know that’s for girls?”

Jack smiles at him and slides across a pair of rose gold earrings with polished jade pendants for good measure. Depraved and deprived all his life, all he wants is one good thing, and no one, not even this man, can get in the way of it now, unless they’re prepared to brawl.

The bag swinging on his arm, Jack makes his way into the supermarket. The hum of the freezers drowns out the quiet music played on the speakers overhead. Fluorescent lights whine lowly, crying out for maintenance, slowly dimming one by one. There are bouquets of fresh flowers by the door; roses as pink as lips, crimson tulips dappled with canary yellow, chrysanthemums bursting in their multitudinous, full-bodied prime.

He walks through the rows, selecting essentials only, placing food in a trolley with a rickety wheel that keeps jerking off to the side and almost tripping him over. It’s sad really, but Jack’s been in supermarkets like this one since he was five, buying food and doing jobs for whoever was looking after him. He was the caretaker of a house that had two other boys in when he was only seven, and the looks he got from the cashiers when he was seen doing the shopping of a family will never escape his memory.

He never minded it. He just wished sometimes that he could’ve been normal and have parents of his own who did the shopping and helped him with homework and told him that they loved him.

He’s got Crutchie and Davey now. It’s not the same. It’s not what he wanted. But it’s more than enough.

Jack gets into a sprawling queue behind an elderly man who must be at least seventy. The man turns to him with a polite smile, which Jack returns.

“Now, I’ve been here my whole life - and that’s a mighty long time,” The man chuckles, “And I know near everybody who lives here. Yet I’ve never seen you before.”

“That’s because I’m only here on holiday,” Jack says, “Got here yesterday.”

“I see. And how are you liking the place?”

“Oh it’s beautiful.” Jack says, “I’m from New York, and this is just a whole other world. You’re awfully lucky to have called this place home.”

“That I am,” The man says, smiling, “That I am.”

The line shifts a couple of steps. Flies buzz around the lights. Jack can feel the old man’s gaze on him, and while it isn’t hostile or unfriendly, he isn’t sure if he likes it. There’s something about the man’s eyes. His voice, which sounds cheerful and welcoming to the untrained ear, contains hints of something Jack’s been exposed to for most of his life. He’s seen more than enough foster carers who act nice in front of the workers and are monsters once you enter their home. He knows how to spot a trickster.

“My name’s Joseph Pulitzer,” The man says. He waits a second, and Jack smiles tightly, confused and lost. The man sighs and shakes his head, “That normally has an effect. I guess you’re too young to have heard of me.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, “But I haven’t. I kinda live in a hole though, it ain’t personal - I’ve not heard of many people.”

He was never allowed a TV, a phone, or access to the internet. He was left behind in terms of popular media. He didn’t grow up on cartoons or video games and never had a chance to get into music. That’s probably why, when he was about six, he picked up a pencil, and swore never to put it down again.

“I’m a movie director,” Pulitzer says, “Had a few successes back in the days. What wouldn’t I give to go back to then?”

He smiles wistfully up at the lights and the flies and the signs advertising two for one offers on select ice creams.

“Media’s just one great scrabble for success,” He says, “Constantly fighting to stay relevant. Once you let go, someone replaces you. It’s a brutal industry, son, but a fulfilling one - never a dull day, I tell you. The stories I have…” He laughs gently, “But I’m boring you. What does a kid want to hear about an old man’s glory days?”

Pulitzer’s at the front of the queue now, his creased face full of remorse and loss, looking at Jack with a longing, like he wishes he could go back to his youth, to being famous and respected instead of an old man in his pyjamas and slippers in a supermarket in Santa Fe. That’s just what life is - one minute you’re at the top of the world, invincible and untouchable, the next you’re falling down from your pedestal, landing in a heap at the bottom with all the other failures and relics of times gone by, with no way of ever crawling back from the pits.

Pulitzer is what’s left of another generation. Jack is yet to have his twenty-four hours in the sun, and honestly, he doesn’t think it’s coming. Not everyone is cut out for fame and adventures and movie directing - some people are happier to just go on holidays with their boyfriend and live with their brother in a flat in New York, never becoming known, but knowing the people who care are right there.

“Where are you staying?” Pulitzer asks, unloading the first of his shopping onto the conveyor belt of the checkout.

“This old house up on the hill,” Jack says, “You might know it? Falling to pieces, huge gate outside.”

And Pulitzer’s sunken eyes flash with unmissable regret, his bottom lip trembling a little as he looks in the direction of the house. He puts the last of his shopping on the belt, and gives Jack a little nod to show the conversation’s over, hobbling over to the person who’s scanning his food.

He’s a small distance away from Jack when he whispers, his words laced with pain and guilt, in the shaky voice of an old man, something that sounds like: “Katherine.”

First Mister Conlon, then the boy in the bath, and now this Katherine whom Pulitzer mentioned. That is, banking on Jack taking the word of an old man who’s lost in the past and may not be entirely whole in his mind. Age may have gotten to him and left behind its cloudiness and weakness, and Katherine may not have ever existed, but the raw look in those eyes makes Jack think otherwise.

He searches Joseph Pulitzer on his phone as soon as he leaves the supermarket, and the results are less than inspiring. Pulitzer wasn’t kidding when he said about the battle to stay relevant - looking at the ratings of his movies, it would appear he never quite reached relevance. What’s interesting is the fact that his movies back in the 80s and 90s got decent, almost good, reviews, but after 2002 everything went downhill for Joseph Pulitzer and everything he made was a flop.

September 1st 2002, he released a movie called The Million Regrets of an American Parent. It has mixed reviews and three stars, most people saying it’s badly put together and makes no sense. But there’s one review at the top titled “A Love Letter To Parents Who Got Parenting Wrong.” And a single word plays over and over in Jack’s mind:

Katherine.

“Jack!” Davey says, “Hey.”

He hugs Jack quickly, swerving around the bags. Katherine and Joseph Pulitzer are pushed from Jack’s thoughts, replaced with the image of Davey lying in the bed this morning, scared witless of ghosts he may or may not have seen.

“Hey,” Jack mimics, smiling, “How are you?”

“Better.” Davey says, “Thanks.”

“Any time.”

Davey certainly looks rested. He doesn’t look so tight and on edge as earlier, much more relaxed and at ease. His eyes are brighter and while he won’t have forgotten, Jack hopes the beauty of Santa Fe and the heat of the sun are enough to put his mind off it all for a while.

“Why do you insist on wearing these things?” Davey asks, laughing exasperatedly, “Skinny jeans? My mom would have a heart attack, and she loves you.”

“Well, Dave, as I told you yesterday, it makes my ass look good.”

“Oh my God, you’re so full of yourself,” Davey laughs, “You know, modesty might be a good look on you.”

Jack shrugs, “Perhaps. But what’s the fun in that?”

“I think I’m getting a headache just talking to you.”

Jack slings his arm around Davey’s shoulder, “That means I’m doing my job right.”

Davey’s mom picks up on the first ring. Her face fills the screen, smiling with stressed relief. Everything looks dark behind her eyes themselves appear almost black in the bad lighting and resolution of the phone, the lids sitting heavily above.

“David!” She says, her mouth moving a second behind the sound, “Why didn’t you call me last night? I was so worried!”

“I’m sorry, mom,” He says, “There’s no signal in the house. I had to walk into town to call.”

“The house isn’t in town?” Esther asks, “Sounds just like that witch to isolate herself on the outskirts. Is it far from Santa Fe?”

“Just a little walk,” Davey says, “Nothing too bad. Jack and I came down this morning for food.”

“How’s Jack?” She asks, smiling a little, “Is he there?”

Davey’s convinced that she’d adopt Jack in the blink of an eye. She’d probably trade them both and have Jack for a son instead.

“Hey, Mrs. Jacobs,” Jack grins, popping his head into the camera, “How are you?”

“He’s so polite,” Esther says, “So sweet. You should take notes David - learn from Jack.”

Jack cackles a little at that, nudging Davey in the ribs, who in turn struggles to hold in a wheeze of laughter. Learn from Jack. That isn’t something he ever thinks would be a good idea for anyone to do.

“I’ll try to teach him some manners,” Jack says, “By the time we’re back, he’ll be a new man.”

Esther laughs, “I’ll look forward to seeing that.”

She shifts a little, the light in the room turning on and flashing on her face, which is tinged with worry.

“How’s the house?” She asks.

Jack and Davey exchange a look. There’s no way they can tell Esther what they think they’ve seen; she’d freak out and demand they return, over something that probably isn’t even real. That would be a waste of a holiday and a waste of energy. Now that they’re here, they may as well make the most of it and try to forget the things they saw.

“It’s nice,” Davey says, “A bit run-down, but nice.”

Esther smiles with visible relief, but Jack glances at him guiltily, with heavy eyes that tell him he isn’t sure they’re doing the right thing. But this holiday in Santa Fe is important - Davey knows how much it means to Jack, and while Jack is selfless enough to sacrifice that for Esther’s wellbeing, Davey doesn’t want to take it from him. Seeing his boyfriend so happy in this town is worth the lie.

“That’s good,” Esther says, “How long do you plan on staying?”

This time, Jack cuts in before Davey can speak:

“No longer than two weeks. We’ll call you when we decide, Mrs. Jacobs.”

Chapter Text

The walk back up to the house is silent and sticky under the baking sun. The ground is cracked and dry, opening up with cracks, and Davey’s heart grows heavier with each step he takes up the hill. The heartbeat that once blasted out an opera just for Jack is now swelling with nauseating dread.

The house is tall as ever, creaking and groaning under its own weight, staring with its empty eyes at the pair as they approach. Davey’s fighting his own mind, dragging his legs forward despite the resistance in his head that screams at him to turn back.

He feels sick from lying to his mom so easily. She only wants to protect him, just like she always has. He should be a little more grateful and be honest; the guilt of what he said gets to him. Seeing the calm expression, the way she seemed to soak in his words like a dehydrated plant in a storm, it went straight to his stomach. She needed those lies - they were exactly what she wanted to hear, but for some reason, that does nothing to lay Davey’s anxiety to rest.

“Did we have to lie to my mom?” He asks.

Jack shifts a little, looking at Davey sheepishly, like he’s afraid of being berated, “I guess. She’d only worry.”

Davey sighs, running a hand through his damp hair, “Did we do the right thing, Jack?”

“Sure.” Jack says, trying to smile a little, “She don’t need to know what it’s really like here. You don’t want her stressin’ over nothin’.”

It’s like the house is sucking him closer, dragging him a little further under. His very soul feels cold, like his insides have been drained through a giant colander, exiting his body as the tug of the house overpowers him. He doesn’t want to go in - what if he sees something else? But at the same time, he knows that Jack is right, that it’s nothing, that he’s being a coward.

Jack didn’t say any of that exactly, but Davey can read between the lines. That’s why he brought Jack with him: because Jack’s brave and strong and maybe it’s since he’s not as much of a genius as Davey is, or maybe he’s just sensible or stubborn, but he only sees things as something to be beat, to be won, and he doesn’t just give up, never, or show fear.

But when Jack fell to the floor, when they arrived - there was something akin to fear in his eyes, something that didn’t suit him, something that Davey never wants to see in him again. Jack’s always been the one to comfort and assure him, to risk his behind defending Davey’s honour, to get into fights and arguments over petty nothings. In no world, in no universe, should Jack be afraid of a spooky old house in Santa Fe.

“Dave,” Jack mumbles, kicking a pebble repeatedly, “I ain’t so sure about what we’re doin’. Maybe you’re right and we should just call it quits and go home. I don’t want no one to get hurt out here.”

“I am not right,” Davey objects, “Don’t you dare say that. When was the last time you went on a real holiday?”

Jack shrugs, kicking the pebble so hard that it shoots off into the forest. He scans the ground, checking the terrain for another one.

“Exactly.” He softens his voice, “You deserve this, Jackie, and me and my stupid delusions are not going to take it from you. Let’s stick around a little longer, and if something happens again, we go right back to New York.”

Jack smiles at him, though it’s a little shaky, “You’re a threat to my position, Dave. I never knew you was so good at pep talks.”

“When I’ve been around you so long, it’s hard not to pick these things up.”

The outside air is warm, but when they step over the threshold of the house, it seems to drop by several degrees. Davey rubs at his arms to battle the goosebumps that are appearing. He watches as Jack starts to unpack shopping into cupboards. Jack lets out a shrill scream as he opens one, rats leaping out onto him, before bursting out laughing and trying to shove the rotting wooden box as full with food as possible.

“I’m gonna see if the shower works,” Davey says.

“What?” Jack asks, turning around, still grunting as he tries to force a can into a small space that Davey doesn’t dare to tell him isn’t big enough and never will be, “You don’t find it interesting watching me put shopping away? Rude.”

Davey laughs, “Sorry, babe, it’s not that you’re boring, but you’re so boring.”

Jack looks at him, mouth wide with mock offence. A tin from the cupboard falls down, right onto his fingers, making him yelp and rip his arm away violently. He clenches his jaw, glaring at the food that still hasn’t been put away, like if he looks angry enough it’ll all get up and walk onto shelves itself.

“Yep, you’re having fun. I’ll leave you to it.” Davey gives him a little kiss on the cheek, grinning as he walks away, Jack’s aggressive mumbling fading into the background.

Which means the house takes up the foreground. No more ignoring it. The dripping and the creaking and the wind blowing and the birds squawking and the echoing footsteps become super-focused, playing in high definition in his mind.

He makes sure not to touch the bannister as he walks up the stairs, his eyes darting to the hidden corners. He breathes slowly to steady his heart rate - Jack’s right, there’s nothing here but the two of them, he needs to get a grip. What he saw last night was just a half-asleep daze of confusion in a place of unfamiliarity. There’s no way it can have even an ounce of truth.

Past the portraits. Davey wonders briefly if there’s one of his grandmother, but decides he’d rather not know what she looks like. It’s what’s best for him and his restless imagination. Funny, he always considered himself the logical, almost dull one; Jack’s always been the one with the ability to conjure a fairytale out of a dungeon, a story out of a tree. He’s the creative, imaginative one. Davey’s English tutor would’ve been impressed to see the tales he’s been weaving in his head since he got here.

There’s nothing sleeping in the crevices, nothing obscured out of sight, no little boys in the bath. The door to the bathroom seems to smile, the cracks in its surface forming a malicious mouth. Davey remembers the terror of last night, the way he thought his heart was about to burst from overworking, the taste of the screams in his throat.

The boy, no older than seven, with tears running down his cheeks. Flat cap on his head, his tiny frame covered by a vest and suspenders. There was something about his eyes, the way they latched onto Davey, about the piercingly high tone of his voice that resonated tenfold through the empty house. He may have been translucent, but he seemed so real. If Davey didn’t know better, he’d really believe that boy had been there, had spoken to him, had seen him.

He opens the door and instantly lets out a breath of relief. There’s nothing in the bath. There’s no crying. There’s no one here. His fingers reach for the button of the shower, but as he presses it a cloud of dust is expelled from the shower head, which is glinting a dim, rust-eaten orange. He coughs and wafts it away, his eyes burning a little, waiting for it to clear.

And then he screams.

Davey’s instinct is to reach out and shove the person away, but his hands just go through the boy, which sends a horrible chill all through him, tingling like that feeling when you bump your elbow, like spider’s legs brushing against your skin, going clean through your heart.

The boy screams too.

Davey’s mind erupts in a mess of panic. He can’t think straight. Words. Become. Jagged. His thoughts are disconnected. His limbs are lead as he chokes and chokes on the dirt, rubbing his still-numb fingers down his trousers.

He has to run. He has to leave.

“When’s my mommy coming back?” The boy wails, hands stretching up for Davey, eyes red and teary. He looks so distraught. But he isn’t real.

There’s something so much deeper here than tiredness and disorientation.

“Jack!” Davey screams, his voice cracking as he coughs up the last of the dust.

There’s no rationality, no thinking it through. There’s nothing but the heartbeat, like a wildly flapping bird of prey, soaring up and out through his oesophagus and into the atmosphere. His skin crawls, like it too is desperate for escape, to be out of this place.

He just runs. Away from the boy, who’s still calling out, from the broken shower and the cursed bathroom. He wants to get out of this godforsaken town, out of the hellhole they’ve landed in, be back somewhere safe, where there aren’t boys in bathrooms.

And -

Fucking hell. This cannot be happening. Davey’s whole body shakes as he cries, moments away from being totally rooted to the spot with fear. Things are falling off the walls again, the sounds of movement all around. No, no, no, no. He cradles his head in his hands, weeping, telling himself it’s okay. But he’s terrified of dying here, of his mom blaming herself, of Jack coming up and finding the body on the floor, and -

“JACK!” Davey screams again.

He curls up on the ground, sheltering himself with his hands in a ball, a forcefield where he’s protected from what’s happening everywhere he turns. The walls are stripped bare, a pile of pictures scattered about like the aftermath of a tornado. Davey trembles, his face on fire, tears dripping into his mouth.

“Jack-” He chokes out, sobbing on the words, his chest heaving and jerking up and down, “Jack - please - please - help.”

Then there’s a hand on his back and without thinking, he sends his fist right into Jack’s jaw. To his credit, Jack doesn’t look annoyed at all, which would be really touching at any other time. He just looks worried, panicked even - his eyes are full of sparks, suggestions of the very thing Davey thought him incapable of: fear.

“We have to leave,” Davey says, “We have to leave, we have to leave, we have to-”

“Slow down.” Jack says quietly, helping Davey to sit upright, “What happened?”

“I saw him again, Jack - the boy,” He breaks into another messy sob, “We have to leave. Now.”

To Davey’s surprise, Jack starts to cry. Silently, with just a couple of tears making their way down his cheeks. But it’s enough. Jack doesn’t cry, not unless everything’s falling apart, not unless he sees no other way out. Davey doesn’t see Jack cry - that’s not how it works with them.

Jack hugs him, and they sit there, crying. There’s a boy in the bathroom and all they can do is cry in the hallway. Davey was hoping Jack would offer reassurance, anything to try and put his mind at rest. But it seems that for the first time, Jack has no words, nothing to say to make the situation any better.

Davey thought Jack could find a way to make anything seem lighter. He thought Jack would be able to save him from falling into a trap of paranoia and despair out here. But it turns out he was wrong.

Chapter Text

Jack doesn’t seek guidance very often, let alone from literature. But with no signal, no way of calling Crutchie - who made it very clear he didn’t want to be called anyway - and no other options, the library is the only thing left in the cards.

He carries Davey off the floor and places him on the bed, which isn’t as easy as it sounds considering the fact that Jack’s smaller than the other boy. But he manages it - as Crutchie says, he finds a way to push through anything. And lifting his boyfriend, when who knows what could happen if he was to leave him there, is far from the hardest challenge Jack’s met.

He’d like to say that he isn’t scared, that after years of being locked in wardrobes and attacked by dogs and hit with whips that this doesn’t affect him. But it’d be a lie. His stomach is a tangled knot, digesting itself with the nervously bubbling acid. His fingers are twitching, forming fists, spreading. He wants to close his eyes and pretend he’s not here.

But maybe there are answers in the books, explanations to either put things into perspective and discount anything supernatural, or to convince them once and for all to drive off and never look back.

Jack’s never been in a library before. He thinks that some people would find this beautiful - Davey probably would. But all he sees is a stinking heap of mildew and rot. Rows upon rows of leather-bound books reach up to the ceilings from the floor, sagging under the weight. In some places, the books have all spilled onto the ground where the shelf has given way. They’re crawling with bugs and lice, some totally obscured by cobwebs, under the unpassable guard of giant spiders. There are tables in the centre of the room, where some books lay open; the words on their pages have been so badly faded by sunlight that they’re unreadable. The closed ones display grand covers depicting gold-leaf dragons and cursive fonts that loop around themselves repeatedly. Jack finds it all pretentious, an unnecessary show of wealth. It’s almost depressing to see how this room has eaten itself alive.

There. On the table. Sitting in one of the chairs.

He blinks twice.

She’s still there.

He doesn’t let himself overreact, and instead of screaming and running at her with a book, approaches slowly, stepping over mothballs.

She’s dressed like she stepped right out of a time machine from the early 2000s, a loose blue and pink tye-dye shirt tucked into one side of her flared jeans, which have images of cherry blossom trees swirling up the legs. Her wrists are decorated with a huge selection of earth-tone beaded bracelets, her ears pulled down by hoop earrings that have gems and feathers dangling off the bottom. It invokes a weird sense of nostalgia seeing someone who in no way fits into a modern world.

Jack thinks she’s gorgeous. Her thick eyeliner can be seen as he gets closer yet, a parted fringe in front of her eyes, topped off by flowers that lead down to a plait. But her skin has this sheen, this shimmer, and if Jack focuses, he can see through her. Just like Davey described.

Ghosts. Why the hell did he have to promise Crutchie not to call?

The girl’s eyes are blank, her face flat and devoid of expression. She almost looks like a statue; she doesn’t breathe or move, her hands resting, fingers laced in her lap as she stares ceaselessly at the books. She looks like she’s been carved out of slate, given life but no personality, nothing to make her human.

But then he catches this gentle longing in her eyes. No statue could be given something so uncannily realistic, something he remembers clearly from the old man in the shop - Pulitzer, the director who whispered one name as he left.

Katherine.

The girl doesn’t make a single movement, but something in her posture seems to shift and she speaks without looking Jack’s way.

“These books were my lifeboat,” She says, her voice breathy and light, almost like there’s a wall between the sounds and Jack’s ears, “Now I can’t even touch them.”

He knows he should run. But there’s nothing scary about this teenage girl who just wants to read a book again. He sits in the seat beside her, feeling the way the air grows chill as he sits within touching distance of her arm.

“You’re a ghost.”

It isn’t a question.

The girl nods.

“You’re Katherine Pulitzer.”

She nods again. Still, her gaze is empty, her lips straight; her demeanour gives nothing away. Jack knows he’s going to have to probe if he wants information. Deeper down than that, he knows he shouldn’t be talking to a dead girl.

“I met your father,” Jack says.

Katherine turns her head swiftly, slowly, like a rotating blade, her icy eyes fixing on his.

“Poor you.” She says in that faint voice.

“You didn’t get on?”

A corner of her mouth twitches, “You could say that.”

She goes back to looking at the books. Jack wonders how many years she’s been sitting here, watching as they decay, wishing to go back to a time when she could hold them in her hands and pour over every word, letting them take her to a different world. Jack’s never understood the pleasure of reading, but he sees that Katherine does.

He knows what Katherine needs.

“What are you doing?” The ghost asks.

Jack picks up the nearest book he can find, shaking off anything living in its pages. He notices with satisfaction that Katherine’s eyes are brighter, a little more alive than before, like she’s reliving the days when she could do what he just did so easily, something humans take for granted while they’re still breathing; the ability to manipulate time and space, reach out and take a hold of something.

“My name is Kathy H,” Jack reads, “I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve been a carer now for over eleven years. That sounds long enough, I know, but actually they want me to go on for another eight months, until the end of this year. That’ll make it almost exactly twelve years. Now I know my being a carer so long isn’t necessarily because they think I’m fantastic at what I do. There are some really good carers who’ve been told to stop after just two or three years.”

He sees Katherine smiling, a delicate, ethereal thing. Her shoulders are relaxed, her hands undoing themselves from the trap they were woven into. She doesn’t look dead anymore.

“It’s been so long since I read a book,” She says, “Thank you.”

Jack knows how to tell what a person is yearning for. He knows about deprivation and desperation, craving and need, being so touch-starved a hug could make you cry. It didn’t take a mind reader to know that all Katherine needed to make her open up was someone to show interest in her, and the words of a book she’s read often.

A favourite of hers, based on the fact it’s on the table, instead of on a shelf. Jack is struck with a horrifying thought that she was reading it when she died.

“You haven’t come here to read to me,” She says with a small, sad smile, “What do you really want?”

“Answers. Why are there ghosts in this house? And like I said, I met your dad. I want to help you, Katherine Pulitzer.”

She sighs. “I can’t remember the last time I heard my name.”

Jack can’t imagine how it feels to be alone for so long. He wonders if she’s trapped her, if her spirit’s tied to this place and has no way out, or if she just has nowhere better to go, nothing better to do than reminisce.

“There are ghosts here because they died here.”

“They? How many are there?”

“Five.”

One of them is the boy in the bath, another is Mister Conlon. They didn’t imagine these things. It’s as relieving as it is terrifying. At least they aren’t going mad, but that means there are dead people all around them with God knows what kind of intentions.

“You really want to know what happened to me?” Katherine asks, “I can assure you it isn’t a nice story.”

“That’s okay.”

Jack thinks that she just needs to get it all off her chest. She’s been stuck with all these burdens all by herself, doing nothing and barely existing. What she needs is someone to talk to, and someone to listen. It’s amazing what a little venting can do.

“Pulitzer never loved me,” She says, “Not that I remember anyway. He was always so busy working. We came out to Santa Fe because he wanted to make some cowboy film, and while he was filming, he left me in this house. I was a child.”

She connects her fingers again. “I found the library. I spent all my time here. I made it my goal to read every single book,” She laughs weakly, “Well, let’s just say I failed.”

Her eyes are full of unshed tears, her mouth a frown that carves deep lines into her permanently young face.

“The day I was diagnosed with cancer was the first time he ever asked me how I was.”

Jack wishes he could reach out and hold her hand. A little human contact is something her body seems to cry out for. But he doesn’t want to risk touching a ghost, knowing it probably won’t work. So he watches her trembling and listens silently.

“I’m not going to make excuses on a monster’s behalf,” Katherine says, “But I think he was scared to see me die. He locked the door while I was in the library. I suppose it was a blessing really, that the hunger killed me before the cancer did. But even as I died, I lay there wishing he’d come for me, redeem himself. Like a little kid, all I wanted was for him to hold my hand and tell me it’d be okay.”

“God,” Jack says, “Are you okay?”

She laughs, “You’re asking that question a lifetime too late. But I suppose I’m better now, after talking to you. You’re a better person than my father ever was…” She trails off.

“Jack.”

“Jack.” Katherine repeats, “Thank you for talking to me, Jack. I’d given up hope of ever hearing another person’s voice again.”

He smiles a little, “It’s no problem. And, Katherine, I think your dad may have regretted what he did. He made a movie back in 2002 - I think it’s for you.”

She winces, “I appreciate the sentiment, Jack, but I’ve been hating that man since my whole life and death, and I’d rather not try to change that. I’m happy with the way things are. I don’t want to upset the balance of rights and wrongs I have in my mind, or I'll start questioning everything about him I'm so sure of.”

“I get that,” Jack says, “And hey, I think you’d like to know that his movies are shit.”

She laughs properly for the first time, a clear sound like a church bell being rung in the early hours of morning.

“You’re right. That’s the best news I’ve heard for years. That beast doesn’t deserve success, not if he couldn’t even find the time to love a dying child.”

Jack can’t wait to tell Davey about his breakthrough, that the ghosts here are not evil and mean no harm. They’re just trauma-ridden human beings like Katherine who are looking for company. There was never any need to panic; facing it sensibly and calmly was all that they needed to do.

The holiday doesn’t have to end. And they aren’t lying to Davey’s mom anymore - there really isn’t anything to worry about in this house. It feels like a ton is lifted from Jack’s chest at the realisation that they’re completely safe, and that it’s finally time to unwind and have fun.

“This is great,” Jack says, “I always wanted a ghost best friend.”

Chapter Text

Davey wakes, not knowing where he is. He surveys the room, the swaying wooden walls, the prying eyes of rats trying to figure out if he’s alive. Instantly, he feels dizzy, so shaken he’s surprised he’s still in his own skin, his heartbeat pounding like a whole brass band. He’s alone.

The last thing he remembers is Jack by his side.

Now he’s the only one in this bedroom, which he doesn’t know how he got to, as he’s sure he passed out on the floor. He stretches, his arms aching, replaying his memories to work out what happened. He knows that he saw the boy and that Jack was crying.

He’s afraid. Why isn’t Jack here? Davey plays through scenarios, horrifying ones, that trick him into thinking something went wrong. He pictures Jack - remembers what happened when they first arrived, knows the power of these spirits - and all the terrible, soul-destroying things they could have done to him. Who knows how many of them are here, each one worse than the last?

Jack could be dead for all Davey knows, and he’d never be able to live in a world where he let that happen, where he goes home to his mom and breaks the news to Crutchie and spends the rest of eternity regretting ever agreeing to go on this evil holiday.

He pulls himself out of bed, his legs as stiff as wooden pegs, forcing them to move in turn, sending him closer to danger and almost inevitable pain, back onto the battlefield where children cry in baths and pictures fall off walls. But if he ever wants to see Jack again, he’s got to do it.

As soon as he finds him - because he will find him - they’re going straight back to New York. No talking, no persuasion, no hesitation - Davey is going to drag Jack out that door and swear never to think about this again.

Though he’s sure in his nightmares, he’ll see the boy again and hear the frantic footsteps and taste once more the blood and the fear and hear the screams, reliving every single horror he’s been forced to witness in this festering hole of suffering.

He walks slowly through the top layer of the house, his body tense and alert, jumping three feet off the ground at the quietest sound. He keeps his hands on the walls at all times, pressing his form down into the smallest version possible, in the hopes of passing through the ghosts’ lair unnoticed.

All he needs to do is find Jack and get the hell out of here. A quick in and out mission where everything works out fine, and he gets back home to his mom and tells her how nice Santa Fe was, then retreats to a corner at night and cries about the traumatic experience with Jack, keeping the reality unseen by the masses, but weighing tightly still on his heart.

Davey doesn’t dare speak, in case it informs someone - or something - of his whereabouts. Instead he keeps his lips pressed firmly together, his hands starting to shake as he peers into the last bedroom on this floor and once again, finds no trace of Jack.

Reluctantly, with a heart as heavy as osmium, Davey starts down the stairs. The lump in his throat swings like a pendulum, dooming him to a hideous fate as he descends, fingers rubbing the splintered wood, feet avoiding the holes. Everything he sees is menacing, just another little stumble towards dying dumbly.

If he thinks hard enough, all he’s filled with is numbing dread that clamps his fingers in place, straightens his spine rigidly and dries his mouth. But he can’t suppress the terrors, can’t turn off his wandering mind, which roams a minute ahead of his body, down a road he hasn’t even reached yet. He hears what sounds like voices from behind a grand, closed door, and picks up a broken candelabra from a nearby table, brandishing it in front of him like a blade.

Davey reaches the bottom, exposed on all sides, vulnerable and near-defenceless, with no way of watching out for threats from the front and back. He feels like a fly caught in a cunning spider’s web: outsmarted, outmatched, out of his depth. A play thing working at the predator’s whim. It’s a sickening way to think about the situation he’s stuck in.

Then the door opens. He lashes out blindly with the candelabra, hearing the shocked outcry before his eyes fully comprehend what’s happening.

“Oh my God, you’re okay!” Davey says, dropping the candelabra with a bang, filling his arms instead with Jack, “You’re okay! I was so, so worried.”

He spends a moment taking it in; Jack’s appearance, no different, unscathed and calm as ever - the scent, familiar against the overpowering damp that crawls on the walls, something Davey never expected to be finding comfort in. And those loud, bright, god-awful clothes - a blessing on his eyes, a flamboyant, camp declaration that something’s still okay.

It’s then Davey realises that Jack’s more than just okay - he’s smiling, proud as a middle-aged man who’s just adopted the most adorable puppy that he wants to parade around the park, showing off to everyone.

“You need to see this, Dave,” Jack says, his eyes shining excitedly, “We don’t have to leave anymore! I solved it, all of it.”

The words gush out, tripping over each other in their hurry. They go in one of Davey’s ears and out the other, skipping his brain in the middle, not registering at all.

“What?” He asks, “No, Jack, we have to go. Don’t you remember last night? There are ghosts here. We have to go.”

Jack shakes his head, still smiling, “That’s what I’m saying! I met one of the ghosts. If she wanted to kill me, she’d have done it. I was going to tell you that we can trust them.”

“What do you mean? They were attacking us. How can you suddenly be convinced that it’s safe? You were there last night - you saw exactly what I saw.”

Jack’s expression drops a little. “If you’d just come with me, I’m sure Katherine can explain what happened. It must’ve been a misunderstanding.”

“Who the hell is Katherine?!”

Davey feels like he’s the only sane one here. Something’s happened while Jack went away and he’s changed. Just last night, he was crying on the floor, and now he’s refusing to leave, acting like nothing was ever there. It makes no sense - Davey could hit him. He doesn’t understand what’s going on and now Jack’s no longer on his side.

“A ghost,” Jack says, rubbing his forearm, “I talked to her in the library-”

“And you trusted her?” Davey exclaims, glaring at the other boy in appalled horror, “She could be working with them, Jack! She could be luring you into a trap! How do you know you can trust her?”

Just like that, Jack’s a scolded child, afraid and sheepish, timid at the face of logic, overruled by emotional spontaneity once again. His eyes avoid Davey’s, dodging the reprimanding he knows will greet him there. Davey has no sympathy - he thought Jack would’ve known better.

“I just did,” Jack mutters, “She sounded so sincere an’ she was tellin’ me her whole life story an’ stuff.”

Davey can tell that Jack’s upset by his harsh words; when Jack gets emotional, his accent gets thicker. But Davey can’t quite dampen the flames growing inside of him. He brought Jack with him to Santa Fe for his comforting presence and reliability, without taking into account the irrational, childish side of him, overrun with emotion, won over by a heartfelt tale, almost gullible, easily manipulated, but painfully stubborn.

That’s the Jack he’s dealing with right now.

“And you just believe every word,” Davey says, “I don’t get you, Jack! One minute you’re agreeing with me, the next you’re siding with a ghost! What don’t you understand? It isn’t safe here - we have to leave.”

Jack looks up again, his eyes flickering with tears that are enough to bring Davey’s rage to a temporary standstill. But when he starts to speak, it blooms again in full force.

“We don’t gotta do nothin’,” Jack says quietly, “Just come talk to Katherine. You’ll like her, I swear - she’s real nice. She’ll explain to you what’s goin’ on here an’ then we can stay. I ain’t leavin’ when there’s nothin’ to be scared of.”

Davey stamps - literally, like a toddler in a tantrum - his foot, no time to be embarrassed, so frustrated with Jack’s closed-mindedness, his inability to see things in more shades than just black and white.

“I will not like her!” He shouts, “I will not go in that room to be murdered by a dead girl! I don’t know what’s going on with you, Jack, but you are not thinking this through! Now I am leaving, and you can either drive me home, or stay here with your new best friend while I spend the rest of our trip waiting in the car. The choice is yours.”

Jack blinks away his tears, the threat bouncing off the invisible shield he wears to keep himself safely hidden from angry, abusive words - one that he built himself many years ago out of necessity. Davey knows it’s cruel to treat him like this, that Jack’s done nothing wrong, but his head is caught up in a whirlwind, and he isn’t ready to come back down.

“I promise, Dave,” He whispers, voice breaking a little, “Just please trust me - I ain’t done nothin’ to make you doubt me yet. Come, talk to Katherine with me. You’ll see what I mean - you can’t just discount it ‘cause you’re scared. Take my hand an’ just try trusting me for a minute.”

Davey shakes his head, laughing a little as the first tears slip down his cheeks.

“I’m going to pack my bags.” He says weakly, “If I don’t see you again, I’m going home. I’m sorry, Jackie, but this place isn’t safe. I can’t trust you when you’re talking about ghosts as if they’re something normal that folks see every day.”

He starts leaving, back up the stairs, faster this time, so numb with sadness and loss - even though he hasn’t really lost anything - that he doesn’t have space left inside him to feel afraid.

“Davey.” Jack says, his voice rising steadily with a note of panic, “Davey. Dave - David please - turn around, Davey! Come back.”

“They need answers,” The girl says, looking at the open book on the table, “Conlon, if we don’t talk to them now, we’re going to drive them out of this house for good.”

Four ghosts are in the library, all in separate corners. The room is dark, only the pasty, haunted faces visible in the eerie light. Katherine Pulitzer occupies the table she died at, gazing mournfully at the book that the living boy, Jack, read for her only hours before. Since then, she heard him arguing with another soul, the rumour of them leaving cropping up out of nowhere. She hasn’t had company since she died - her father packing up and leaving the next day - and is reluctant to see them go so soon.

A short man with dark hair and a stern expression stands, his back to the others, facing out the window. He wears a black waistcoat, almost as tight as a corset, a small pistol in his pocket, and a frilly collared white shirt underneath the other layers. He's young, with the start of a small beard on his grim face, his fingers absentmindedly thumbing the trigger of the gun.

"We're ghosts, Miss Pulitzer," He says flatly, "Scaring people is what we do."

A young boy is crouching on the floor sobbing into his knees. He looks up with red eyes and a streaky face.

"Ghosts?" He asks, "Ghosts are evil. When's my mommy going to be here?"

A slender blonde man with bulky headphones hanging uselessly around his neck, wearing a baggy hoodie and a pair of faded Reeboks, glances over his shoulder, face drawn with anxiety, patting the child's back gently.

"There's no ghosts here, kiddo," He says, smiling a little, "You're okay."

Neither of the others make a move to comfort the child, placing that responsibility on the blonde boy. The dark-haired boy stands straight, his arms folded, ignoring the weeping child - he gave up a long time ago trying to be sympathetic. He's sick of the kid's constant blubbering and stupid questions.

Katherine can't look at the boy without wanting to cry.

"With all due respect, sir," She says, "There's no harm in letting these living people stay. I think this place could do with being livened up a little. If we go and talk to them-"

"May you remind me who's been here the longest, Pulitzer?"

"Well, other than the Lady - you, sir."

"That’s right. And I've seen many living come and go in my time. Their lives are fleeting. You get attached to them, then they die."

The blonde boy twitches uncomfortably, his leg bouncing up and down as he moves to look outside the library.

"Bloody hell, Higgins, there's no one there!" The dark-haired boy says, "Whoever killed you left this town years ago."

The blonde boy smiles apologetically. "Sorry, Conlon, I just think I hear him sometimes. Like he's chasing me all over again an' all that."

"Get over it."

Katherine doesn't think that Spot Conlon is heartless exactly. She knows he has a heart in there somewhere. He's just forgotten how to use it. After what happened to him, it's no surprise. Death can really transform a man.

"I want my mommy!" The little boy wails.

The dark-haired boy's mouth moves a bit, his eyebrows writhing in annoyance. The blonde boy takes the child's hand and leads him out the room, double-checking the coast is clear every few seconds and apologising to the child, who seems to pick up on his nerves.

"This is our house," The dark-haired boy says, "We are not alive, Pulitzer; we are not like them. We have been left behind by time and it is not your, nor anyone else's, place to interfere with that. Do you understand?"

"I understand." Katherine says.

"Good. Unless I say otherwise, no ghost in this house is to talk to those living boys."

A mystery. That's what this boy is. Boy or man? Katherine doesn't even know how old he is. She doesn't understand the way his thoughts work or why he acts the way he does.

She does know, however, that she doesn't want the living boys to leave. And that it's going to be very hard indeed to stay away from them.

Chapter Text

Jack wants Davey to believe him. He wants, for once in his life, not to have his word discounted, tossed away like garbage, branded as just another one of his crazy dreams, another sliver of hope to be crushed. Well, Davey certainly knows how to leave a guy feeling rejected and broken.

He kicks idly at the wall, half-heartedly testing the endurance limits of such flimsy craftsmanship. He’s not even angry - there’s no raging impulse or rush of power, instead it’s like someone poured a bottle of water over the fire inside him, blowing him out with a feeble hiss.

That someone would be Davey, whom Jack loves more than life itself, who’s the most important person in his life, who he’s always vowed to protect above all else and who he would never think of endangering if there wasn’t a guarantee that everything’s fine.

Jack thought Davey knew how devoted he was, how thorough he was, how serious he was about not letting anything harm him. He thought his approval would be enough - or at least worth listening to.

He knows that Davey’s scared - Jack’s scared too - and that they’re both handling it in different ways, but that’s no excuse to lash out like that, so thoughtlessly, so blasé with his foolproof way of shutting Jack down. And to just leave him alone like that, after all the time Jack’s put into helping him, after prioritising Davey for the whole duration of this trip. Maybe it hurts, just a little, to be discarded, told you’re worthless by the eyes of your boyfriend, for whom you’d do anything.

Crutchie’s always told Jack that he overreacts in these situations, puts the blame on himself, and turns to self-depreciation for solace. It’s a load of nonsense, though it is true that right now, all Jack wants to do is curl up and mourn over what he said wrong. He’s never been good at handling criticism, other peoples’ anger, or wild emotions of any sort for that matter.

He gives the wall a final, pathetic nudge with his shoe, before turning to the staircase. He has no idea how to go about it, but he can’t let Davey leave on this sour note; it’ll spell the end of everything between them if he doesn’t step up and salvage it now. He can mull over what to say on the way up.

He’s halfway up when he spots the figure, standing dramatically against a window, nothing more than a silhouette standing at five feet tall, a surly shape with muscular curves that Jack decides he wouldn’t want to mess with. His instant thought is that a teenager’s broken in, but then he remembers what Katherine said about the five ghosts who died on these grounds and haunt the house.

For some reason, Jack isn’t afraid. He thinks about Katherine and how gentle and normal she is. She would’ve warned him if there were menacing ghosts here with malicious intentions. So he takes each step, mastering them with confidence, hoping the air around him is filled with his self-assuredness, displaying this strong persona that will show this ghost he isn’t going to be scared or weak, he isn’t perturbed, and the ghost has no effect on him.

He hopes the ghost doesn’t see the truth beyond that false layer.

Sure enough, this man has the exact same tint to his skin as Katherine - a glossy, hypnotic quality that makes him look like something out of a cheap movie, maybe one directed by Joseph Pulitzer. His face is harsh, all sharp edges and grim lines, despite his obvious youth, perhaps only just in his early twenties when misfortune struck.

Jack’s eyes are drawn to something horrifying. There’s a gun wound on the man’s chest, stained all around with ancient, dark blood. Through it, he can just about make out a pearly rib. As quickly as he noticed it, he looks away, before his stomach empties.

Whether it’s the gore or the chillingly still expression, or even the way the man holds himself, an aura of confidence the kinds of which Jack could never muster all around him, it suddenly becomes apparent that this ghost is nothing like Katherine, and that Jack’s got himself in way deeper than he realised.

Maybe a better way to go about this would’ve been by grovelling or begging for mercy, rather than squaring up to this man like he’s challenging him to a fight. Although it would appear that fights, or gunfights at least, are not his forte.

“I shot myself.” The man says, his voice a low, gravelly sound that resonates so deeply Jack thinks he can feel his bones shifting out of place, gravity reinventing itself, “It was the only way out.”

Jack nods, swallowing hard. He refuses to show his fear to this man, whose voice feels strangely familiar. The man moves his feet, stepping out from in front of the sun, revealing that he’s wearing period clothes, something from the 1800s that belongs in a museum, not on a body. Even a dead body.

The man’s face is stoic, a piece of paper with nothing written on it. Most people wouldn’t notice it, but Jack’s an expert at reading people, at seeing buried intentions and feelings, and he senses the tiniest strain at the edges of the ghost’s uncaring facade, something that’s been rubbing at him for hundreds of years while he’s roamed these corridors time after time, mapping it in his mind and remembering the days when he filled his lungs with air.

He knows he’s heard this voice somewhere before, somewhere recently, maybe even since arriving in Santa Fe.

Davey’s backing his bags in a bedroom nearby. Jack’s running out of time to stop him. And what little time he does have is slipping through his fingers, wasted as he stands and contemplates a ghost, doing what he can never keep himself from doing: trying to come up with ways to help someone, someone who most definitely does not want his help.

He sees the gun wound, hears the voice, takes in the clothes. And a picture comes to his mind. Of this house in its days of glamour, in a time when people walked about with guns like the one this man has strapped to their belts, when the garden outside was still fresh and beautiful and men wormed their way out of duels by poisoning their opponents and-

That’s it.

“Mister Conlon,” Jack breathes softly, correcting himself instantly in a firmer tone, “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s your name, isn’t it?”

The man scowls deeper. The air around them is so, so cold that Jack can feel his hair freezing against his neck. He sees Mister Conlon’s whole life flashing before his eyes again, recalling the feeling of being possessed, the pain, the way it was like being trapped in your own body, like he’d never escape from that grip.

The man turns away, looking out at the garden where he was supposed to shoot another man, but ended up shooting himself in this house instead of dying painfully by poison. How many memories must drift about this place for a man who lived over two hundred years ago, so left behind by the world and excluded from it that he’s stuck here, in this bubble, growing bitterer and colder until his heart freezes entirely.

“My name is Sean,” The ghost says with a grimace, “Only my enemies and acquaintances called me Conlon.”

Past tense, Jack notes. Even with four other ghosts in the house, this man doesn’t interact with anyone enough to think of himself as being talked to in the present. It’s quite sad really to think of being so lonely, a human being that went past their sell-by date.

“And friends?” Jack asks, “What did they call you?”

The man turns again, with a look that Jack can’t quite understand. He unfolds his arms, the stillness of his unbreathing chest still unnerving for Jack to look at, who tries his hardest to ignore the bullet hole and imagine how terrifying it must’ve been to hold a gun up to his own body and force his finger to press the trigger.

“My wife called me Spot.” He says, his lips as flat a line as ever, “I never really noticed before, but my enemies greatly outnumbered the ones I could call friends.”

Jack smiles at him a little, which isn’t returned in the slightest, but he doesn’t let that put him off. The sunlight filtering in darts about as Spot moves, bursting little fireworks before Jack’s eyes. He remembers the woman’s voice in amongst the selection of Spot’s memories he saw - it must’ve been his girlfriend, who never saw him again after he came to this house for a fight.

“I think about her sometimes,” Spot says, words a harsh bite, “I can see you wondering; you are not as subtle as you may think. It would truly have been nice to have seen her one last time. If I had known that would be our last goodbye, I would never have agreed to the duel in the first place. Especially not over something so petty.”

Jack can hear Davey in the bedroom - the faint crying and aggressive shoving of clothes into a suitcase that was packed in excitement, back when this was still just a holiday to New Mexico, before it turned into a campfire story. He wishes he could focus on one thing without getting distracted, without finding another sorry soul to put all his energy into rescuing, because at the end of the day, that’s what gets him into situations he can’t handle, and that’s what he’s been doing since he can remember: saving people, neglecting himself, falling into spirals of depression and loneliness that have been caused by his own actions.

That’s the side of himself that he doesn’t show Davey, not if he can help it, because he knows Davey wouldn’t like it.

“You saw it all, didn’t you?” Spot asks, in a miserable, retreating tone.

Jack nods. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I swear. I don’t really know what happened, to be honest.”

“I heard the car - how the technology changes - and came to see if you really were coming inside. I guard this house. It's what I do. You walked into me before I could move. I suppose you could say I unintentionally possessed you.”

Despite the words Spot says, his stance still spells out emotional distance, aloof and closed off. He wears the scars of a man who’s been hurt one too many times, who finds it easier to hide and argue than open up to people. Jack understands - he was one of those people too once, and only found a way out of that cycle when he found Crutchie and Davey.

He hopes that he can be the one to free Spot from this self-imposed prison of social isolation. No one deserves this as a life, even as an afterlife, and Jack just can’t help himself when it comes to healing hearts.

“You’re real, aren’t you?” Jack says, “I’ve had the most confusing few days and I’m pretty sure you guys exist, but ghosts just aren’t something you’re taught to believe in. I couldn't believe it at first. You really are a dead guy from history who’s talking to me right now?”

Spot doesn’t smile. “I assure you, I am real. This place and everything in it is all too real.”

Spot Conlon isn’t a fighter. He had to buy a gun this afternoon especially. Filling another man with metal isn’t in his nature, as surprising as that may be for some. He’s always been the mysterious guy, the one with the scowl and the biceps who you don’t want to get too near to.

Even at school, he was the one who no one wanted to sit next to. Now, as the editor of a popular newspaper, he’s the one no one wants to get on the wrong side of. Rumour has it that he arranges the death of anyone who says something bad about it, though it is exactly that - rumour.

He just finds it easier to offend people, to be controversial and provocative, so that the very sight of his stony face is enough to invoke anger. Keep your enemies close, that’s what he says. He knows exactly where every single one of them is, because almost everyone in this town is an enemy to Spot. Glare at people and forever be the predator while they’re the prey, keep them as your lesser and you’ll be fine.

He thinks of his wife as he arrives at the magnificent house; how he envies whoever has the honour of living here, with the fountain and the fish pond and the golden door knocker and the proud tree that’s engraved with names that he can’t read from this distance. His poor wife, distraught at the notion of him not coming home tonight, who he didn’t even say he loved as he was embarking on a trail towards potential death.

The whispers that follow him like his own shadow are right: Spot Conlon is a monster, incapable of loving anyone but himself, afraid of showing that he has feelings or a personality other than being a brooding boss who will throw cups and hit employees before he expresses an emotion.

His loving, doting wife with her hobbies and her ambitions and her endless compassion. How foolish he has been all his life, scoffing behind her back and calling her weak for caring about others, when if he could’ve been more like her, he wouldn’t be in this position.

If he hadn’t spent his whole life collecting enemies like another person would collect toys or books or even bugs, he wouldn’t be holding a gun in his hand and standing in someone else’s front garden, admiring the way the bushes are sculpted to look like exotic peacocks.

The inside is just as impressive - white walls with paintings, exquisitely carved furniture and priceless ornaments. A chandelier hangs overhead, like a waterfall of gushing diamonds spilling down onto him. On the table is food and glasses of red wine, obviously generously laid out by the host who’s allowing two men to duel in their garden. Spot thinks there’s no point waiting for the other man to get here, and that he may as well enjoy the feast before he holds hands with death.

The guilt rests on him as he sits down, polishing the brass of the gun. He doesn’t want to kill anybody, not even this man. For all his aggression and coldness, Spot isn’t a murderer. He doesn’t want to live with blood on his hands, though now it’s the only choice if he wants to make it out. What he really wants is to own a house like this, to see his portrait grace those walls, hanging through all of history, living with his wife who will now be waiting in bed, an empty space beside her as she balances on a knife edge, grappling with the knowledge that she may not share this bed with anyone again, nothing to do but lie in wait for him to return, or else start to plan the funeral.

She must be so frightened, unsure of the future. Spot wishes he could comfort her. He knows that he has to go home again tonight, finally tell her that he loves her, that he’s always loved her but didn’t know how to say it, start living the way she does - freely, without restraint.

He lifts the glass to his lips.

By the time the first drop is in his throat, he knows that he’s fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

“Poison,” He splutters, “The coward.”

He feels his throat tightening like a boa constrictor. It gets more and more swollen until his breaths are wheezing and laboured, his face the colour of a plum as his eyes start to bulge. His vision is swimming with colours that shouldn’t be there and his hands are trembling violently as he picks the gun up from the table.

This means Spot wins. His opponent didn’t even have the balls to show up and face him like a man. Poison is in no way a victory, although his wife won’t know that. She’ll think that Spot was slower with his gun, the inferior, the loser.

He chokes, coughing on the scream that can’t make its way out of his closed throat, tears battling their way out. Death by poison is slow and agonising. Spot holds the gun against his chest, sobbing more than he ever has before. He won’t even feel it. The bullet will go in and it’ll all be over. Short and simple.

His wife will see the hole and believe he lost. Spot won. That hurts more than the deadly grip the poison has on his lethargic heart; he won, but he won’t get to see his wife again. He’s got to leave the world, there’s no other choice left.

Spot Conlon has got to die.

He always knew he would eventually, but never thought it’d come so soon. If he’d known, he’d have lived differently. But now he’s reaching the end and he’s crying and thinking about his wife and knowing he’s got to shoot now before the blood supply stops reaching his fingers and he loses control over them. Who knows how long it’ll take the poison after that? A prolonged death isn’t something he can deal with.

He looks at the beautiful house. All things are beautiful at some point, but one day this house will be rotten and crumbling. And he won’t be around to see it. He won’t have to watch the beautiful things in the world fall apart.

The pain of the bullet is sharp, but the relief that follows is much greater.

Chapter Text

Davey isn’t afraid. Well, that’s not true. He’s afraid, but the fear is overpowered by other, much stronger emotions. Betrayal and outrage, to name just two among the many ravenous thoughts that swirl through his mind, pitted against each other in a battle to overtake his rationality.

He begins piling his clothes back into the suitcase, not even folding them - which is very unusual for him. They’re shoved in violently with shaking hands and gritted teeth. Even his heart seems clenched tight, like even a second’s hesitation, a moment’s weakness, will break his resolve and stop him from leaving.

If he was to just pause, take a breath, consider what’s going on here, he knows his rage would melt away and he’d be drawn back down to Jack’s side. After all, he loves Jack. He’s hit with this worry that he hasn’t made this clear enough, that Jack’s been left alone, unsure anymore on how Davey feels. Maybe he did lash out too much. He feels like such a fool.

For the one who’s normally in control of his emotions, the one who’s got it all together, that was a very embarrassing outburst. He doesn’t believe for a second that the ghosts in this house are harmless, but he’s starting to realise that maybe he should’ve listened a bit more to Jack. Davey’s problem is that he sticks by his initial thoughts and follows his gut to the death. It takes some serious convincing to change his mind.

He pulls the zip on the suitcase, pressing down hard with all his force on the top to press it down small enough so that it closes. A frustrated groan leaves his mouth, his fingers sore and his body falling against the bed when the case slips out of his grasp. With tears in his eyes, he rises again, continuing the fight. It just isn’t fair. All he wants to do is get away from here, but it seems that everything is against him.

Davey wipes his eyes. He knows he’s overreacting. He knows he was wrong to shout at Jack. He knows that this house is frightening. He knows that Jack would never, ever put him through anything like this if he didn’t wholeheartedly believe it was one hundred percent safe, because Jack cares about him more than anything else and despite his spontaneity and wildness, he’s sensible inside and really does think things through.

Davey knows all of this but still he will not consider staying. Ghosts are evil. That’s what kids are taught right from the beginning: that if there is such a thing as ghosts, they’re malevolent things that possess, curse and haunt people, drive them mad and torment them, sometimes even attempt to physically harm them. And if ghosts truly are the culprits behind all these monstrous occurrences, then there is no way in hell - which Davey’s already in - that they are not wicked.

Suddenly, a new pair of hands appear behind him, carefully, delicately zipping up the suitcase. Davey turns, his breath catching in his throat as he sees Jack, standing awkwardly, like he’s asking permission to speak, with a sad, strained smile and wet eyes. Davey breaks in a heartbeat, lunging forward and hugging Jack, hoping his body language can say the hundred apologies his mouth isn’t strong enough to utter. Each one of Jack’s jolting sobs is another pinch to his skin, a wake-up call to a reality that’s easier to ignore.

“I guess this is goodbye,” Jack finally whispers. His voice is so small, so frail, almost lost in the house’s silence with the ghosts that lurk somewhere inside. It strikes a chord in Davey’s heart, the words full of melancholy longing. But Jack is Jack, and that means letting Davey go if he has to.

It’s enough to change Davey’s mind. Jack would put himself through anything if he thought it would help, but leaving him here isn’t the right thing to do. They can get through it together, just like they always do. Davey decides that it’s time to put his faith in Jack and trust him on this one. It’s either that, or the end of things between them - a scenario they just came dangerously close to - and Davey doesn’t want to say goodbye.

“Not this time,” Davey says quietly, watching as Jack’s eyes brighten behind the tears, “I couldn’t leave you. You know I can’t cope without you.”

“I know,” Jack laughs shakily, slotting his hand into Davey’s, “Who else would you find to listen to your crazy lectures about whatever the hell you found interesting today?”

“No one. I don’t think there’s a single person in the world who’s more patient than you.”

Jack smiles and leans in next to Davey’s ear.

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” He says, “I ain’t patient. I just love hearing you talk about things you care for.”

Davey wipes his eyes roughly. “I care for you. More than any other thing. I don’t tell you often enough how much I care, but I do, always, even if I haven’t told you that day. I love you, Jack, more than I love poetry and constellations.”

Tears are streaming down Jack’s face as he chokes on his emotion, looking at Davey with so much passion it would make sense if it was the entire world’s supply, all stolen and wielded by this one boy. His hand squeezes Davey’s tightly, his voice wavering as he says:

“And I love you too, Davey, more than I love art. Hell, more than I love anyone on this damn planet.”

“Don’t let Crutchie hear you say that. He’ll come running over here to wring your neck. If he kills you, who am I supposed to love then?”

Jack laughs, though there’s a grim expression on his face. “While he’s here, he can be an angel and exorcise these demons for you.”

For you. Jack holds to his instinct, refuses to change his tune, just like always. It would be easy for Davey to resent him for it all over again, but instead he opts to admire it - not just anyone can suffer through a heated argument like that, come out reeling but forever loyal to his own feelings. It takes a strong will not to be influenced, or even made to doubt. And for the first time, Davey decides to let Jack be brave without questioning it.

Because Davey knows that Jack isn’t being brave; he’s as petrified as anyone else would be here. The difference between the two of them is that Jack seeks to do something about his fear, whereas Davey runs from it. Together, they’re the perfect combination of headstrong and knowing when to pull back. Separately, they’re doomed.

And this house knows that.

Katherine Pulitzer stares at the books. This is an unsurprising statement, as it’s how she’s spent every day since dying, and the majority of her days while she walked these rooms alive. But this time she thinks about her father, who made a film especially for her, an apology that he knew she’d never see. That man must have been guilty, in search of a way to ease the load on his conscience.

She thinks that she’ll ask Jack if he has anything she can watch this film on. For educational purposes. Well, she would if Spot hadn’t issued a total ban on interacting with the two living boys that are undoubtedly preparing to flee, who she could persuade to stay if only she was allowed to. She doesn’t know when she started respecting Spot so much, when he became an unelected leader, or why she fears his reprimands so horribly. Maybe she should just put a foot out of line and do something she knows is good.

After Jack went out of his way to comfort her, a dead girl, instead of running away, instantly believing she was real when most others wouldn’t, she should be able to talk to him.

She doesn’t want to forgive her father. She just wants a little bit of the closure that he abstained from providing during her last hours. For the man who wouldn’t hug his daughter goodbye, forgiveness isn’t an option. But it’s only natural for her to be curious. It has been so long since Katherine found out anything new about anyone she knew during life, and she always did enjoy exploring.

She thinks, not for the first time, about the other ghosts in the house, each one more tormented than the last. If they were put into an order, her trauma would be at the bottom of the pile, ending with Spot at the top. How unlucky some miserable souls are. She wishes it were possible for them to all find happiness at last, for someone to come along and mend them. But for some, healing is impossible.

That’s why she stares at books: because they’re familiar and boring and safe and they stop her from thinking too much about what her existence has become, about the ties to this house and the curses and what’s going to happen to Jack if he stays here for too long.

She needs to talk to him. Screw Spot Conlon and his rules. She doesn’t know a single thing about that man, and yet she takes orders from him. Some system that is. He haunts these halls like a shadow, gazing out into the rotting garden, at the rubble of the fountain and the rows of dead plants, barely speaking a word to anyone, hiding in the darkest rooms and leaving newcomers to figure out for themselves what’s happened.

Now, in the library that’s been Katherine’s home and prison for an amount of years unknown to her, Spot Conlon laces his pale fingers, his chest still without the breath of life, his dark eyes piercing through the book on the top of the mound that Katherine was making her way through back in the days when her father was filming here. He looks first to the fidgeting blonde boy, then to the small child, and finally to her.

“The situation has changed.” He says, “You may speak with the living as you see fit.”

A change of heart is unheard of for Spot. Katherine wonders what’s happened, but she would never ask. If there’s one thing she’s learnt in the years she’s been here, it’s this: don’t ask Spot any questions. Not about his life or his death or his emotions. Go with it and keep your curiosity held close to your chest.

Chapter Text

Spot wakes up with a sharp pain in his chest. His eyes open to a house that isn’t his own, disoriented and dizzy as he struggles to sit up. The stinging gets gradually worse and worse as he moves, the throb of it almost echoing a heartbeat. As he sits quietly, waiting, listening, a deep and heavy dread falls on him.

He can’t hear his heartbeat. In fact, he hasn’t taken a breath this whole time. But for some reason he doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating. There is no need to breathe, and this realisation doesn’t even make him feel queasy. He just feels empty, like he’s floating in space without a tether to a body, like his feet aren’t quite touching the floor.

His throat isn’t dry. Normally, after waking in the morning, he’s thirsty, but not this time. Normally, he wakes in his own home, with his darling wife by his side. This house is stunning and regal and he isn’t sure what he’s done to earn a place within it. He can’t remember a party or a meeting.

What he can remember is a challenge. He remembers the stupid comment he made to that man, accusing his girlfriend of having an affair. The man turned right back and demanded a duel. Spot isn’t sure when it will be taking place, though it will be on his calendar back at home. He regrets everything, really - it wasn’t necessary and it’s not worth the risk, but it’ll all turn out fine, he’s sure.

The pain in his chest is gone, giving way to dull nothingness. Spot’s never felt so numb, like he’s been rubbed all over with some magical cream that turns off the feeling in your body. The house seems to be totally deserted, which is surprising considering the condition it’s in, and he thinks he’s the only person here.

“Hello,” He calls out, “Is anyone there?”

He’s taken aback by his voice, which sounds like it’s coming from underwater, muffled and quiet, fizzing at the edges with eerie echoes. The quality of it is tinny, like it’s been stretched out farther than it can reach, losing resolution. And even though he should be panicking, there’s no clenching stomach or nausea, still no heartbeat, no sound of blood in his ears.

His whole body feels ice cold. His heart isn’t beating. Spot shouldn’t be alive. He must be asleep still, dreaming about a magnificent palace in a forest and a ghostly voice and a frozen heart. He’ll wake up any second and see his wife again, go about another day of angrily stalking halls and growling out commands, gathering an army of enemies, vaster than he can count on his hands and feet.

Then he looks down and sees the blood. His own blood, clotted and still, staining his clothes like a spilt glass of wine. He remembers the gun he held against his own skin, the snake-like grip the poison had on him, the painful decision to pull the trigger.

Spot killed himself in this house. But he’s still here. He’s looking around the very same room, with the very same gun fastened against his hip, and a smashed glass on the floor next to him. He died. He’s sure of that.

But if he died, that means he’s a ghost. That means he’s alone. That means it isn’t over and he has to trudge through an eternity while the people he knows die and the world changes. He thought that death would mean the curtains closed completely on him, yet here he is, as aware as ever, anger filling him with none of the sensations associated with it.

He will be in this house forever because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He will not talk to anyone openly again, or else suffer similarly torturous consequences. He will not think about his past, because then he will be reminded of his poor wife, whom he left behind for nothing more than a petty squabble, who he would give anything just to see one more time and apologise for everything he has done wrong.

Spot envisions his death being much the same as his life: overwhelmingly lonely, an isolated, aggravated threat, longing to be something more but failing, distant and unknown. His wife was the only person who he allowed to know him, and now he’s abandoned her. He will never trust anyone with his life again. His feelings are for him, and him alone.

He’s dead. Dead people don’t make friends or get their redemption. Everything is over.

The bathroom looks innocent enough, with its peeling door and the damp patch on the floor just before the threshold. It’s time to tackle these ghosts that Jack believes in, starting with the easiest one, the one Davey thinks is least likely to hurt him. After all, the little boy seemed even more afraid than him.

He edges the door open, the wood moaning with age. Jack’s waiting around the corner, ready to jump out and help if anything goes awry. It’s reassuring, but not enough to keep Davey calm as he walks into the room where he first realised this house was more than it seemed.

It’s silent; there’s no crying this time. But when he looks, he sees exactly what he was expecting: a small boy, rubbing his eyes, all scrunched up in the bath like he’s hiding, shivering with fear. From the look of his clothes, he’s been here a very long time, as flat caps like that haven’t been fashionable for a while. There’s a brief pang of sympathy as Davey wonders if this boy’s spent all those years crying in this tiny room, before he remembers that this is a ghost and therefore doesn’t deserve his affection.

The boy looks up. His eyes are glassy and wide. There are smudges of dirt on his cheeks and a scar across his nose. Davey doesn’t know what a child so young must have been victim to, to come out looking like that. His blood runs cold as he registers what he’s doing, and he reminds himself that he’s in control here and can walk away if he needs to.

He doesn’t want to. He looks into the boy’s eyes and sees nothing but pain and sadness. He can’t imagine being so vulnerable, forced to stay in a place like this with no one to tell you what’s happening. Does the boy even know he’s dead?

“Where’s mommy?” The boy asks, “Is she coming back soon?”

There’s a lump in Davey’s throat. The boy is shaking and sniffling, on the verge of spilling fresh tears. Can ghosts even produce tears, or would he just cry dry air? Crying without tears would offer no relief, just worsen the mess and spark confusion for someone so, so young and fragile.

For the first time since he came across this ghost, Davey finds his voice. It’s shaky and a bit fearful, but he doesn’t think he needs to run and scream. He thinks this boy is too small to be alone and needs comforting. The words are quiet and short, but Davey’s confidence is growing by the second, and he’s finding his footing. He isn’t afraid of this boy, not when he’s standing so close, seeing the bony curve of ribs and the bruises on his fingers, and the white cheeks, devoid of the rosiness childhood offers, thin but unmistakably human.

“I don’t know.” Davey says, “Do you know where she went?”

The boy puts his thumb in his mouth, his eyes desperate. He could well be a normal child; he should be at school, learning, making friends, not here. Not dead at such an age. Davey’s stomach twists and turns as he looks at those shiny eyes, the chest that never breathes. It’s all so hideously, twistedly wrong.

“She said she’d come back,” The boy says, “She told me to wait here.”

That was a long time ago. Davey knows this boy’s mother is dead, along with everyone who was alive during that era. He doesn’t know how the boy died, but he’d guess it was violent, based on some of the injuries he seems to be hosting. Whether the mother truly did intend to come back or not, he isn’t sure.

“How long ago was that?” Davey asks gently.

“The other day.” The boy replies, “I’ve been waiting like she said. When will she come back?”

Tears are forming in Davey’s eyes. He chokes on his words, “I don’t know, kid.”

This boy doesn’t know what’s happened. He doesn’t know he’s dead. Davey can’t explain it to him. He can feel himself becoming light-headed and knows he’s moments away from crying. This little boy is so upset, so scared, so lonely, and he can’t even touch him, can’t hug him to make it better. He wishes Jack was wrong and the ghosts weren’t real, because never in a million years did he expect them to have feelings.

“I’ll be right back, I promise.” Davey says. He hopes he doesn’t sound like the boy’s mother.

He finds Jack where he left him, ready with open arms for a hug. It’s soft and sweet for a second, before Davey remembers what’s behind the bathroom door. He’d have preferred a savage ghost that wanted to kill him than a little boy who doesn’t know he’s a ghost.

“You have to talk to him,” Davey says, “You’re good with kids. He’s just - he’s so upset. That’s not even the worst part - he doesn’t know he’s dead, Jack.”

They go back to the bathroom, the little boy in the same position as before. Something lights up in his eyes when he sees Davey return, but there’s still the same air around him - full of despair and misery. It’s so thick, Davey can feel it catching in his throat.

“Hey there, kid,” Jack says, kneeling down in front of the bath, “I’m Jack. What’s your name?”

The boy sniffles. “Elmer.”

Jack smiles at him. “That’s a neat name, Elmer. I like your hat - I have one just like it. I can show you if you want?”

The boy stares at him for a second, before nodding slightly. Jack smiles again, getting up and rushing into the bedroom, leaving Davey with a ghost who would probably look like any other child under a different light. However, in the flickering iridescent bulb of the bathroom, that swings about on a cable, he looks ghoulish and sinister, his eyes boring into everything they meet.

Jack comes back quickly, with a cap in his hand that does look a lot like the one Elmer’s wearing. He holds it out, letting the boy look closer, then putting it on his head, which earns a small smile from Elmer.

Davey always finds it fascinating watching Jack around children. He seems to bring out another, brighter side in even the darkest, most subdued, for reasons that Davey doesn’t know. He’s such a natural with them, knows how to talk and what to say, how to get right into their heart and leave them not wanting him to go. He connects with them, and that’s what he’s doing now, weaving magic right before Davey’s amazed eyes.

“Yours is a different colour.” Elmer says.

Davey laughs at that, earning a look from Jack and the boy. He’s surprised to hear the boy speak about anything other than his mother, since no matter how hard he tried, that was all he managed to get out of him.

“That’s right,” Jack says, “I like yours more. Where did you get it?”

The boy smiles properly. “My mommy gave it to me. It was my daddy’s. She told me to guard it while I waited.”

“While you waited for what?” Jack asks.

“For her to come back.” Elmer says. He frowns again, his forehead creasing, “Is she with you? She should be back soon. I can give her back the hat.”

Jack’s smile drops a little, replaced by something akin to sympathy. “I’m sure she’ll be very proud of you for looking after it so well.”

Davey can feel the tension in the room. He and Jack know more than Elmer does. Jack doesn’t know what to say without destroying Elmer’s world of waiting and waiting for a mother who isn’t coming back, like it’s some game he’s been playing that he isn’t ready to end. It’s hard to know what the right thing to do is.

“Am I sick?” Elmer asks, “I haven’t been hungry since my mommy left. She tells me I’m always hungry and that being always hungry is expensive.”

Jack and Davey exchange a look. Elmer is so oblivious, so lost. He doesn’t know.

“I don’t even remember why I’m here,” Elmer says, his voice full of extreme, childish sorrow, “Mommy was crying when she left. She said she’d be back. She needs to come back to get the hat. Do you think she’s forgotten me?”

"Of course not," Jack says.

No, Davey thinks, the truth is probably much darker than that.

Chapter Text

Katherine brushes her fringe away from in front of her eyes. Her face is full of tension, her body glowing in the ill-lit room, the bookshelves behind her visible through her midsection. She looks thoughtful and troubled as Jack greets her, the bracelets on her arms colliding without making a noise, which makes Jack much more nervous than it should, leaving him waiting for completion, for nature to swing back round and fix itself.

He never believed in ghosts before. Now he’s talked to three, and has been told there’s a fourth hanging around here somewhere. One thing he’s noticed since seeing Spot and Elmer is how recent Katherine’s death is compared to theirs. They wouldn’t recognise the world if they saw it now, whereas there’s a greater chance some things would be familiar to her. Jack didn’t expect to come here and have the way he views things challenged, but he’s very quickly had to change the way he thinks about everything and open his mind to more possibilities - a skill that doesn’t seem to come so easily for Davey, who has been scared out of his mind since they arrived, and who Jack is driving himself mad worrying about.

Katherine’s face looks like it would once have been warm, with creases beside her eyes from smiling and dimples in her cheeks. He can imagine her styling her makeup differently every day, wowing crowds in a way he’d love to, though a boy most likely wouldn’t get such an overall positive reaction. It’s almost difficult to look at her and see the blankness, the way every human expression seems like a painful chore to form, the way her skin can’t move, a mask of smooth marble and glass that looks both delicate and invincible. Life has been sucked right out of those eyes that glint like coal fresh from a mine under thick lashes. Jack thinks it’s lucky that ghosts don’t have reflections, because seeing himself like that would be unbearable.

Though there are some advantages to focus on. The flowers in her hair will be forever in bloom, her hair itself will never be blown out of place by wind or get wet in the rain, she can’t feel physical pain anymore, even though the psychological hardships are undoubtedly much worse, the memory of how death felt weighing on her always.

Jack doesn’t think he could cope in a world like that, one where you remember exactly how it felt to have the life taken from your body, what it was like leaving behind people, never able to do any of the things you love again, stuck as nothing more than a fading memory in someone else’s mind and a spirit lost as time leaves you behind.

He studies Katherine’s face. He never wants to forget her and let her existence disappear from the world, for people to one day not recognise her name or know what she looked like. He wants to immortalise her, cast her in golden ink, in a beautifully framed photo in his mind. He takes in her round head, the heart-shaped curve of her lips, her small eyes appearing larger under the liner, the softness of her hair that he wishes he could feel and memorise. Trying to ignore the lifelessness that also rests there like a shadowy demon, scarring an otherwise flawless being, and the way her body is so rigid, like the joints are locked in place as her eyes look right through him. Sitting near her is both unsettlingly supernatural and enjoyably calming.

Jack decides he’s going to draw every one of the ghosts, so that when he’s back in New York, he won’t forget the things he saw or the miracles he now has proof to believe in. he’d hate if in a few years time, this has all faded so much that he thinks it must’ve been a hallucination, and he goes back to being average and close-minded and forgetting all these troubling experiences.

He looks at Katherine and thinks about dying alone in a library. A library that stinks of rot and decay and books turning to dust within their covers, decomposing, being killed from the inside. The horrible aromas stick in his throat, the damp and the dank and the particles of old skin and paper clinging and coating his oesophagus in a layer of agedness and a filthy, fluffy film that feels impossible to speak past.

That’s okay, because Jack doesn’t have anything he wants to say anyway. He’d rather sit in the suffocating silence, with only his breath for noise, and a creeping, tickling sensation, like icy fingers running down his back - the price he has to pay for spending time in Katherine’s company.

The saddest part is, if Jack had been born a generation earlier, or if Katherine had been born one later, they could’ve been best friends. She’s kind and funny underneath the surface of being a ghost that isn’t doing any haunting, but is instead haunted by unwanted thoughts of her death. She’s the sort of person he’s drawn to, and he knows that if they’d been at the same school, it would be unthinkable that they wouldn’t have become friends.

In reality, she’s dead. And eventually, he’ll have to leave her behind in this library, back to watching books disintegrate, longing for another conversation but never finding one. After all, Davey owns this house now. Who else would come inside it? When Jack leaves, the ghosts will be back to the afterlife they had before - endless quiet, drifting purposelessly, lonely and trapped in their minds, never able to get away from dying and how it felt and what it robbed them of other than their humanity.

It makes Jack feel guilty, even though he’s still here, even though he knew all along that this was a short holiday. He doesn’t owe the ghosts anything, yet the idea of abandoning them fills him with nausea, like he’s betrayed them somehow. That’s just his caring instinct kicking back in, forcing him to look after anyone who’s hurting, just like the kids he used to hug better and tell well-meaning lies about the future, he’s starting to see the ghosts as another case to solve, another set of hearts that need fixing.

They don’t even have hearts anymore, but it’s too late for him to see that. He knows what they are, knows it’s foolish, but he also knows that they can be helped - all of them, even Spot. Helping is what he does best, and it’d be wrong to turn his back on someone who isn’t beyond saving. So long as he doesn’t get too attached, it’ll be okay. He can do it in time for when Davey wants to go home.

It isn’t a choice, really, more of an obligation. Jack would be riddled with guilt, unable to sleep, wishing and regretting, if he went back to New York and left the ghosts in the state they’re in. A decision like that would make him even more heartless than they are, and at least they have an excuse.

“I was wondering,” Katherine says, smiling timidly, “If you happened to have a copy of that movie of my father’s that you were telling me about.”

“I can find it,” Jack says, taking his phone out of his pocket, “I thought you didn’t want to watch it.”

Katherine toys with her bottom lip between her teeth. She can do that now without worrying about biting herself too hard - silver linings in the clouds, Jack thinks.

“I don’t,” She says, “But it’s tempting. If you found out your father had made a movie about you, you’d want to watch it.”

Jack nods. “Yeah.”

He wonders what that movie would be about. An apology? An explanation? Even something simple to say that at some point in his life, Jack had parents who loved him? It isn’t worth wasting time thinking about something so ridiculous; he’s here to help Katherine, not contemplate his own history.

Pulitzer’s film starts with music: slow and harmonic, very simple with the slightest tremolo here and there, legato and flowing, dripping with violins and other string instruments that sound like they’re weeping. Katherine stares, transfixed at the screen, her eyes wide and expectant, her lips firmly pressed in neutrality, though it looks forced, like she’s fighting her own body to not display any of the emotions that are surely rushing through her.

For an hour and a half, Jack sits with baited breath, his heart breaking as he watches a tragedy unfold before him. The father pushes his daughter away again and again, until she doesn’t come back. There’s rain and thunder, like the beating of the father’s desperate heart as he searches for her in the storm, knowing he chased her out into it. Music plays throughout, tender and pianissimo in moments like the library scene, where the father introduces his daughter to a world of fresh books, forte and dramatic as he runs down windswept streets, calling out her name - a name that isn’t Katherine’s, but works as a replacement.

The hardest part to watch is after the death. Jack sees the father lose his way, stop being able to get out of bed, wandering his daughter’s room like he’s going to find her there again, crying and crying and praying to God that he hasn’t killed her, that it wasn’t his fault. Then comes his thoughts, a series of scenes like a slideshow, starting from the birth of his child, and the way he wishes he could’ve lived her life, the things he’d do differently if given a chance. He helps her study and takes her out for meals and shopping trips, reads to her at night, and it means she loves him. In the universe created in the father’s head, he and his daughter never have the argument that makes him lash out and send her running. She lives past him and is happy.

But that isn’t the story. And at the end, this disappears, and all that’s left is him, crying at the table, alone, an empty seat facing him. Jack looks over at Katherine, and sees the conflict on her face - the sadness mixing with anger. Touched that Pulitzer saw his error and made this in her memory, but furious that he couldn’t have said it while she was alive, that despite the love he apparently had for her, he still left her to die.

As the credits finish rolling, two words appear on screen. As she sees them, something seems to break in Katherine’s eyes.

For Katherine.

“I don’t forgive him,” She says instantly, shaking her head, her earrings rattling, “I can’t. But this - well, I never even thought he cared. This complicates things.”

Jack wishes again that he could touch her, put his hand on her arm and comfort her. Human contact is as useful as words when you’re trying to heal someone’s emotional wound, and Katherine’s lack of physical body interferes greatly with the usual method of approach. Still, he can find a way around it.

“That’s okay,” Jack says, “You’ve got time to think about it.”

“All the time in the world.” She replies darkly, scowling into her lap.

“It’ll be okay.” He doesn’t know if he believes it. “You don't gotta spend all that time in this room, right? I don't know what my brother would say, but maybe you could even come to New York with me when I leave."

Katherine sighs. "I wish it was that easy. I would come with you, Jack, I'd follow you to the end of the earth if it meant getting away. But it just doesn't work like that."

"What do you mean? Why?"

"There's something odd about this house. If you die here, you're forever trapped on its grounds. The furthest you can go is the gate."

It’s only now that Jack realises just how hellish it is to be a ghost in this house. Not only do you have to wake up in the place you died, memories and screams spinning all around you, but there’s no way out. You have to spend your eternal existence in your tomb. He doesn’t know if ghosts can go mad, but if they can, this would certainly be enough to drive them to such a conclusion.

That also means that when he’s gone, there’s no chance of ever seeing Katherine again. Katherine, who, in another universe, he could’ve been best friends with. Katherine, who makes him feel good just by being around. Katherine, who he’s sworn he will heal, without knowing there was such a short time limit. When he’s gone, he’ll never see a ghost again.

That should be a relief.

It isn’t.

He thinks again of calling Crutchie, asking if there’s any way he can break the ropes that hold the ghosts down, but knows he’ll be scolded about the dangers of releasing paranormal forces on the world, told that he’s too trusting, and finally, reminded of his promise not to call in the first place. Jack wishes there was something he could do, but he’s useless.

Katherine’s eyes are grim and foreboding under the dark liner. Her sickly white skin shines in the light.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Jack,” She says, “This house is no place for the living. I’m afraid of what will happen to you if you stay any longer. You see, the people who enter this place - they die. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“You mean it’s cursed?” Jack asks.

“I don’t know,” Katherine says, “I just know that I couldn’t sit here and let you stay without properly warning you. Now you know, it’s up to you. It really would be a shame to say goodbye. It’s been nice having someone to talk to, after all this time. But I understand that you might not want to be here any longer.”

“I’m not goin'. Not yet.” Jack says, “I was scared of ghosts. And it was all for nothin'. I’m not going to be scared of anythin' else in this place.”

Although, he thinks he’ll keep this information to himself for now. There’s no point worrying Davey again.

Elmer follows Davey like a stray dog down the corridors that were once terrifying. Realising that the little boy was, in fact, just a little boy has freed Davey of a horrible weight he’d been carting around. It makes this seem less like he’s being hunted, and more like he’s in control.

“I don’t like it out here,” Elmer says, leaning close to Davey, “There could be monsters. Or ghosts.”

His innocent obliviousness is heartbreaking, and Davey doesn’t have it in him to hurt the poor kid by telling him the truth. He can’t even find it in him to say that his mother’s dead, and that’s why she’s not coming, because he knows the kid won’t accept it, won’t believe it. After all, he only thinks he’s been here a few days.

“Just stay near me,” Davey says, “Nothing can hurt you.”

Nothing can hurt him because he isn’t alive. He hovers an inch off the floor without even noticing. His hand goes right through Davey’s in the brief instances when they brush fingertips and it sends a tingling sensation through Davey’s whole body, creating the illusion of vomit rising in his throat. So, he tries to keep a small gap between Elmer and himself, just so the boy doesn’t realise that something’s wrong when he tries to touch him. It would only spark questions that Davey doesn’t want to answer.

“I don’t like leaving the bathroom,” Elmer says, “It’s safe in there.”

“It’s safe out here too. You’re okay.”

That means that Elmer wasn’t the one who knocked the pictures off the walls and ran around, scaring Davey stiff. So, there’s another ghost out here somewhere that he needs to find. The idea doesn’t scare him like it once did. He just sees it as another conversation to have, another life story to listen to, another person to convince him there was never anything evil in here and that it’s been perfectly fine all along, just like Jack said.

“Do you know if there’s anyone else in this house?” Davey asks.

Elmer looks up at him with those watery eyes. He must have died crying. Davey doesn’t think he’s ever seen him without that sadness.

“Yes. Katherine is nice. She likes reading books. Mister Spot is very mean and rude. My favourite is Anthony. He looks after me.”

“Can you tell me what Anthony’s like?” Davey asks.

Elmer nods, smiling. “Very fast. He races with me sometimes. I once saw him run around the whole garden. Very funny, too. He makes a lot of jokes. I like him the most.”

He sounds like the one who’s footsteps Davey heard, who ran and ran and nearly drove Davey out of his mind with fear. It’s strange putting a name to a being like that, one that was so frightening that Davey almost ran away. Anthony. He sounds like a normal person, like a friendly guy, but all Davey can think about are the things that flew around and the way he cowered on the floor. The thought of meeting that person turns his heart to lead.

Almost immediately, he hears pounding on wood. Elmer looks around, his face lighting up with excitement. Another sign of his naivety - he thinks that Anthony is just running for fun, that it’s a normal thing to do. But for a ghost, it almost definitely means something much darker.

For the first time, Davey catches sight of the boy who circles the house without panting breathlessly. A ghost could just run forever and ever without growing tired. Anthony slows down a little, bright blue eyes locking onto Elmer, at his close proximity to Davey. His feet stop for a second, and Davey seizes his opportunity, no fear holding him back.

“Slow down there, Racer,” He says gently, “There’s nothing to run from.”

“Racer,” The boy cracks a smile, “I like that. Racer. Ya know what, that’s gonna be me from now on. Got a real nice ring to it.”

Elmer springs forward, leaping into Race’s arms - Race fits much better as a name than Anthony. This boy doesn’t look like an Anthony, with his slender frame and curly blonde hair, a baggy hoodie covering his body. He isn't an Anthony - this boy who looks constantly poised ready to flee, whose whole being seems to radiate speed. Race catches Elmer with ease, holding him in his arms. Davey’s taken aback for a moment - he’d never considered that other ghosts would be able to touch each other.

“You’re running again,” Elmer says cheerfully, “Always running. Will you race with me?”

Race laughs. “Some other time, kid. Why don’t you go find Katherine while I talk to this nice fella here?”

“Okay!”

Elmer rushes off down the stairs, giggling to himself, leaving Race standing with a forlorn smile on his face. He folds his arms, sighing and looking at Davey with deep empathy and pity.

“Poor kid,” Race says, “Doesn’t know what’s going on. None of us have the heart to tell him. So we just let him keep thinking it’s all fine. Don’t know who the real villains are here: the ones who killed him, or the ones who lie to him.”

“You do the right thing,” Davey says, “He’s happy. That’s enough, right?”

Race nods. He’s not as tall as Davey, with a slight build. His clothes are much more modern than Elmer’s, his death more recent. He’s a teenager, probably around Davey’s age, but his face is ruined by terror, grass-stains and smears of blood on his cheeks. Just another horrific detail that totally passes Elmer by. Race stands with the posture of a baby bird, ready to jump out the nest and take flight, and his hands never stop twitching.

On his back is a gash, deep and dark and dripping with blood. It looks as if a knife was rammed into his skin, wedged in and pulled back out, only to plunge in again. His death must have been a brutal one.

“I scared ya, didn’t I?” Race says, “With all my running.”

“A little.”

Race smiles apologetically. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It’s just - sometimes - I think I can see him again. And I think - if I run - if I go faster this time - maybe - maybe he won’t catch me.”

He glances down the corridor, his feet shifting around on the planks.

“You’d think I’d be over it by now. But it’s as fresh as ever. Every so often I get the feeling I’m still being chased and I just gotta run.”

These ghosts are not monsters. They are pained, suffering human beings who are in desperate need of conversation. They are not to be feared or dreaded, but to be helped. Davey is disgusted in himself for being such a coward and not listening to Jack, who knew right from the start that the ghosts were no threat.

“That sounds…awful.” Davey says, “I never realised that ghosts had it so rough.”

Race laughs. “I bet ya never realised ghosts existed before ya got here. This house is certainly eye-opening, ain’t it?”

“That’s one word for it.”

Chapter Text

The cities are filling up. People flock to them in search of jobs and income in the factories and slaughterhouses. Smog is pumped up from their great chimneys, giving the earth its first taste of pollution. A woman dressed in rags pulls a little boy by his hand, tugging his arm nearly out the socket as she ushers him forward, up the hill. They battle through bracken and brambles, their feet catching in the lurking, serpentine vines.

The woman is breathing heavily. Her pockets are empty of money and her stomach is growling for food. She is no more than skin clinging pathetically to bones, a walking skeleton who cannot support a young child and herself. The moon glows on them with sympathy, illuminating their path through the forest.

There is no space in the city for them. The houses are built back-to-back, overrun with corpses and disease. Rats run through the gutters and rivers overflow with sewage. People are desperate to find a home where they can earn money, but the conditions in those cities are criminal. There are twenty people in a house and no vacancies for a woman and her son. She has no other option.

She thought that Santa Fe would be better. There was a hotel in the town that she’d been in for the past week, but she can no longer afford it. She has nowhere to go and not enough cash for herself, let alone a child. It wasn’t an easy choice to make.

The house on the hill was visible from the hotel window. She’s been watching it all this time. It’s deserted and in decent condition, suitable enough for someone to live in. She knows her son will stand a greater chance at surviving out here than he will with her. There’s no space in this world for the two of them.

She has no shoes on her feet, her soles full of thorns. Her face is bloodied from the branches, and when she looks at her son’s, she sees his is the same. A long red cut runs across his nose. His skin is muddy from the many times he’s tripped and fell as she hurries him faster than he can move.

He doesn’t utter a word. For that, she is grateful. For that, she is guilty. Her son was a miracle, and look at what she’s doing. It would be too much to answer questions, to explain to him, to hear his voice again. She’d rather ignore him entirely and do what she must. It isn’t her fault that the only place for him in the city is a workhouse, or that all the new houses are full and ripe with plague. What is her fault, however, is what she’s doing right now.

The house on the hill is grimier up close, with a couple of crows perched on the roof. The garden is overgrown, but she imagines it was beautiful once. Just like her. Now, her hair is matted, her fingernails missing, her limbs twisted and bent and bruised and exhausted. She won’t live much longer, not in this condition. No one lives much past thirty - no one she knows, anyway - and she’s nearly twenty five now. She’s had a long enough life.

She can’t stop the tears from falling as she looks at her son. He’s so brave. He’s been her rock through all of this. Ever since her husband died in a work accident, he stepped up and filled a pair of shoes that were so much bigger than his feet. She wipes her face and sniffs, placing her bony hands on his shoulders.

“Mommy?” Her son asks, “What’s the matter?”

His eyes, too, are brimming with tears. She doesn’t want him to cry. She doesn’t want to see him cry. She squeezes his arms and tries to smile, taking a flat cap off her head and placing it in his grubby, little hands. He looks at her with confusion, holding the hat tight against his chest.

“I want you to wait here for me,” She says tearily, “Look after your daddy’s hat and be brave.”

The boy’s bottom lip starts to tremble. “Mommy? Where are you going?”

She shakes her head, choking quietly on tears. She needs to turn away before it gets too much and she breaks down. She can’t bear to look in his frightened eyes. She can’t believe what she’s doing.

“Just wait for me,” She says, her voice tight and shaky, “You have to be brave, Elmer. Wait here in this house.”

“When are you coming back?”

He sounds so afraid. She hugs him against her body and sobs. The crows on the roof watch hungrily. There isn’t a place for the two of them anywhere, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know how badly in debt she is or what she’s going to do, what she has to do.

God, she doesn’t want to do it. Not to him. With his sweet face and his loving nature and the hands that were always there, even when she didn’t know she wanted them. She sobs harder, shaking like the very plates keeping her together are shifting apart.

“I don’t know, kid,” She says, “Just stay here and wait for me. I’ll see you again someday, when all of this is sorted.”

She leads him into the house. The staircase is a grand spiral with a flimsy bannister that shakes when she puts her hand on it, though that could be because of how unsteady she is. He follows her like a loyal puppy, unknowingly walking to his doom. She cries and cries because he has no idea, and he’s just trotting along behind her, willing to walk to hell and back for her. His tiny hand falls into hers, trying to comfort her, but it just makes it worse.

“Do you promise you’ll come back?” He asks.

“I promise.” It’s the hardest lie she’s ever told. Knowing he believes it is harder.

They stand at the top of the stairs. The drop is high. Her hands are shaking like leaves in a hurricane. The boy weeps, tears staining his cheeks, his father’s hat on his head. She thinks about how hungry she is, the horrible life her son would live if she took him with her, the way she will pay for what she does to him, the fate she will meet, the bursting cities and her empty purse. It’s better this way.

It isn’t really. But she has to lie to herself to go through with it. Otherwise, her resolve would fall through and she’d have to carry on scraping by and inevitably watch her beloved son starve to death. Either way, there is no life. She is a selfish monster, but if she does this, she may live another year or so. She’s sure that she will be forgiven eventually, even if she’ll never forgive herself.

“I love you.” She says, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” He says, “Stop crying, Mommy. It’ll be okay. You don’t need to cry.”

She puts her hands on his shoulders. He will wait for her forever, she knows that. But he doesn’t have to wait anymore. She wipes some blood off his face and looks into his eyes one last time, making a mental map. This is her son, who she loved with all her heart, who was brilliant and unappreciated and forgotten by God, who deserved so much better. This is the kindest thing to do. This is what she must do.

She pushes him. All the way down, his eyes are on hers, and they seem to ask a million questions. She will never stop seeing that image, of her own hands pushing her son down the stairs, watching his body fall still at the bottom, his little head bleeding, his father’s hat still there, on top of his hair.

Chapter Text

Jack sits in a room with Davey and four ghosts. That isn’t a sentence he ever imagined he’d be using, but here he is. The air is frigid and seems to grab onto his skin, making patches numb and prickly, like he’s being stung by icicles. Being so close to so many dead people drops the temperature dramatically and creates a deafening silence. He shivers, wishing he’d worn something thicker. Katherine glances at him sympathetically.

Being in this room, with these ghosts, makes Jack’s own heartbeat slower, makes his body feel lighter, makes him dizzy and freezing and breathless, like he’s becoming one of them. He looks at Davey and sees that he has wrapped an old hoodie around himself like a blanket.

This room was probably once some kind of lounge. A fireplace is covered by a rusted grate, empty of wood or anything else to burn. Around that are red chairs that have faded to more of a muted peach over the years, covered in places with weird stains and holes. There’s a piano in the corner, which is missing half its keys, the sliding lid vanished into thin air, leaving the pearly white exposed and yellowing. A smashed wine glass is on the floor. Every sign of decadence and affluence is exactly where it should be, but worn away after years of neglect, a shell of what this place once was.

It isn’t the first time Jack’s wondered why Davey’s grandmother owned this house, how she managed to live here, or why she invited them. Also, if Katherine’s right, and everyone who dies here becomes a ghost, how come Davey’s grandmother isn’t floating around with all her explanations and motives just like the other ghosts are. Either, she found a way to cheat the system and made it out of here, or she didn’t even become a ghost. Maybe she faked her death and is still alive somewhere, but that wouldn’t explain why she wanted Davey here.

Katherine sits in the chair closest to Jack. Well, she levitates the tiniest bit above the cushion, giving the illusion of sitting. There’s a blonde ghost that Jack isn’t familiar with in the next chair, Elmer perched happily on his knee, bouncing up and down while the other boy laughs. Then, standing in the corner with his arms folded, like an outcast from the rest, Spot Conlon, his bullet wound shining dark under his frozen expression of blankness, giving nothing away, not even the slightest inclination towards what he’s thinking. Jack just sees his unresponsiveness as a case to crack, a challenge that he will win.

The blonde boy looks at Jack. He smiles, though there’s no warmth there - not that he can help that. It’s supposed to be kind, Jack can tell, even if all that he sees when he looks at it is the striking reminder of something being out of place, one step away from looking normal. It’s a smile without happiness, really, because ghosts can’t feel anything.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” The blonde boy says. His voice is high and strangled. He sounds like he’s drowning. “The name’s Race.” He holds out his hand, as if he wants it shaking. It’s the action that counts.

“Jack.”

Talking to ghosts doesn’t get any easier. Race seems nice, as friendly as a dead guy can be. But seeing his face, wiped clean as easily as someone would rub writing off a whiteboard, left with only the tiniest sliver of something recognisable as human, creating an unnerving replica, a being not quite alive but not quite dead, it’s like trying to discuss important issues with a robot. Jack knows that Race is trying to smile, to sound normal, but a ghost just can’t. There’s always a little piece out of place.

“So,” Katherine says, leaning forward with a small smile, “I haven’t asked you, Jack, but how exactly are you and this other boy related?”

“Are ya family or friends?” Race asks.

Spot doesn’t move. His piercing gaze follows Jack and Davey in turn. Someone could fry under those eyes, burnt alive. They’re like a laser beam, melting through anything with their intensity, this unforgiving scrutiny that curls up in his irises, pouncing on anyone. Jack knows trauma when he sees it, knows all about people who go into lockdown after something bad happens, the ones who take on the unapproachable look to guarantee no one gets close. He knows Spot is being eaten by his troubles.

Jack laughs a little. “Yeah. Well, actually, we’re dating.”

Spot’s dark eyes flick up, a sudden jerking movement, like a bird striking a fish. An expression of potent disgust finds its way onto his face. If anything, he retreats further into his corner.

“You’re faggots?” He asks. His voice is flat and low, oddly emotionless for someone tossing out such a strong word.

Davey looks like someone’s just slapped him. His eyes are wide in disbelief, his face flushed. Spot looks around the room airily, taking in the reactions with cool, impassive eyes.

“Are two boys allowed to go out?” Elmer asks innocently. Thank God for interruptions, draining the lounge of the crushing seriousness that had begun to flood into it.

“No.” Spot says with a deadpan tone, “That’s illegal. And sinful.”

It would seem that any respect Spot had for Jack has been forgotten in the blink of an eye.

“No it ain’t.” Race says, something alive and kicking in his voice, invigorated, his expression tinted with annoyance, “They can’t get married or nothin’, but there ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ together.”

“Actually, we can get married.” Davey says with a timid smile towards Race, “It was legalised during the early part of the century.”

Race nods, humming approvingly. “Really? What a time to be alive.”

Elmer scrunches his nose, tilting his head up to Race. “Being alive is good.”

A shadow passes over Race’s face and his smile dampens. He pats Elmer’s arm lightly. “It sure is, kid.”

Spot stares at Race disapprovingly. Jack gets the impression that, if given his own way, Spot would’ve broken the harsh truth to Elmer by now, in the way one would rip off a plaster, taking no time to say it delicately. It’s hard. Maybe it would be easier for Elmer to know, but that’s the kind of news that could totally warp someone’s mind. And a little kid? It would destroy him. Though not telling him also seems unfair, like keeping him out of a big secret, having to take extra care not to say anything suspicious, lying to someone so vulnerable. It’s difficult to know what’s right.

“Hey Elmer,” Katherine says gently, “You look tired.”

He nods, smiling. “I am. Can I go to bed?”

Katherine smiles back, though it’s tinged with sadness and guilt. It doesn’t reach her eyes, which stay as carefully vacuous as Spot’s.

“Of course.” She says.

He jumps off Race’s knee, giving Race a hug before doing the same to Katherine. He hesitates in front of Jack, and Jack’s heart starts racing as he worries what would happen if Elmer tried to hug him too, only to find he fell right through. That would be even worse than telling him he’s dead. Thankfully, Elmer settles for a wave, and Jack’s heart slows back down, the queasy feeling that had sprouted in his gut settling. He hates lying like this, but he knows it’s the only way to help.

“Ghosts can sleep?” Davey asks once Elmer’s gone.

Race shakes his head. “Nah. But the poor kid thinks he can, he’s that far in denial. His mind never could quite compute with what happened, so he carries on like he’s alive. He lies there every night, thinkin’ he’s sleepin’, convinced, wide awake. None of us has the heart to tell him.”

Spot scoffs. His face looks like an alabaster bust, eerie and almost lifelike.

“Is there something you’d like to say?” Katherine demands. When nothing but freezing silence follows, she mutters, “That’s what I thought. All judgement but never any help.”

The room is filling with icy water again, or at least it feels like it. Jack can feel the phantom sensation tickling his fingers, dampening his ankles. The arctic temperature is chilling him to his core. He thinks about Elmer, lying awake, his traumatised mind tricking him into thinking he’s asleep. About Spot, who drifts in the distance, not entirely present, keeping everything hidden. And about Katherine, who gives Spot a look that could kill, if he wasn’t already dead.

Race leaps out of his seat, his mouth in a silent scream. It’s so sudden and random that it almost makes Jack cry out too. He doesn’t know what’s going on and tries to get up, but when he sees everyone else ignoring the outburst, he does too. He doesn’t know anything about Race, but that sheepish smile as he slowly sits back down suggests he’s embarrassed. He watches the door, where there’s nothing but cobwebs, and bounces his leg up and down.

Spot huffs loudly. He looks at Jack and Davey, his face contorted in disgrace. It’s the strongest emotion Jack’s ever seen him show. He views them like they’re rats in the gutter, turning his head away and exiting the room. It leaves a small lead weight in Jack’s heart. All he wanted to do was help Spot, and he’s being treated like flaming garbage. It wounds his pride a little.

The mood in the room is damp and thick, the atmosphere so present it seems to be a whole extra being, taking up more space than anyone else. It holds a smothering hand to Jack’s mouth. He can almost feel the disappointment radiating from Katherine.

“He’ll learn,” She says sadly, “It’s hardest for him. To change, I mean. He’s been here so very long. A life like that must do a hell of a number on somebody. This is a different world to the one he knows.”

“And the one we know,” Race interjects with a melancholy smile, “Your car out there ain’t like nothin’ I’ve seen before.”

Katherine brightens a little, turning to him. “If you think that’s weird, you should see their phone. You can watch movies on it.”

“That ain’t right.” Race laughs, “Some kinda witchcraft.”

“Says the talking dead guy.” Katherine says.

The room is significantly warmer now that Spot and Elmer have gone. The unbeatable itch has lessened. Out of all the ghosts, Katherine and Race are the most normal, the ones that aren’t creepy to be around, almost easy to convince yourself that they’re alive. From the way they talk, the life that creeps back into their voices, they don’t sound dead. Not anymore.

Jack glances over at Davey and sees him smiling. It’s like dipping a burn into cold water. He’s been worrying like crazy, paranoid that Davey will change his mind and take his already packed bag and leave. It shook Jack, getting so close to watching him walk away, and he can still feel the tremor in his heart as he thinks about that panicked moment when he thought he had to say goodbye.

He thinks about how grateful he is, no matter what people like Spot say, that he’s with Davey, that he found someone so simply wonderful, who would do anything for him and he would do anything for, about the way they bounce off each other so perfectly and bring out the best in each other, even if they’re opposites. Davey with his level-headedness, Jack with his irrationality. Usually. Every role has been reversed this time, however.

All Jack sees when he looks at his boyfriend is salvation. Davey dragged him out of the darkest place and saved him. It isn’t an exaggeration to say Jack wouldn’t be the same person today if they’d never met, and may not even be here at all. With all that pain just waiting to be offloaded somewhere, rotting away in the landfill of his mind, driving him mad with torment and loneliness and the knowledge that nobody understood, nobody even knew what he was going through. Jack always thought it was better that way. Because it was just easier for him to act strong, like nothing bothered him - a habit he still slips into more often than not, even around Davey.

It turned out, what he needed was someone to trust with every shameful inch of his soul, someone he knew would love even the broken bits, but who would let him know he didn’t have to struggle through mending those rips alone. What he needed was Davey, who is giving him a bemused smile right now, his cheeks tinged with pink as he tries to work out what Jack’s thinking about. He’s a perceptive devil, some kind of mind reader, though that could be down to Jack wearing every feeling on his face like it’s some gilded crown.

“Don’t tell me if I’m wrong, guys,” Race says, “But I’m gonna try and guess what year it is.”

“Oh!” Katherine says, grinning, “This sounds fun! You go first.”

Race pauses thoughtfully, smiling like he’s just discovered the biggest secret. He clicks his fingers, which makes no sound, and says:

“I bet it’s 2012.”

He nods, leaning back, clearly satisfied, his body language confident and daring Katherine to challenge him. Which she certainly intends on doing.

“No way.” She says, “It was 2002 when I…died. It’s been longer than ten years. It has to have been. I think it’s at least 2030.”

Davey laughs quietly to himself. Both of the ghosts stare at him expectantly, eager to win.

“Katherine’s closest.” He says, earning a groan from Race and a victorious clap of Katherine’s hands, “It’s 2022.”

Something slithers through Katherine’s eyes, winding a shadowed trail. She looks at Race, at her hands, at the chair she can’t touch, at the two people in the room who are still breathing. What Jack sees in her now is similar to the regretful longing he saw in her father, like her mind’s grasping for threads that long since floated away.

“It’s been twenty years,” She whispers, her eyes looking right through the walls, “I would’ve been thirty eight.” A strange, miserable laugh bubbles from her throat, “I could’ve had kids. A husband. A job. I could’ve had a family.”

Race slides his hand into hers. She doesn’t seem to notice, her face as blank as it was the day Jack first saw her.

“Ya have a family,” He says, “Us.”

She smiles, wiping at eyes that aren’t leaking. “You’re right, Racer. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” His smile is warm and kind and loving and everything a ghost shouldn’t be, “We’s all got pain. It’s just about dealin’ with it, that’s all. If we don’t talk about our feelin’s now, we'll all explode.”

“Or end up like Spot.” Katherine says grimly.

“I s’pose so.” Race says, “Worst case scenario is we get lost in our own memories and stop bein' human, just like Spot.”

The house is quiet and still. In the shadows, a man stands with eyes as shiny as gems, peering from the safety of the darkness. In his chest is a hole that should be bleeding, but has long since run dry.

Elmer wakes up confused, looking around. The last thing he remembers is that sensation of falling, his limbs flying out from under him, body dragged down by gravity. He remembers the horrible fluttering that had filled him, the way the ground came spinning closer and closer until -

He gets those dreams a lot. The ones where you’re falling and wake up just before you hit the ground, before anything dreadful can happen. He doesn’t know what happens after you die, and his dreams never show it. Maybe there’s nothing. He could ask his mother - she’d know.

Speaking of his mother. He vividly remembers her being here, in this very house. When he closes his eyes, he can see a picture of her tear-stained face, standing at the top of the stairs, like she was getting ready to -

“Mommy?” He calls. His voice sounds so feeble in the emptiness, like a birdsong lost on the wind.

She was here. He knows that. But he just - he can’t remember anything. There’s this wall in his mind, stopping just before the dream about falling. He remembers her bringing him here and her crying and -

On his head is his father’s hat. His mother keeps it on a high shelf in her room. He has never been allowed to touch it, because it’s too precious to her. She loves that hat more than Elmer ever remembers her loving his father himself. He knows that the hat is off limits - it’s been ingrained into him that he cannot, under any circumstance -

“Mommy!”

He remembers her crying, the shaking hands that gripped him. He hates to see adults cry and he begged her to stop. Because it’s going to be okay - he’s here in this house, safe, and she’s somewhere else, about to come out of hiding and find him. She can come and put the hat back on her shelf where it belongs.

She isn’t here. It hits him suddenly. She said she had to go away. She told him to wait. He doesn’t know what to do - he can’t make food, he can’t sew clothes, he can’t plant or grow crops, he has no money to buy anything, or any water, and he’s all alone in this big house.

She told him to wait. He sits down on the chair. He seems taller than usual, like he’s grown an extra inch overnight, like he’s being dangled by strings from the ceiling, his head much higher than it should be. The chair isn’t very comfortable - in fact, it doesn’t really feel like very much at all, almost like there’s nothing -

He will sit here and wait for her to come back, like he promised, so she can return the hat to its shelf and tell him how brave he’s been. He knows she won’t be long, and that he won’t survive without her. A couple of days. That’s all it’ll be.

In the shadows, the man with the gunshot in his chest weeps. He is half-mad with isolation and tormented by his wandering mind.

“A child.” He says, looking up to the sky, “Why must you curse me with a child? Loneliness was enough. I cannot believe that you could be so cruel as to burden me with this innocent little boy.”

Chapter Text

Jack has always thought that there was something magical about drawing, seeing the way the pencil leaves a mark, exactly like you planned, and the plain, white sheet becomes beautiful. When he was a kid, he told the woman who was fostering him, and she laughed in his face and told him there was nothing beautiful about the picture and that such a girlish form of expression would get him hit by someone less generous.

It’s lucky that he took no notice. If he’d listened to her, he wouldn’t be leafing through a battered notebook, filling page after page with memories. Drawings immortalise things in a way the mind cannot. He draws Katherine, smiling sweetly, dripping with jewellery. The paper starts off meaningless and he turns it into something valuable, something he will look at every day to remember. Because there’s nothing worse than forgetting, and not even realising what you’re missing anymore.

Grey sketched lines become faces. Scruffy circles are made into eyes. He makes something out of nothing, his own face set with a determination that Davey always tells him is adorable, sticking out the tip of his tongue in concentration. His wrist aches, but it’s a satisfying burn - he knows that this pain means he’s doing something right. The soreness of his fingers used to be a relief, a positive scar amidst all the others.

Jack draws Race, with his caring eyes, his mouth silently sharing a joke. He shades the lines in his cheeks; it’s almost frightening how life-like it is. But that’s good, Jack thinks, hunched over the rapidly filling paper, that means he’ll never forget. And that when he sees this picture, he’ll hear Race’s voice and remember his personality, his individuality, the way that every ghost here is so different and unique - they are human beings.

He flips the page and draws Elmer, capturing the youth and the innocence that curse the child forever. It’s a borderline frantic scribble, but a detailed one, a precise one. Jack can feel a hand tightening around his heart, his chest squeezed tight. It’s like he’s being watched, scrutinised from the recess of the house, but when he looks, there’s nothing, and he goes back to the drawing, which feels crucial now, like he’ll die if he walks away from it.

Finally, he draws Spot. Spot, with his coolness and distance, with his shielded heart and emotionlessness, with his cruelness and his pain and the bloody hole in his chest. Spot, who fills Jack with bitter anger, who Jack wants to save, who won’t let Jack save him. The one ghost in the house who lives up to their shared title’s connotations. Jack doesn’t know what to do with him - Spot makes it clear that he wants no help, but Jack’s sure that there’s a little part of him that’s crying out for it.

He sighs and slides the notebook back into his bag. It’s full of paper that he didn’t think he’d have to look at. But all these letters are a tantalising trip to the past. He finds his hands sifting through them like they’re grains of sand, eyes roaming over Crutchie’s slanting handwriting, the desperate words that tried to reassure Jack that he was okay, but that couldn’t quite overlook the reality he was living through.

Jack’s still guilty about it. Leaving Crutchie, defenceless, with that man, was the worst thing he’s ever done. He knows there was no other option. He’d turned eighteen, but he couldn’t legally care for Crutchie until he’d signed all the papers and bought a house. So, there were months of separation, where Crutchie wrote to him every day, lying about how the man was being nicer now, how he’d eaten that day. But each one ended with some scared comment about how he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Jack still doesn’t know exactly what took place after he left, but he has ideas, and none of them are pleasant. He thinks about Crutchie now, who is turning sixteen this year, who is so sensible and kind, who didn’t let himself get bested and destroyed by the system like Jack did, who is old enough to look after himself but Jack is still worrying about. His brother, who he misses, would laugh at him and say what a wasted holiday it is - being in such a lovely place, but missing home all the while.

It’s enough to make him cry. And Jack doesn’t cry much anymore. He’s strong and brave and he fights back instead of crying. But reading these letters, thinking about that dark time that he never thought he’d make it out of, he can’t stop it. That version of him would never believe that he’d be on holiday in Santa Fe with his boyfriend right now.

“You okay?” Davey asks gently, appearing in the doorway.

And that makes Jack cry harder. Davey is everything to him, summoned by the sound of pain, here to make everything better, just like Jack’s always done for him. He is an angel, a blessing, a miracle. Jack doesn’t deserve someone like him.

He shakes his head lightly. He knows that Davey wouldn’t want him to lie and would see the truth anyway. Davey sits on the bed next to him, his face full of sympathy and concern, but also this overwhelming love, that Jack feels too inside himself, like they’re sharing this shimmering connection that no one else can see.

Davey puts his arm around Jack, pulling him close, letting Jack rest his head on his shoulder. Davey’s fingers drift up and down his boyfriend’s back. Everything else, all the ghosts and the death and the fear, fade. The bedroom is safe and calm and quiet and Jack’s heart is swelling with compassion. He wishes he were eloquent enough to find the words to explain to Davey exactly what he felt.

“I love you.” Jack says. “I love you so much.”

It’s the best he can do. He hopes that the short, concise phrase gets the point across. He hopes it conveys his deepest emotion and doesn’t sound shallow and manufactured. If he was Davey, he could compose poetry, and be original with his confessions. But Jack isn’t like that, and he can’t.

“You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Jackie,” Davey says earnestly, kissing Jack’s cheek, “You make me want to wake up in the morning. You make me smile just by being around. You are the brightest part of my day and I don’t know how I’d live without you. You're my best friend and the only person I would trust with my life.”

“You’re so sappy.” Jack says tearily, only half joking.

“I wouldn’t have to be if you weren’t so fucking amazing.”

“I never thought I’d hear you swear.”

“Being in love makes you do crazy things,” Davey laughs.

Spot is sulking. He stands, looking out the window, gazing at the grey and rotten garden like it’s Eden. His face is the same as ever; carved out of a mountainside, a corpse reanimated, unable to feel. It fills Katherine with rage just looking at him, feeling all sorry for himself, but happy enough to waltz around tossing out slurs like they’re coins.

She knows she shouldn’t; it’s ingrained in her just to leave him be and accept that he does outlandish, unacceptable things like this. But then she’s struck with the thought that she doesn’t know why she’s so averse to putting Spot in his place, why she would let him get away with murder before she raised her voice.

“What you said was wrong,” She says. There’s a tremor in the words, but her chin is tipped back defiantly.

Spot turns to her with those heavy, yearning eyes. He looks startled, mildly, even though all he’s done is raise his eyebrows slightly. His pale skin shines in the light that streams through the window, fallen flower petals lying all over the floor behind him.

“They are wrong to take part in such an act.” His voice is a passing whisper, old and frail and thin as a dying breeze. There’s some weakness in it that invokes the tiniest pity in Katherine.

“Come on, Conlon,” She says, “Things have changed. This is a different world. You saw their car - I saw their phone. Soon, you are gonna have to wake up and realise that this isn’t 1800 anymore. It isn’t even 2002.”

No one speaks to Spot like that. She can see the wounded look on his face, his lips pursed as if to spit poison on her. With the adrenaline fuelling her, she wonders why? Why should Spot be allowed to do as he pleases? Why is he any more respectable or powerful than her? Why should he dictate exactly what she and the other ghosts do? She’s questioning everything she’s let happen since she died. She let him influence her, make her think there was a reason why he gets the final say in everything. But really, it’s all a load of bullshit.

“I know.” Spot says, “But those boys are going to hell, Miss Pulitzer, where they will pay for their crime. The devil will have fun with their corrupted souls. That is the way of the world.”

“Not anymore!” Katherine feels she could burst with frustration.

How thick must his skull be that he can’t absorb the simple fact that this is a land that neither of them have any experience in, where their previous knowledge stands and counts for nothing? She could punch him, but it would get her nowhere. She’s never been violent, but Spot makes her blood boil in a new, unfathomable way.

“How would you know?” Spot asks, his eyes flickering like candles, “You’re dead, Miss Pulitzer.”

“So are you!” She shouts.

She’s sure that everyone in the house heard. Her hand clamps over her mouth. If she was alive, her cheeks would flare in embarrassment. If she was alive, Spot would listen to her.

But Katherine’s dead. She’s been dead for twenty years. She died neglected and ignored and heartbroken and alone. It was the most painful thing imaginable and it haunts her every day when she’s by herself, with no distraction. Spot doesn’t understand. He doesn’t care.

“You died a coward,” She growls. She knows she shouldn’t be saying it, knows it’s harsh, but she’s so angry she can’t stop, “You died a monster who couldn’t hold his tongue. You died a traitor to a wife who did nothing but love you and I hope that it tears you up inside knowing that you broke her heart and you died for nothing.”

The first glimpse of something human in Spot appears. Katherine expects him to rise to the challenge, use that serpent's tongue he was gifted and shred her delicate heart into thin, useless strips, but instead he crumples in on himself. There’s nothing but dejection and remorse on his face. It’s a pained, alive version of him that she’s never seen and it makes her want to take back her words. She can feel the destructive weight of them in the room, shooting him over again like the gun that killed him, and they rest on her like a plastic bag around her head, but she cannot return them and kill them in her mouth before they escape.

This is the only way she’s ever got through to him, through abuse. Sympathy doesn't work, arguing doesn't work, leaving him in silence doesn't work. For the first time, Katherine has got through the outermost of Spot's reinforced, steel walls. Even if this is the only method of achieving success, it's better than the chilling mystery.

“How do you know this, Miss Pulitzer?” He asks. He sounds deflated and broken.

“I heard you telling Jack.” She says simply.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the sound of Spot’s voice was so unusual that she just had to listen. She sees a weak flame of anger in his eyes, but it’s quickly extinguished by his grief. He hangs his head, lacing his fingers, staring back out the window. A dead man, in more ways than one.

“That conversation was not for your ears.” He whispers.

Katherine knows that there’s a light in him somewhere. After all, if he can change his mind about banning them from talking to the living boys, there is some conscience. He has a heart, locked away in a cage, longing to break free. She just doesn’t know how to release it.

“In my opinion,” She says, “You need to grow up. Things have changed. Life moves on without you. Deal with it. You don’t have to become a zombie, or a ghost stereotype. You can be different, Conlon, if you really want to. I’m offering you my help for one last time. Think about it.”

Davey walks through a forest. It’s thick with fur trees, spiders hanging from their branches, which he has to brush out of his face. Some of them scratch him, opening small gashes.

The darkness is sticky. It clings to everything and pools about his feet like tar. He can hardly see his hands in front of his eyes, and they’re more like silhouettes than anything else. The sticks beneath his feet crack, making him jump.

He has no control over where he goes. His body moves without asking his brain first. He moves gradually out of the forest and into a more open space, lined with flower beds that are filled with the corpses of plants and overgrown vines wrapping their way around statues. There’s a water fountain in the centre, with dead flies floating on the surface of the liquid, the face of the cherub that squirts the water eroded, half fallen off, like a demon.

He recognises it as his grandmother’s garden. It’s the middle of the night, the orange eyes of owls shining like extra moons in the sky. He’s exposed, like he’s standing in the middle of someone’s giant net waiting to snag him. The forest behind him seems to creep closer every second, its ominous darkness spreading like a disease, murdering the yellow grass.

There are snapping noises coming from the trees, like someone’s following him. His heart rate accelerates, but still he keeps moving, determined to reach whatever his destination is.

The house looms down like the gates of hell, loose stones dropping perilously close to his head. There are crows on the roof that seem to smile and a ghostly shape in the doorway - that of an old woman with a nose just like Esther’s and hands that cradle a partially knitted blanket that looks eerily like the one he received as a gift for his birthday.

He passes the woman by and finds himself in a back part of the garden that he’s unfamiliar with. It’s an open field, overlooking Santa Fe, with an enormous oak tree in the middle. Its roots erupt from the ground, a knotted, swollen mess, and its trunk is four times thicker than his body, covered in bulbous lumps and crippled branches that show its age. It looks months away from falling out of the ground, torn up by its own strength.

Davey’s heart stops when he sees the words on it. Carved messily with jagged, crude letters are four familiar names that make him taste sick in his mouth. His whole body tenses with fear, but he still doesn’t stop moving. The names are dripping with sap, like the tree’s bleeding, some more faded and healed over than others.

Sean Conlon,
Elmer Kasprzak,
Anthony Higgins,
Katherine Pulitzer.

And there, trickling with fresh, golden blood, are two new names that were not there a second ago, slicing right into the tree’s aged flesh.

David Jacobs,
Jack Kelly.

Chapter Text

Davey wakes in cold sweat. His heart is pumping madly, like he’s been sprinting for hours, as he jerks upright so fast that the sunlight stabs his unprepared eyes, his head spinning so fast he instantly keels over backwards, knocking his head against the wall with a muted thump. He sees Jack, curled beside him, shirtless, his torso painted with sweat as he rolls around, his face scrunched with fear. Pathetic attempts at words come from his mouth, more like little groans and objections, his hands gripping onto Davey’s leg so tightly, like a dead man, locked in place.

Davey wishes he could wake him and get him away from whatever nightmare he’s having, but he finds his hands too shaky to do anything. He too, wants to try and fight off the monsters in his head, just like Jack is, but now that he’s awake, the world seems too bright, too unnaturally still. His throat is dry and sore, like he’s been screaming, and he doesn’t want to be in this bedroom any longer. Scratch that, he doesn’t want to be in this house any longer.

He gently pries Jack’s fingers away from his skin, pressing a hand to his boyfriend’s feverish temple and sighing. Jack tosses and turns fitfully, his chest rising and falling like a rodent’s, or some other miniscule creature being hunted. Davey doesn’t want to leave him in this room alone - again - but he can’t relax, can’t turn off his haywire brain that is, sooner or later, going to be the death of him.

Walking through the house is much like in the dream. It’s unsettling. He had no will in sleep, no control, his body manipulated like a puppet. He stops dead in the middle of the hallway just to prove to himself that he isn’t being used this time; he’s awake. Just to be sure, he pinches his arm, and is relieved to feel the sharp prick of pain and see the red mark that’s left behind. At least now, whatever happens, Davey knows it’s his choice.

His limbs are cumbersome and thick as lead, hard to operate, like he’s learning for the first time how to move, a newborn child growing into its skin. His chest is pulled taut as a drum, his eyes darting. It’s just like those first days in the house, when he thought the ghosts were out to get him. Well, it would seem that he was right, and there really is something sinister at play here. He was correct to be suspicious and afraid, and Jack was wrong and foolish to be so calm. He’d be angry, but Jack couldn’t possibly have known better, and everything he did was with good intentions.

“Ya look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Race says, chuckling to himself. He appears out of nowhere, walking right through a wall.

“You could say that.”

Race’s expression changes from playful to serious quickly. He tenses, gesturing for Davey to follow him into a small, box room that is decorated with nothing more than peeling white paint, reminding him of being inside a padded cell, chained up and out of his mind. It’s not a nice image.

“Lemme guess,” Race whispers darkly, “Bad dream.”

“How did you-”

Race sighs, adjusting the purposeless headphones around his neck. “This place has a tendency to seep right into your dreams. Nightmares. We’s all had them, right ‘fore we died, that is.”

Davey could break down sobbing, on his knees like a baby. His mind races, his breath fluttering like moths in his mouth; he can almost taste the staleness of their dusty wings. He doesn’t understand. Why did his grandmother bring him here? He doesn’t want to die. Meeting these ghosts, seeing the ravage of death on your mind, knowing that he’d be stuck here forever. Davey doesn’t want to die.

He sits down slowly, trembling, barely able to think straight. All he can see is the lightning flashing around that ancient tree - the tree that looked like the headstone of a grave, with his name carved into it, done recently with a corrupt blade. And more than that, Jack’s name. It sends a horrible jolt through him and he thinks he’s about to throw up, his stomach twisting itself into a fancy bow. Jack - who he’s left alone in the bedroom, who’s name was right under his.

“Calm down,” Race says, “Ya ain’t dead yet. Ya just gotta listen to me, ‘kay?”

Yet. Davey is panicked, totally slipping out of control. Very fitting really, considering the snowy white walls that surround him and the handcuffs on the floor that are rusted and broken, attached to long chains that come from the walls.

What would Race know about surviving such a curse? His name was on the tree in Davey’s dream, and he’s dead. All the people whose names were above his have died. It does nothing to soothe him. It’s like being held upside down, centimetres away from starving piranhas, knowing that if the rope drops even a little bit, you’re a goner. Like he’s balancing on the peak of a mountain.

“Are you saying -” Davey breathes heavily, his chest strained, like someone’s sitting on it, “That I’m going to - die?”

“Of course not,” Race says gently. His hands look useless, like they want to touch him, but are forbidden, “There’s no good jumpin’ to conclusions. I’s just askin’ ya, Davey, didja have a nightmare about a tree last night?”

Davey swallows. He can’t stop his panic, but he tries to hide it a little for Race’s sake, whose face has gone grey with stress and is undoubtedly remembering his own dream and the tragedy that followed - the last dream he ever had.

“Yes.” Davey says.

“What didja see?” Race persists, “What was on the tree?”

“Names. Yours and Katherine’s and Spot’s and Elmer’s. And under them - under - I can’t, Race.” Davey sobs on the words, sucking them back down his throat. They’re too big and rough against the soft flesh.

"It's okay." Race says, "We'll work this out."

"It wasn't just me, Race," Davey says, "It was - Jack too. I can't let anything happen to him - please, Race."

“Nothin’s happenin’ to either of ya,” Race says, “Now please, calm down, and let’s think about this rationally.”

Davey nods. Race is right; he’s being ridiculous, he’s humiliating himself. But all he can think about is dying and how he’ll always be able to remember how much it hurt - would he die in a gory way? Murdered like Race? Starved like Katherine? Suicide, like Spot? Would it be bloody and brutal or quick and painless? Would he become a ghost?

And Jack. Would he have to watch Jack die? Would he have to watch the person he loves more than anything else in the world have the life pulled from his writhing body? Would he hear the screams and beg for mercy that never comes? Would Jack die silently, to try and make Davey less afraid? Would he sacrifice himself?

“Listen,” Race says, “I can’t lie to ya. This ain’t good news. The facts are that this house has chosen ya - you and Jack - and it ain’t gonna want to let go of ya until you’s one of us.”

“What can we do?” Davey asks desperately.

“Ya leave.” Race’s face is stern and sure, “Ya drive away from this hell house an’ get back to livin’ your lives while you’s still got lives to live.”

This makes sense. It does. And he would run. He’d go. But what about Race? What about all the ghosts in this house that never did anything wrong? What about them? They were so lonely before, so hurt, and by being here, they’ve been reborn. Davey feels like a freak admitting it, but they’re like family to him - long lost cousins. He likes being here with them. He feels cruel leaving them to fate.

He sees it in Race’s eyes. Being alone again would drive him to insanity. He’s terrified of the prospect of saying goodbye. He wishes he could keep them here, but knows it’s too dangerous. Davey’s scared too, but he feels a pin pushing into his heart at the thought of leaving Race forever.

“I heard voices.”

Jack looks ill. His face is flushed and shiny, his hair flat on one side and sticking up on the other, his eyes dull and tired. He's not even bothered putting a shirt on and stands with hunched shoulders in the doorway. He takes in the white room calmly, running his hands through his hair.

"You look like shit." Davey says.

“I feel it too.”

Jack nods in Race’s direction. His restless eyes are fixed on Davey the whole time, flooded with fear. He’s so still, but there’s this movement about him, like he’s itching to run or do something. He looks uncomfortable with Davey’s eyes focused on him, but it’s impossible to look away. Davey keeps thinking about Jack dying, becoming one of these ghosts. He has to stare at him to remind himself he’s still here.

“Sleep well?” Race asks.

Jack bites out a laugh without any humour. “Like a dyin’ baby.”

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” Davey asks.

“Big tree. My name on it.”

Davey nods.

“I think I’m gonna die, Dave.”

Davey’s heart breaks hearing how vulnerable Jack sounds, nothing more than a frightened child. He pulls him into a hug, feeling his sweaty skin on his clothes, the irregular rhythm of Jack’s heart banging against him.

“Not if ya leave,” Race warns again, “Your boyfriend here won’t listen to me - I can see it, Davey; ya ain’t convincin’ me, don't look so sorry, I get it - but it ain’t too late. You guys can get away from here. Don’t worry about us. We’re ghosts - we’ve been doin’ this for years. But you - I can’t let anythin’ happen to yous here.”

“Is it guaranteed?” Jack asks, “Is it definite that we’ll die?”

Race frowns. “Nah. I can’t - I can’t promise nothin’. I just don’t think it’s worth the risk. Not for our sakes. We’re not worth yous dyin’ for.”

“But it could just’ve been a dream,” Jack presses, “Nothin’ more to it than that.”

Race shrugs. “I s’pose.”

Jack is pressed so close against Davey. He can feel the tight muscles under Jack’s skin moving, each nervous swallow. And when he looks down, he sees in Jack’s eyes that he doesn’t want to leave the ghosts. That, no matter how petrified he is of dying, he cares about them too much to go.

“I think we need to go to the garden,” Jack says, “If there really are words in the tree, we gotta start thinkin’ more carefully about this.”

The tree looks just like it did in the dream. Its bark is almost black, like looking up at the night sky, its branches like prying fingers, spindly and elegantly skeletal. It casts a great shadow on the ground, and on that shaded side, are the words. The same names Davey hoped against hope he’d just dreamt of. He’d dared for a second to dream that the tree would be ordinary, but his heart drops through the floor at the sight of them.

“Oh God,” Katherine breathes. The full anguished storm of her eyes is fixed on the boys, only highlighted by her thick eyeliner, “We need to do something.”

The sun is unforgiving, scorching them under its rays. Davey almost envies the ghosts for not being able to feel the sweltering heat, but decides they’ve suffered enough to be granted one small compensation. Instead, he thinks about Jack, who still hasn’t put on a shirt and must be burning alive.

“But what?” Davey asks. His voice is more of a hoarse croak.

His own name glares at him. Those letters are a seeping wound in this poor tree, a cemented sentence of certainty. He waits, looking between Katherine and Race, for them to come up with something genius, some brilliant solution. But their faces are as confused and afraid as he feels, and the last bit of hope fades.

“Leave.” Race growls. His face is set with anger, his eyes burning through Davey. “Get the hell outta here an’ don’t come back. Go.”

“Race!” Katherine gasps, “Don’t speak like that. You sound like…”

The ending is loud enough in Davey’s mind: Race sounds exactly like Spot.

“I’m sorry.” Race says, resigned and tired and hopeless, “But they need to be safe. We don’t matter, Kath, but they do. They got their whole lives to live.”

“But there must be another way.” Davey says quietly.

Something could fry under the look Race gives him: hotter than the sun itself, seeming to screech with accusations along the lines of “Do you want to live or not?”

Katherine taps Race’s arm. Her eyes are almost apologetic.

“We could always…”

“Oh no. No, Kath.”

“Race, she could have the answers.”

“She’s mad.”

“She’s been here the longest. She might know more than we do about the curse.”

“There ain’t no curse.”

“Race. Do you want to help these boys or not?” Katherine asks, her arms folded with finality. She knows she’s won. Her mouth is a thin, smug line.

Race looks like he’s going to throw up. He mumbles something that sounds like, “I still think it’d be easier if they just left.”

Davey knows Race is trying to protect them, but it just doesn’t work that way. The ghosts don’t look out for the living; it’s the other way around. It’s up to Davey and Jack to preserve the minds of the dead, to care for the spirits that time has forgotten and the world has left behind. No one else will tell Davey when to leave, not when they don’t have all the facts and there could be another option.

Though, he is still shaken to his core, his toes clenched and curled up in his shoes, as if that’ll stop him from walking towards danger. And when he looks at Jack, he sees it all a hundred times to amplified. Jack may think he’s not giving anything away by staying quiet, but Davey knows his habits and his body language inside out. And when Jack’s scared, he shuts down, becomes a spectator with no contribution and no voice.

Davey squeezes his hand. Jack shows no sign of feeling it at all.

The names on the tree are blinding, taunting. You’re going to die, they whisper, we’ll keep you in this house forever.

Race has been the fastest runner on the track team for the last three years. He thanks whatever God is listening that he’s wearing his running trainers right now. He isn’t really sure how he ended up in this haunted house - the woodland walk he was taking led him up this hill, and he was too focused on the music he was listening to to register where he was going.

His Walkman has stopped. He's lost. It's the middle of the night. There are unsettling noises behind him, the kind that spring to mind all the stories that pass around town, about kids who disappear, about the wolves that live here, about the screams that pierce the night.

All just stories, of course, but still, Race thinks about them. He also thinks about the warmth of his home and the bed he should be in. It’s not his fault that his insomnia chose tonight to return, or that he felt so anxious enclosed inside that he hyperventilated the whole while, right up until he tied the laces of his trainers.

The hill looked like a challenge, to test his endurance. He’s got a big competition coming up and he has to be on top form. It would be a good aerobic exercise, pushing against his limits. It would boost his confidence going onto the track.

It would also, unbeknownst to Race, be the death of him. Well, that’s the first thing he can think, besides the racing, raging instinct to run, when he sees the eyes behind him. They’re glossy, sparkling in the dark, bloody red with veins. The only other thing he can see is the knife: caked in something that looks like dry, red flakes of soil, serrated at the edge.

Race almost trips over his own legs, forcing himself to power back on after his lapse. The problem is, he’s already exhausted from running up the hill, and they are weaker than he ever remembers them being, soft as butter and frail as a structure made entirely of paper. It’s this horrifying realisation that makes him think: he’ll never be able to outrun this stranger, who could easily throw the knife and kill him on the spot.

He runs through endless gardens. In the distance, he can see a tree. It’s wide and sturdy-looking. If he could make it there, he could climb it and throw acorns at his pursuer. Suddenly, he has much bigger things to worry about than being prepared for his track event next week. His number one priority is making it through this night.

Then, he can go home. His parents will be worried sick. Sure, they’ll be annoyed, but their reprimanding will be a breeze compared to this. He’ll be so grateful just to be back, safe, away from the house that looks uninhabitable, that has so many stories featuring it.

He screams. If there’s anyone in that house, they aren’t helping. Or they can’t hear. That seems impossible. Race figures it must be deserted. It’s an easier thought to swallow than that there’s someone in there who doesn’t care whether he lives or dies.

Regrettably, Race chances a look behind him. There are those eyes, wild and deranged, but now they’re accompanied by a face. It’s hideous, with a long, thin mouth, missing more than a few teeth, and bruises galore. The lines that run down it betray the youth, making the young man look well into middle age.

And the knife.

Race runs. His body is shutting down, sagging into the floor, but he pushes his soles to the floor and ignores the burning he feels as they slap the grass. The tree gets closer and closer, the only hope of salvation for miles. But so does the man. He’s hot on Race’s heels, and with every step Race takes, the man seems to take two. He’ll never make it to the tree at this rate.

His heart is frantic, more like the flickering of an eyelid than a steady beat. He reaches way down deep and pulls out the last strand of strength, summoning everything that’s left in him. The brief spurt of energy puts him safely out of arm’s reach, but now his eyes are trying to close and moving his legs is like trying to pull a whole other person.

As Race’s fingers brush the bark of the tree, all the ground he’d gained is eaten up by the man. Just like that, the distance closes, and he sees a flash of white in those eyes before the pain sets in. The blade nestles snugly in the small of his back and the sound he makes is feral and raw, a howl more fitting of the wolves said to hunt here. Then, it goes cold as the knife is ripped back out, leaving a hole that gushes sticky blood. In and out it goes, and each time, Race’s screams get quieter, until eventually, he is silent.

The tree is splattered with blood. The floor is soaked with blood. Race’s hands drip with blood. His body is losing blood - too much, far too much. He feels light, then lighter, then it seems he is not there at all. But in his mind, he is running. Running and running and thinking about how he would never have won the track race. In some twisted way, he could be considered lucky.

Chapter Text

It’s ridiculous, having to walk all the way into town just to make a simple phone call. Jack’s sweaty and frustrated, the sun boiling like a pit of lava that he’s been dunked into, and he wipes his forehead again, even though he knows it’ll just be soaked again in a second. His face feels like it’s on fire and he sure is glad no one can see him now. He expected Santa Fe to be hot, but not like this.

This is insane. His blood is full of angry muttering and irritation - he really doesn’t cope well in warm weather. Some people find winter depressing, but summer puts Jack’s patience on the fritz. It gives him a really short fuse, and all the heat just increases the possibility of it catching and sparking.

It’s all just too much. He finds out that he’s probably going to die on the hottest day of the year - does the universe have no mercy whatsoever, or is this all just its twisted sense of humour? If it had a physical face, you can bet he’d punch it right into tomorrow, which hopefully won’t be so hot.

With a sickening turn of his gut, Jack thinks a grim thought - who knows how many tomorrows I’ve got left.

Who knows if he’ll die in his sleep tonight or even on the way down this treacherous hilly terrain, before he can even make his damn phone call that he’s coming all this way for. Who knows if he’ll be bitten by a poisonous animal or trip on a root or be stabbed or shot or -

He pauses on an old stump to calm his breathing. It’s unnecessary to worry about something so out of his control. If he’s going to die, he can’t stop it. This is one enemy he can’t fight into submission. No matter how much he panics or denies it, it’ll happen either way.

Maybe Race is wrong. Maybe he’ll be fine. But then there’s Davey. If anyone doesn’t deserve death, it’s him - Davey has never hurt a soul. Jack, maybe. That’s understandable - he wouldn’t blame the earth for wanting him off its back. But Davey is harmless and innocent and Jack would give his own life if it meant he’d survive.

Then again, the world is cruel. If Elmer can die, Davey can too. Ghosts aren’t all just monsters like Spot - some of them are truly undeserving of their fate. And most dead people aren’t ghosts at all. It’s just this fucking house that Davey wanted to see and its weird rules and curses and demons and some crazy old lady who owned it. Speaking of, Davey’s dead grandmother has stayed hidden. Is she not a ghost?

Or does she have some other power? Spot was able to possess Jack just by walking into him. If a ghost had the intention, if they deeply wanted to get into another body, the nightmarish results would be much bigger. Imagine a vile woman, evil enough to leave this house in her grandson’s name, and what she could do if given the right form, the strength of another, the total power over their mind. A malicious monster without a conscience, committed to doing whatever it took to win.

He’d rather not think about it. He’d rather not think about anything and turn off his mind completely. Because it keeps straying unpermitted to darkness and images of endings, unhappy conclusions and sudden painful halts. Death.

He wishes he’d not come here. Stupid. Fucking. Idiot. He agrees to things too easily. He doesn’t think before he acts. If he wasn’t so dumb. If he was smarter. If he was better.

Hyperventilating. If Crutchie was here, he wouldn’t be having these thoughts. Burning. He’s so, so hot. He wants to rip his clothes off and let his skin breathe. Pain. Like tiny claws all over him. Fucking idiot. Always overreacting. Always causing a scene. Always having to be the centre of attention.

It’s fine. He breathes. The air is moist and humid. He breathes. And his head clears. It’s okay. There’s no need to get so worked up. He isn’t an idiot because he didn’t come here knowing it was a death trap - as far as Jack was aware this was just a holiday. And he volunteered to come because he loves Davey and wants to be around him - and if it comes to it, fight for him.

His knuckles have been bruised before. They may go right through ghosts, but that won’t stop him from trying. He would charge off a cliff if it meant vanquishing a villain. If it comes down to it in the end, Jack will die for Davey, who deserves a good life, a happy life, more than Jack does. If Davey died, his family would be destroyed. If Jack died, Crutchie would miss him. It’s not a difficult decision.

It should be. He should have more care for his own life. But Jack’s tired, really - tired of being hurt, tired of fighting, tired of having to save other people and suffer himself. All he wants is a happy life with Davey, and he will cling to that dream until the end. But if it comes down to him or Davey making it out of here - well, Jack’s had more than his fair share of life and all the scars that come with it. He wouldn’t protest finally having peace.

Live with Davey or die. The first option is what he wants, the second is what he’s trying to accept.

He’s almost in town now. The pretty buildings and gentle orange rocks do nothing to soothe the fiery feeling inside him - overwhelmed, barely functioning, moments from breaking down completely. He shouldn’t be having to consider the value of his life, or contemplate the idea of dying so young on holiday with his boyfriend. This is all so wrong and he wants to cry or shout or do something to make his name disappear from the tree.

With numb fingers, he selects the number on his phone. It takes a few tries to get his unresponsive thumb to click in the right place, but with relief, he hears it start to ring. He knows that Crutchie told him not to call, but that was a joke, really. And this situation is a matter of life and death. It’s deathly fucking serious.

“Hey! Jack.” Crutchie’s voice is a call back to reality, to a world where there aren’t ghosts and curses and it’s all simple and familiar, “Are you having fun? You must be; you’ve been busy enough not to call me.”

It’s joking and friendly and warm and Jack wants to sob. He wishes he was back in New York with his little brother. He misses Crutchie too much to put into words. He wants to hug him and remember how he feels in case it’s the last time. Because the stark truth is that there’s a decent chance Jack will never make it home.

“Are you there?” Crutchie asks.

Jack considers hanging up. His words are choked up in his throat in one big, muddled, wet mess, caught in a net, writhing about uselessly like fish. He doesn’t know what to say, but wants to say everything: that he loves him, that he’s scared, that he’s stuck and confused and needs advice.

“Ghosts.” Is what he manages to say. Out of all his thoughts, it’s the one word in his mind that makes its way out his mouth in a garbled crunch of sound.

“Real ghosts?” He can imagine the way Crutchie perks up, captivated with interest, “You’ve seen real ghosts?”

Jack nods. Then he remembers his brother can’t see that.

“They - yes.” He says, “I think they’re trapped.”

His words are so messy, clumped and coughed up like a cat spitting out a hairball. He wishes he could see Crutchie’s face. He wishes he could be honest and tell him the dire circumstances. And he tries. But he can’t.

How do you tell your little brother that you think you’re going to die? After Jack saved Crutchie, after the happy home they’ve built together - it would hurt him to no end to hear it. It would be cruel and as much as Jack wants to, he just can’t. Instead of those words, tears begin making their way out. Now, he’s glad Crutchie can’t see.

“In the house?” Crutchie asks.

“Yes.”

“That’s odd.” He says, “A spirit is free to wander. Unless…”

“‘Less what?”

“Unless there’s something tying them to the house. Something stronger than them.”

Like the force that carved Jack’s name into a tree. That appeared in his and Davey’s dreams and has given them the feeling of being watched ever since they arrived. No matter where he goes, the sinister chill of eyes on his back lurks. Thoughts of his death are at the forefront of his mind, bright and demanding attention and sickeningly terrifying.

“An’ if they’re stuck,” Jack says shakily, “There’s no way to get them out?”

If the ghosts could come with them, no one else would have to die. If Katherine and Race could be wrong and there be no curse or whatever it is, they could come back to New York and everything would be fine.

But Jack is unrealistic. Crutchie is his voice of reason. And if Crutchie says it’s impossible, it isn’t worth wasting time imagining. It isn’t worth being hung up on. If the ghosts can’t come to New York, that’s that. Time for a new plan. The problem is, Jack sees two sides to it, and he isn’t sure which one’s best.

He knows that these dead people are exactly that - dead. In no world should they be worth dying for. They are heartless, soulless spectres that he will forget about after a night’s sleep in his own home. He won’t be guilty or miss them because they will seem like nothing more than a faint dream; his mind will erase them for him. They are unimportant, broken beings that he shouldn’t care about.

But Jack does care. He can’t stop himself. Every instinct, every nerve wiring his body, is programmed to nurture, protect and preserve. These ghosts are no exception. Despite everything he believes about ghosts, these ones seem different; they have feelings and thoughts and memories and pain. They have so many layers of suffering that he truly thinks he can break through.

He believes that everyone can be saved. Even Spot Conlon. And that Jack will be the one to save them. That’s why he can’t leave them; he would think of them every night, think about how dark it must be in Santa Fe and how he betrayed them. He could’ve saved them, if he wanted to - he just chose not to. No, that isn’t a future he can live with.

And if something dangerous is coming to this house in search of Jack and Davey, without them to destroy, it may turn and take it out on the ghosts instead. By leaving, he could put them in grave danger. By running like a coward.

“I’m sorry.” Crutchie says, “If something’s holding them in place, there’s nothing you can do to move them.”

Jack loves the ghosts. He loves Katherine and Race like the friends he never had, and loves Elmer like he loved the little boys in the homes that he felt the responsibility to defend.

Spot… Well, he’s different. There’s nothing to love about him, no redeemable quality at all. But there must be somewhere, and Jack is determined to find it. No one is without one good trait, not even Spot.

Jack’s throat is on fire. He blinks through tears that are as hot as the sun above him. Crutchie is so far away and he has no idea of what’s happening. He is practically unreachable and so oblivious and Jack can’t say it. He can’t say it.

This could be the last time he hears his brother’s voice, and he doesn’t even have it in him to say goodbye.

“I love you.” He says. His voice is small and lost, struggling to stay afloat in a sea of tears.

There’s a pause. Confusion. Crutchie doesn’t know where this is suddenly coming from. He may as well be in another galaxy right now, with no way of understanding what’s going through Jack’s head. It hurts - lying to him, betraying him, tricking him. But Jack can’t. He just can’t. Everything is spinning and flying around him and his legs are so wobbly. He is going to die and there’s nothing he can do. Crutchie is unaware. He’s so lucky to not know the truth.

“I love you too.”

Katherine has never seen Race so on edge, and bear in mind that this is the boy who randomly kicks up dirt and sprints as if his life depends on it, the boy who exists in constant paranoia of a long-gone threat, who spends half of his time looking back over his shoulder. She is used to his little quirks, his worries and suspicions and hyper senses, but this is a different level altogether.

Race can’t sit still. His long legs writhe like those of a spider when he is seated, his shoulders tensing and relaxing in a perpetual loop. He blinks and darts his eyes like a snake’s flickering tongue and those eyes themselves are wide and glassy. Blanker than they’ve ever been - a corpse buried underground, rotting before her. He jumps up and walks a circuit of the room, his footsteps silent - though she can imagine the noise, the heavy, anxious padding. Pacing around and around but never running out of breath. He could do it forever if she doesn’t stop him.

She stops him. Her hand is steady and seems a million shades more alive than his paper-white, stressed skin. He turns to her with these horribly pained eyes, and she thinks she could crumble under that weight. If she wasn’t already dead, it could kill her. Seeing Race so worked up over this is painful - he is the one person in this house she’s ever been able to rely on, the only one who makes her feel normal and less forgotten. That boy has his burdens, but this is one too many.

“Race,” She says gently, “Please sit down.”

He blinks. It’s as fast as a bullet and she almost misses it completely. Everything he does seems to have been sped up to twice as quick. Except for his heart, obviously, which stays as dormant and useless as ever. It would be frightening if she saw him breathe now - the ghost version of Race is the only one she’s ever known.

Though if neither of them had died, they could have met. He’d be a couple of centuries older than her, but their paths could have crossed in some way. She can hardly imagine that - meeting a Race that ages and breathes just like any person, who has nothing to run from. What would they have talked about, if they didn’t have death and isolation to bond over?

“They can’t die.” He says. Even his words are fast. “We can’t let them.”

“I know, Race,” Katherine says, “I know.”

“No!” He stands again, “No, ya don’t. Kathy, it hurts so much. Every day I see him again, every day I feel that knife and - I don’t want them stuck like this. I don’t want them feelin’ this pain.”

Her heart goes out to him. Race, who does everything he can to shelter Elmer from this very pain of which he speaks, who is more patient with the frustrating case that is Spot than she could ever be, who is always around and she takes for granted and is suffering so much. She doesn’t know how to help, not when you die in such a gruesome way, when those visions flood back in every time you try to forget.

She understands. Jack and Davey - they’re alive. They’re luckier than the ghosts. They have all these opportunities to have long lives and by staying here, they’re practically saying they don’t care about their own safety. They don’t care whether they live. Being dead, having to watch that, Katherine knows they’re trying to be brave, but they’ll regret it when they too are trapped here. They will regret it for the rest of time and it’ll be her and Race saying I told you so.

“We’ll do everything we can,” She says, “But in the end, it’s their decision.”

If Jack and Davey stay here, if they really are set on this, Katherine can’t change their minds. They are humans with free will and the right to their own choices and someone like Katherine, who doesn’t even have a physical form, is powerless against that. As much as she enjoys new people being around, she would never wish this on them. Death is impossible to get over and if they die, they will be changed forever.

They don’t understand the gravity of this. And if they won’t listen to someone who’s experienced it, they’re done for. She wishes she could stop worrying, but, like Race, she wants them to just go and leave all this behind them. She doesn’t care if they forget about her - the rest of the world already has - as long as they’re out of harm’s way.

“Why are people so stubborn?” Race asks.

“I don’t know.”

“I wish they’d never come,” He says, “Then it wouldn’t hurt us when they leave, and it wouldn’t hurt them if they stay.”

“Sounds like a whole lot of hurting.” Katherine says.

Race’s expression is grim. “It always is, isn’t it, Kathy? Whatever ya do, it always ends with pain.”

And he’s running and running and running and running and his legs have suddenly stopped burning. His muscles no longer feel like rubber bands pulled to their limits. He isn’t breathless and his heart isn’t struggling to keep up. It’s like he’s been given all the energy he needs to escape, to survive. Oh God, that means he’s going to make it. He can get back home.

Running and running and running and - where’s the person who was chasing him? He glances over his shoulder for as long as he dares, his legs moving the whole time, but he can’t see the man anywhere. It seems strange for him to have given up so soon, because now Race is a witness who’s been left alive and can go to the police and report him and get him locked up and -

Running and running and - the tree is in front of him. He could’ve sworn he’d already reached this tree a good few minutes ago. The very tree that was in his dream last night, the one he woke up sweating and panting from, that seemed so clear and real in his mind.

He feels like he could run forever. He isn’t aching or tired - actually, he feels nothing. The only thing he does feel is the wind on his face - even the ground doesn’t feel solid beneath his feet. His soles would normally be tingling by now, bruised and battered by the repetitive strikes to the earth. But they are as smooth as ever and each step is as easy as blinking.

Running and - he has circled all the way around now, back to the place where he started. And still no sign of his attacker, who he hazily remembers grabbing him. It’s all dark and fuzzy in his head but if he reaches in far enough he’s sure he felt the spark of panic as he was caught up with and then -

Race puts a hand to his throat, right on the pulse point. He knows that by now, his heart would be going mental in his chest, working just as hard as his legs. But there’s nothing - no throb, no beat, no feeling at all. Like touching a dead body.

He runs faster still, faster than he’s ever ran before. If he runs far enough he’ll break out of this nightmare and leave behind the man and the tree and the menacing house. His legs are relentless, moving him without putting in any effort, like he’s weightless, a feather carried through the air. This can’t be real - there’s no way he could run like this without feeling a thing.

There was a knife in his back. He sees it now. He wasn’t fast enough. The blade slipped in so cleanly, like it was designed to fit with him, like it was completing him. There was blood everywhere, and as he comes back round to the tree for the third time, he sees it. Staining the wood and the grass and smelling as thick and heavy as lead - his blood. Blood that came from him.

Which means…

Race is never going to stop running. If he runs far enough, he’ll get away from the blood, he’ll wake up and be back in his house. He will never be tired and never trip over and so he runs, because it’s the only thing left to do. Even if it’s nothing like the running he’s used to, he keeps going. He will keep going until everything is back to normal.

Chapter Text

The basement is, so far, the worst part of this house. It is so dark that Davey could swear he sees faces in the shadows - old women and monsters that wait for him to take one step in the wrong direction. The darkness is inside him, tying a black string around his heart, slowing down the beating and the blood and the very thoughts he tries to process.

He feels Jack’s hand in his. It’s warm, warmer than it should be. Davey can’t stop worrying about Jack, especially not since he found out that Jack passed out in the town after making a phone call. Probably because of heat stroke, but it still plays on Davey’s mind - the shape in his mind of Jack on the floor, people crowding around him, asking if he needs an ambulance, if he’s okay. He can imagine how much Jack would’ve hated the attention. He wishes he’d been there to catch him.

Damn this house. Damn his grandmother. What did either of them ever do to deserve this?

Davey can’t see much in the basement. He waits for someone to turn on the light, shifting his feet. It’s like being at the bottom of the ocean, in the deepest crevice of the Mariana Trench. Well, if that’s so, then he’s the tiny piece of krill floating along, perfect prey for anything bigger than him that hides its hunger in the shadows.

“There’s a lamp to your right, Davey,” Race says. His voice sounds fainter than ever in the darkness, and his form is totally invisible, “Would ya mind turnin’ it on?”

He and Jack are the only ones who have the power to do something as simple as turn on a light. He feels guilty instantly for forgetting, being so ignorant. Being in this room, with the disembodied voices of ghosts around him, Davey feels the fear trickling back into the background of his mind. A dull, throbbing presence stalking him with a napkin tied around its neck. It’s the huge, pressing reality of exactly what could soon happen in this house.

Death. He looks at Jack’s face beside him as the light flickers on, the lines and the worry illuminated by the dim glow. He sees for the first time how young Jack is, how unprepared; all this time, he’s thought of Jack as the stronger one, the older one. But he’s just a kid, really. Those are eyes that haven’t seen half of what the world has to offer, eyes that could soon be closed for good.

Death. These ghosts are floating souvenirs of the past. They are what will become of him if he lets this happen. Death is never something he imagined thinking of, not until he was old and grey and frail, lying in a hospital bed, ready to rest. This - this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Young people don’t die. He blinks away tears; he can’t show Jack his fear - it’ll only make him panic and then they’ll run away and leave the poor, miserable ghosts behind and -

“The house is alive,” A voice mumbles, “She is restless tonight.”

Race glares at Katherine. “I told ya, she’s mad. We should never have come down here.”

There’s a Black woman behind a great stack of boxes. Her dress is the most luxurious pink silk, adorned with feathers and an enormous hat on top of her coils of dark hair. Her face is heavily made-up, but even the powdered blush can’t make her look alive. Though, Davey finds himself seeking comfort in her eyes, which don’t look nearly as mad as Race would have him believe, and are filled with very human emotions like loneliness and pain.

“Miss Medda,” Katherine says politely, “We’re very sorry to disturb you, but there’s a bit of a situation.”

The woman’s eyes light up as she takes in Davey and Jack. She opens her arms wide, grinning warmly, and tries to hug them. Before either of them have time to respond, she’s going right through them and Davey’s bending over on the floor, hideous clear liquid dripping from his mouth as he retches. It feels like something small living inside him, pushing up his organs one by one and emptying him out.

Everything is cold. He shivers so violently that it overpowers his rushing heartbeat. Miss Medda’s face is full of shame, but there’s something so terrifying about the way the light reflects from her eyes, making them look like glass balls that have been shoved into a dead taxidermy animal, ready to put in a museum, to give the illusion of life.

“Livin’ boys,” She says. Her voice is warm around the edges, roses and lilies where the other ghosts’ are oceans and deserts, “It’s been so long since I’ve seen the living.”

Her expression is one of awe. Her fingers are restless and Davey can see that she wants to touch them, to remind herself of what flesh feels like, to ground herself back into a world she was thrown out of years ago. He would let her, to ease her suffering a little, but life isn’t kind enough to grant him that.

“I’m Davey,” He says, “This is Jack.”

Miss Medda’s eyes fill instantly with tears, like someone’s flicked on a switch inside her.

“That was my boy’s name,” She says quietly. She looks absent and lost in thought; she isn’t quite here, in this room, “My little boy. Funny to think of him all grown up. Do you boys know how old he is now?”

There’s silence. Davey looks to Jack and then to Katherine and Race, seeing the same tight, reluctant, heartbroken air about all of them. Miss Medda’s smile is hopeful but nostalgic and Davey’s sure that deep down she knows the truth, that these memories she’s clinging onto are nothing more than coping mechanisms embedded so roughly in her mind that there’s nothing else to turn to.

Because she isn’t from this time. She lived hundreds of years ago. There is no way that any son of hers could still be alive today. Everything she knew has gone and anything she left behind has been forgotten. It’s like watching a planet explode or a species go exist, knowing that its history has been erased for good. Devastating, having to sit back and let it happen. Worse, knowing that could soon be you.

Just like that, her face drops. She smacks her palm lightly to her head and laughs sadly.

“Silly me.” She says, “I forget things. Life is so very dull down here; the days tend to merge together.”

Davey wonders why Miss Medda lives in the basement anyway. Did the other ghosts trap her down here? He sees no reason for that; she may be confused, but she isn’t dangerous. She seems like a well-meaning, sweet woman. Did she choose for this to be her home? She doesn’t seem happy down here, so that doesn’t make much sense either.

“What year is it?” She asks.

“2022.” Jack says.

“Wow. I see the fashion has changed a lot since I passed.”

That makes Davey laugh, which comes as a surprise, as he didn’t think it possible to find anything funny knowing he’s counting down the minutes to death.

“Fashion and Jack’s interpretation of it are two very different things.” He says.

Jack mock-glares at him, but Davey can see that he too is struggling to contain laughter. Davey’s always loved the way Jack dresses like a walking gay stereotype, and seeing the politely masked disgust in Miss Medda’s eyes is hilarious to him.

“I see,” She says, “Can you believe I’ve been down here for three hundred and sixty-two years?”

“You don’t look a day over thirty.” Katherine says.

Miss Medda smiles. “Do you kids know your history?”

Jack shrugs. “Some of it.”

“That’ll do,” Miss Medda says, “I was the first female actress to ever set foot on a stage. Before I came along, they just slapped a man into a dress and said “Here’s your Juliet!” - didn’t even bother shaving off his beard. I was revolutionary.”

She pauses her boast, the pride she’d displayed giving way to something much darker.

“I don’t know what happened after,” She says. Her tone is cold and damp and despondent, like the very room she lives in, with the moss on the walls and the puddles on the floor. “I was shot during my encore in 1660, on the day of my first show. My little boy was in the audience.”

“You were revolutionary,” Davey says, “There are women on stages, thanks to you.”

Miss Medda gives him a small, grateful smile. A harsh noise comes from Race’s throat, who is grimacing in discomfort. His whole body twitches with nerves, his fingers weaving in and out of complex patterns. He looks as though he’s going to drive himself mad with worry.

“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” He asks, “I’s sorry, Miss Medda, but we don’t have time to listen to ya life story.”

He turns to look her dead in the eye, everything about him serious and composed once again.

“Do ya know anythin’ ‘bout a curse? These boys both had the same nightmare and their names are on the tree in the garden, right there with ours.”

Miss Medda frowns. “Why didn’t you say so? You boys are lucky to still be breathing, if you ask me.”

“But can we save them?” Race presses, somewhat desperately, “Is there any way to save them?”

Miss Medda’s eyes close. She goes unnaturally still, rigidly holding her hands together in what looks like a gesture of prayer. She slips down, crossing her legs, hardly moving a muscle. Her lips move rapidly, like leaves fluttering, or the wings of a bird, so fast they blur into streaky lines, the sound falling behind.

“This house is soaked with blood. By coming here, these living boys are only feeding Leah’s ever-growing hunger. She is watching, even as we speak. Leah Jacobs is here; the walls are her body now, and we are her subjects, her prey. Wherever we go, she watches. There is no leaving - our souls are tied to her. Like caged birds, she holds us prisoner.”

Her eyes flash open, rolling pure white for a split second before the irises return.

“She holds you prisoner. Try to run, but your bodies will crash and burn. You are part of this house forever more. Leah Jacobs does not let victims pass her by.”

Leah Jacobs. Esther never told Davey his grandmother’s name, but this must be it. It couldn’t be anyone else - a coincidence like that would be insane. Davey doesn’t understand a word of what Miss Medda says, but he knows that he’ll have to find a way to call his mom tonight if he wants answers. For too long, she’s kept him in the dark about the truth. Whatever she knows, he will know too, if he wants to stand a chance at getting out of here.

“She’s mad.” Race says frustratedly, “Batshit crazy. I told ya. All we’re doin’ is wastin’ time; we gotta get youse to your car, get ya away from here before it’s too late.”

But Miss Medda’s right. Davey’s felt the invisible ropes around him since the day he arrived. The things that tie him to this house wrap around his heart and if he takes one step out of line, they’ll slip and slice right through. He’s been aware of them from the start, and he is stuck here forever. He walked right into his grandmother’s trap, and now all he can do is wait for her to kill him.

“Thank you, Miss Medda,” Katherine says quietly, “You’ve been very helpful.”

“My pleasure, dear,” Miss Medda says, “I’m sorry about your destiny, boys, but don’t be strangers. Once you’re ghosts, you’ll be grateful to have someone to visit - keeps your mind off things, see. My basement door is always open.”

As he leaves, Race turns to glare at the woman.

“You’re a monster.” He says.

“I’m only the same as you.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m lonely,” She replies calmly, “When the only other people in the house stop visiting you, it’s bound to happen.”

“Don’t turn this on me!” Race snaps.

“I’m not doing anything,” She sighs, “I’m a lonely old woman who just wants rest. But my mind is always active. I can’t turn it off, Anthony, I can’t ever get a break. I hear the whispers of Leah Jacobs’ uncontrolled fury and the coldness of death fills my bones. I know everything, and yet I have nothing.”

“I don’t feel sorry for ya,” Race says, “We’re all hurtin’ here. Ya don’t see me an’ Kathy chantin’ out gross spells and freakin’ people out. No. We try to deal with our pain instead of goin’ mad.”

“You have been here for an hour compared to me,” She says gently, “You’ll know how it feels when you turn three hundred and sixty-two and forget what your own son looked like, when you start hearing Leah Jacobs’ thoughts.”

Race’s eyes are furious. There is nothing but hatred on his face. “I will never be like you. I will never listen to anythin’ ya say.”

“Don’t you want to know who killed you?”

He hesitates. It’s been something that’s taunted him. He’s wondered before that if he knew his killer’s identity, he could finally stop running away. If it wasn’t just a mystery and some eyes in the middle of the night, maybe he could think without panicking.

“Leah Jacobs.” Miss Medda says, “She was a witch. Even when she was alive, she had learnt how to possess people. She’s stronger now - the house is her vessel, and anyone inside is a potential body to use. But when she was alive, all it took was a touch and then…”

“So that man…”

Miss Medda nods. “It wasn’t that stranger that killed you. Leah Jacobs possessed him. She wanted souls locked up in her house, ready to use as vessels for after her death. I don’t know what she was planning, but she wanted options. An army of the undead.”

“What about Jack and Davey?” Race asks.

“God knows what’s in store for them.” Miss Medda says, “We can only pray that it’s quick and merciful.”

Chapter Text

Davey’s wrists weep with blood. He rubs at them repetitively, seeking relief, but they grow redder and redder and the gentle sting becomes a burn, like being pierced over and over by a thousand mutated wasps. It’s a fire, roaring in the veins that feel as though they’re about to burst open and release a torrent of blood gushing forth like a red tsunami.

He can feel the strings getting tighter. His whole body is woven into some giant spider’s web of curses. When he takes a step, he feels the cords tug at his heart, the soft warning reminder of his confinement. Each movement drags out a wince and a groan and even breathing is too much. Because he feels the restriction of these walls and his thoughts spiral to an eternity of claustrophobia.

The more he thinks about it, the smaller the house seems to get. In fact, he’s positive that the wooden boards have crept closer in the time it took to ease his aching body onto the bed. And God - his wrists. They bleed like he’s been slit with a knife. But he cannot see a single rope or piece of silk, even though he can feel them circling around every inch of him, tying his legs together and forcing him to lie down.

Vulnerable. He feels like anything could come along and kill him now - his grandmother, if that’s really true. It hurts to think that a family member could be plotting his murder, especially when she’s dead herself. But there must have been a reason why his mom completely blanked her from their lives: something as vile as evil witchcraft would certainly warrant that.

“What’s happenin’?” Jack asks nervously, turning his fingers inside and out.

Davey breathes. It feels like a tongue of flame. Is he being killed from the inside? He feels Jack’s stiff fingers stroking his wrists, each little press causing an explosion of agony. But Jack doesn’t seem to see the blood that Davey sees so clearly. He doesn’t understand; the bright red stains glow against his skin, but Jack’s fingers don’t get dirty as he touches them.

“Can’t you feel it?” Davey asks, “The binds. The ropes that Miss Medda mentioned.”

Jack looks at Davey like he’s going mad. Maybe Leah Jacobs is only out to get people directly to related to her; maybe this a personal issue that runs in the family, and Jack is somehow exempt from her torture. Why else would he be so unscathed, so oblivious to the feeling of being crushed alive?

“I don’t feel nothin’,” He whispers, “What’s goin’ on?”

Davey’s suddenly seized by fresh, invigorated energy. He props himself up on the bed and grabs Jack’s clean hand with his own bloody one, watching the way the panic swirls in Jack’s eyes. Davey can’t stand looking into them, because he sees every last one of Jack’s thoughts presenting themselves to him and it’s too much to know someone’s mind like that.

“That means you can go.” Davey says, “It means there’s still a chance for you to get out of here before she traps you too. There’s no point waiting for me, Jackie, I’m not making it out of this. But you can still go home and see Crutchie and-”

“No.” Jack’s voice is shaky but somehow still firm, his eyes bright with tears, “I am not leavin’ you here, Dave. Do you - do you really think I could live with myself if I knew I’d left you here to - to die? Whatever happens now, we do it together. There ain’t no way in a million lifetimes that I would abandon you.”

Davey considers arguing; Jack’s foolish for throwing his life away like this. But deep down, he knows it’s the answer he wanted. Ideally, there’s a miracle, and they both survive. But Davey would rather die seeing the face of someone he loves than all alone.

“Why do we have to die?” Davey asks. A rush of overwhelming emotion floods through him. “I don’t want to die, Jackie.”

Jack looks away. Davey knows by the way his shoulders jerk that he’s crying, and slips his hand into Jack’s. Jack’s hand is so warm, and Davey feels a sickening weight in his stomach as he realises that he too, is beginning to become a prisoner on death row. There is no point trying to send him away now; in a matter of minutes, he’ll be as weak as Davey.

“I don’t want you to die either,” Jack whispers.

Davey’s rigid fingers slowly, like the disjointed action of a rusty machine, find their way to Jack’s cheek, where they carefully brush away tears. It’s the only thing he can do now to protect Jack. He will be useless in any fight that is on its way, with no choice but to roll over and die - the only thing he can defeat are tears, weapons created by the body to be used for self-destructive purposes. He wishes he could brush all of this danger away so easily.

“What about you?” Davey asks, “Your life is worth just as much as mine.”

Jack shrugs. His back is still facing Davey. His body is starting to droop towards the bed, the limbs pressed closer against his body than before. He is fighting right until the last moment and Davey admires that, with tearful, agonising pride. He is so, so proud of Jack and he loves him so much that it hurts right in his chest knowing they won’t get to have a life together. He wants to tell Jack that it’s okay, that he can stop pushing back and let it happen quietly, but Jack would never give in, no matter how much it hurts, and he won’t lie down if he knows he may not get back up again.

“It don’t matter anyway,” He says in a tight voice, “I don’t got no choice.”

Their hands are so firmly squeezed against one another, like they’re the only things stopping the world from drifting by without them. Davey has a hundred thoughts he wants to get out, so many things to say before his consciousness turns to sludge, but the words don’t come as easy as the tears do. He has always thought that he and Jack would be together forever.

He never expected forever to come so damn soon. Though, he supposes, everyone says that, despite their age. Some are definitely luckier than others, however, and he can safely say that he is not one of those people. He will not be eighty years old, lying in a hospital, hooked up to machines that breathe for him, wondering why death seemed to come so soon. For him, it truly has come cruelly, unnaturally, monstrously early - far, far too early.

“I love you.” Davey says. It’s all he can muster, the biggest tears in all the universe coming out with the words simultaneously.

Jack turns to him. His eyes are blushing a horrid crimson, his face soaked with tears. He looks like someone who’s witnessed everything he ever cared about be demolished right in front of him. He stares for several frantic heartbeats before he even shows the slightest sign of registering the words.

“I know.” Jack says, “It’s written all over your face. It fills every moment I spend with you. It’s in your eyes and your hands and your soul and I feel it when I’m near you. But somehow, I don’t feel like I’ve heard you say it anywhere near enough.”

Davey sobs. Hard. He flings up a hand to cover his mouth as his body heaves.

“I should’ve been saying it for the next sixty years.” He says.

Jack nods, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. “I would’ve listened. I could never get tired of your voice.”

“And I could’ve seen your face for decades.” Davey laughs wetly, “Every morning, waking up to you, remembering how lucky I was... I never would have complained.”

“That’s how it should be,” Jack says, leaning closer and pressing his forehead to Davey’s, “A full life. The kind that everyone else has.”

“All we can do is pretend.”

Jack nods. “Nothin’ bad is happenin’, right Dave?”

“Right, Jackie.”

They kiss, but it’s damp and cold and sweaty, like someone’s emptied a fire extinguisher on the passionate love they had before. Their hands move like arthritic old men and their lips taste of salt and tears. All the while, the ropes get tighter, digging into skin and carving out unseen grooves.

This isn’t a kiss of love. It’s a goodbye kiss, full of nothing but death and despair. Davey can almost feel the soil of the grave on his tongue. It is slow and waning and shows nothing but the weakening resolves of two boys who are surrendering.

“I’m gonna lie down for a while,” Jack mumbles, eyes already half-shut, “Wake me in the mornin’, ‘kay?”

“Okay, Jackie.”

The second he’s asleep, Davey cries uncontrollably. Jack looks dead. Jack will soon be dead. They’re going to die. And look, he’s giving up. That’s what Davey sees - Jack isn’t fighting back, he’s giving up and resting, just like Davey wished he would.

Seeing him now, Davey wishes he would fight back. Anything other than lie so still, so despondent, in a position where if you glance, it’s so simple to mistake him for a corpse. This isn’t someone Davey knows - this is someone so exhausted from this whole ordeal that rest is the only option in the face of danger.

He never imagined he'd be in a position where something as simple as "see you tomorrow" could be a lie. Where all the guarantees of going to sleep, knowing that at least you can count on waking up for another day are void.

Davey needs to call his mom. First and foremost, he needs to say goodbye in case things take a turn for the worse. But also, he has so many questions bubbling away under the surface, things about his grandmother that he should’ve asked years ago, that just may save his life now. If he could find out what it was that Leah Jacobs did to her daughter back then, that resulted in her being exiled from the family, he might not be left feeling so hopeless.

He runs his fingers through Jack’s hair slowly, the small gesture making his bones creak against their magical restraints. This could’ve been their norm for the rest of time. They could’ve lived in a small town like this one, happily doing jobs that they dreamt of, enjoying one another’s company and saying “I love you” like it wasn’t the last thing they’d ever do, like it was just an innocent, loving act of an affection too big to put into words. It could’ve been normal, no deadlines and fear - chaste kisses that tasted of love rather than racing pulses, and eyes that weren’t tender with tears. Meaningless, just for fun kisses that didn’t change a life or have a specific purpose other than to just exist.

The life they could’ve had. A dog sleeping across their laps. Jack’s canvases littered about in organised chaos. Davey’s books on the table. Friends visiting on weekends. Catching up with real, living people. Movie nights and coffee and sweet kisses. Going for walks and going to see family and Jack’s godawful cooking that stinks of smoke and fire alarms.

Davey wipes away a foolish tear and scolds himself for mourning an impossibility. But looking at Jack, it feels like he’s already lost everything, like there’s no point anymore. Why should he even bother waking up tomorrow if he’ll just die the next day?

He sighs. Jack would kill - probably a poor choice of words - him if he heard him thinking these things. There’s no use sitting around moping. Though his wrists are so sore, rubbed raw and burning, and there’s a tether cutting off the oxygen to his brain.

Bizarrely, when he opens his phone, there’s a signal. For the first time since he arrived. It’s almost as if someone did it deliberately, someone wants him to call Esther, someone is watching right now.

He shivers. Does a quick scan of the room. He can’t help but feel he isn’t alone. He can hear Miss Medda’s warning about Leah Jacobs’ omnipresence. Miss Medda - a perfect example of the way you deteriorate after death, a lovely woman who has been devoured by such a wicked house.

Esther isn’t going to willingly share the information he needs. She’s kept it a secret for his entire life and no matter how hard he begs, she will not loosen her grip on it. He doesn’t want to argue with her, but he’s afraid that it will be necessary.

The phone starts ringing. Davey half expects the signal to suddenly disappear. If it does, there’s no way of walking to Santa Fe, and he’ll never be able to call her again. The first slither of anxiety sprouts from his ribcage like a sapling.

“David?” Esther’s voice says, “Ruth! David’s calling! Oh my goodness, David, you can’t just stop calling me like that! How did I know if you were okay?”

There’s loud shuffling down the line and another voice chips in:

“Hello, David!”

He smiles to himself a little. “Hi, Aunt Ruth.”

“What’s it like there?” Esther asks, “Are you still happy in the house? Have you eaten today? How’s Jack? Is he there? David, I’d love to hear from him too.”

The words are a kind of nonsensical gush, a badly formulated river of syllables that pour out clumsily. She sounds so overjoyed to hear him and he’d love to catch her up on everything that’s happened, but he can’t risk losing signal before he’s got the all-important information from her. He’ll have to cut straight to the point.

“It’s fine.” He says, “I’ve eaten. Jack’s asleep. Mom, I have a question to ask -”

“That’s good.” She says. It sounds like she’s narrating every thought in her head, “I’m glad it’s going okay.”

“Yes.” Davey says. His heart aches with each beat. His patience is trickling away like grains of sand, “Now, Mom, I know you don’t like to talk about -”

“Oh!” She cuts in yet again, “Ruth has baked cake for when you come home. When is it again? Two days, right, David?”

He’d completely forgotten. What happens if he’s still trapped here in two days? Esther won’t know why he’s not come back. She’ll be sitting by the door with Aunt Ruth’s famed cake in her hands, holding it until it’s cold, falling asleep in her seat and waking the next morning to find her son is still missing.

The thought hurts him more than anything else has so far.

“Right.” He says quietly.

“Are you okay, David? You’re very quiet.”

“Actually, Mom, I keep trying to ask: what did your mom do?”

Total silence. Then a static movement.

“Ruth.” Esther hisses.

“I know.” Ruth’s voice is very faint, “You knew you’d have to tell him eventually.”

“But…” Esther’s voice breaks and she squeaks out a pathetic, “Ruth,” like a baby bird that’s fallen from the nest, calling for a mother that will never notice it’s gone.

“I know it hurts. What she did was wrong on every level… I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Goodbye, David.” Her voice is so much colder than it was when she greeted him.

“Goodbye, Aunt Ruth.”

His mom breathes deeply.

“It’s not easy.” She whispers.

He doesn’t answer.

“She stole my whole childhood from me. I couldn’t sleep. I wouldn’t eat. I had a therapist when I was too young to know what therapy was.”

Davey looks at Jack sleeping beside him and thinks of the things that boy’s been through. He’s surrounded by broken people and he’s breaking apart inside too. Even the ghosts are tormented; is there not a single happy person left, who hasn’t been hurt by someone else?

“Mom…”

“Let me - just let me say it, David. If I don’t now, I never will.” She says.

So he waits.

“She…wasn’t like us, David. She was interested in…dark things. Her rooms were full of books and vials and there were no lights in the house. At night, I would hear strange things from the basement. The house you’re in right now is the one that I grew up in.”

She lets out a small, whimpering sound.

“I could never go back there. I am so sorry that I let go there. After what she did…”

“What did she do?” He asks gently.

And much to his surprise, she answers:

“She was a witch, David. A real witch. It was my birthday. She told me there was a present waiting in the basement. I went down ahead and - oh God - there - there was a chair. She was suddenly behind me, locking my arms and legs into these metal cuffs. I started to cry and I screamed for her to let me out but - oh David, I haven’t thought of this for forty years. I wish I could forget the way the spell felt, the burns it left me with. She wanted a test subject, to practise possessing a human body. I -”

She sobs down the phone and Davey wishes he was there with her to comfort her, instead of forcing her to relive such traumatic things from the other side of the country. And the story chills him through; Miss Medda was right about Leah Jacobs being a witch, but she couldn’t have prepared him for how truly heartless his grandmother was.

“I don’t want you in that house.” Esther says, “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to keep it in the past, but I can’t forget it. Too many horrors are in that building and I wish I’d never let you go. It’s a silly thing to think, but I can’t stop asking myself: if my mother mastered that spell, did her soul ever really leave the house? I won’t feel safe until you’re back here with me.”

In one vicious tug, the ropes around Davey’s arms send pain worse than standing in front of a firing squad rushing through him, and he barely manages to hang up from the call before he collapses on the floor with a bang. Poor Esther; she has no idea that it’s already too late.

Chapter Text

Katherine’s throat burns. She tries not to think about how long it’s been since she last drank anything. It’s been two days since her father locked her in here. Her mouth is a desert, burning with dust, and her fingers clutch at her throat, as if she believes squeezing will banish the dryness. She knows that if the lack of water doesn’t kill her, she’ll just have an even more painful death waiting.

She thinks about the disease that’s slowly spreading through her body. If she focuses enough, she can feel the tumours growing, multiplying, sucking the life out of her. How long left before the cancer destroys her? How long left before she loses all mobility and strength? How long left before she’s hurting so badly she’s begging for death to hurry up?

It makes her hyperaware, her hands tensing and grabbing. She wants a way out of this skin, another chance for life. Katherine doesn’t understand how this is fair, why she should be allowed to die at eighteen; there are so many things she hasn’t experienced yet, so many things she never got to do that everyone else views as a natural, guaranteed stage of life. She never learnt to drive or lost her virginity or drank alcohol or fell in love.

What hurts, though - possibly more than the sandy claws in her throat or the swollen lump on her arm - is the image of her dad leaving her. That stupid, cruel man who never cared about her, who was supposed to look after and comfort her through such a dark time, shut the door and abandoned her to her fate.

How long ago was it now? She can’t remember. Her memories are as fuzzy as her mouth is rough, all taking on a hazy quality. She knows he said something, but in her mind, the replay is nothing more than echoing sounds, distorted beyond recognition. Did he apologise? She doesn’t think so - that’s totally out of character for him. But there was something like regret in his eyes, almost shining past the hardened layer he always wore like a shield.

Katherine spent the first hour scraping at the door, splinters gathering behind her nails, screaming at her dad - she thought that if he couldn’t stop hearing, if he heard the pain he was causing, he’d realise he was being crazy and let her out. But eventually, she collapsed in a tired, shaking pile and decided to save her voice. Her throat was on fire anyway; screaming was futile and painful.

She looks at the books on the shelves. Her father must be evil, banishing her to die in a library of all things. All those books she planned to read back when this was just an innocent trip to shoot a movie, millions of words she’ll never feel the impact of or get to admire. Katherine was going to be an author one day, but now the books taunt her. Her own words will never sit on a shelf like this, her feelings and views and stories will never be shared with the world.

Embarrassed, weak, exhausted. She swallows. It’s like sandpaper. There’s an overwhelming weight on top of her. The books spin. She can’t move, no matter how hard she pushes. The only thing she’s grateful for in this moment is that she’s going to die before the cancer tears her apart.

Even up until the last second, Katherine is still holding onto the hope that her dad will come back. She waits for him right to the end.

He never comes.

“Jackie,” A hushed voice says. It sounds hoarse and sore, “Wake up, Jackie. It’s morning.”

Jack will never get over to waking to see Davey. Even as his eyes are adjusting to the light, barely focused, Davey’s face is glorious in the drab room. He really could do this for eternity; for the first time, death seems not quite so disastrous. Not if it means they can spend the rest of existence together. Then he remembers Race and Katherine and Elmer and how they’ve been ruined by it.

Not to mention Spot, who Jack truly is beginning to believe is beyond saving. And he doesn’t give up on people easily, but Spot avoids him like the plague and calls him slurs and does everything to prove he’s heartless again and again.

Davey kisses Jack’s cheek softly, but it feels dry, his lips cracked. As Jack wakes further, he notices all the little things wrong with Davey’s face: the paleness of his skin, the darkness under his eyes, the pained expression. If this is what being a ghost means, screw it. Jack doesn’t want to see this version of Davey forever - he wants to live and see the Davey he loves, not someone who looks so agonised and frail.

Jack tries to sit up, but his head swings back down, slamming into the bed. Davey screams but Jack’s body is shaking. He feels like he’s been thrown in a bonfire and a blizzard simultaneously, wrapping his arms around him to ward off the wave of nausea that flips in his stomach.

“Jackie.” Davey’s fingers are so cold. The joints don’t work; they stay exactly in the same position, scraping like bones over Jack’s forearm. “Are you okay?”

It’s like being possessed all over again, that same sense of losing control, of spectating something without being in charge. The tears in his eyes are bullets, and forcing the lead balls out of ducts that are much too small is like bursting open a vein or rupturing a heart.

He doesn’t want to stay here. But it’s easier. It’s not that he can’t get up. Of course it’s not. It’s nothing like that. He could move if he really wanted to. It’s just that…God, why lie? Honestly, Jack’s terrified. He is limp and achy and weak and he doesn’t want to die. Not today or tomorrow or the day after that. But the reality is that he can feel death approaching, stealthily creeping closer, thinking it can grab him from behind without noticing. It’s coming; he doesn’t know how, but there’s only so long he can continue in this state before something takes advantage of it.

And in a house like this, he doubts it will be natural. It’s more likely that supernatural forces arise and drag him down to the underworld. At this rate, he won’t even be able to fight it off.

“Come here,” Jack whispers. His voice is as raspy as Davey’s.

Davey lies back down, his weight settling against Jack’s chest. What would normally be comfortable now feels like it’s sprouting bruises all over Jack’s skin, but he ignores it and focuses on wrapping his arms around Davey, who is shivering from the cold. Jack wants to warm him up, wants to make him stop hurting, wants to protect his heart from stalling due to the icy blood. If there’s anything Jack can do, Davey will not die on his watch.

“I love you.” Davey says.

“I love you too.” The words stick in Jack’s throat like daggers. Why does it have to sound so final? He almost wishes he could take it back in the hopes it prolongs their lives, but Davey is already asleep again and Jack knows he soon will be too.

The sound of someone clearing their throat wakes Jack. His initial reaction is that something is here to kill him and it’s all over, in which case, he’s grateful that Davey’s body is sheltered by his own, so at least he will have a chance to run away. The person didn’t make any noise as they were entering, their feet on the wooden floor completely silent, which seems like a bad omen.

But then he looks up and sees Spot Conlon, with his straight face and his bloody clothes and his fearsome, intimidating presence that makes Jack’s grip on Davey’s shirt tighten. Has he come to gloat? To insult him again? Jack notices the way Spot’s eyes linger on his hands, on the way Davey leans against him. The bitterness on Spot’s face makes Jack seethe; he may be dying, but he will defend his honour from this idiot. He will not take hate from someone like Spot.

“What do you want?” Jack demands. This is followed by a harsh cough, which only makes Spot’s expression grimmer.

“You love him.” Spot says simply. As the words fill the room, a chilling draught sweeps past, rustling the curtains and biting at Jack’s face, “I cannot begin to understand how or why, and it will never seem right to me, but you really love him.”

“I don’t want him to die.” Jack says quietly.

Spot stares at him. It’s the most human he’s ever looked. For the first time, Jack finds his heart warming to the man who shot himself out of bravery, who betrayed his wife and lives with the guilt, who isolates himself and hides because he’s afraid of people knowing him again. Jack understands. When he looks at Spot now, he doesn’t see a mystery or a monster. He sees that Spot is scared and hurt and is running from his memories by being uptight and hostile. It makes sense now, suddenly, in this second when Jack’s eyes meet Spot’s.

“I lost my love.” Spot says, “I promise that you will not lose yours. You will make it out of this house.”

“How do you know that?” Jack asks despondently.

“Because I shall help you,” Spot says, “I will not let you or David be hurt like I hurt my Izzie.”

His wife. Jack doesn't know why this is so reassuring to hear, but Spot Conlon looks less like an obstacle, and more like somebody to trust. Jack silently thanks whatever diamond-strong resolve he didn't realise he had for not giving up on Spot.

Chapter Text

There is something brewing in the forest. It is black and billowing, as thick as smoke and much fouler smelling. It’s so heavy that it creeps along the floor like a creature, slowly enveloping anything low down enough, swallowing trees and creatures whole. It is an entity, a body, that growls and hisses with hunger. It wants more than just the vegetation and small animals.

It wants the people it was summoned to devour, the souls it was promised.

This darkness answers to no one, but Leah Jacobs is strong and has a lot to offer. She is reliable and honest in the world of dark magic and she pays highly. All she asks is two more human bodies for her little game, and the rolling clouds can steal anything or one that may be left over in this house.

Though, Leah Jacobs has the power to enslave such a force, even if it didn’t agree to aid her. She is more than capable of manipulating the mind of an inferior not-quite-species and using it to her advantage. It’s just a matter of convenience for her that this particular beast was willing to play a part of its own free will.

The darkness grows stronger by the day, and soon it will be ready to complete its purpose and strike the house. It has been told to spare no one and to wreak whatever destruction is necessary. It doesn’t matter if all that’s left of the once-proud house is foundations and rocks by the end of the attack, as long as the two boys are dead. After that, well, Leah Jacobs will have found her way to cheat death and she will truly be unstoppable. She can't wait to see her daughter's face when she returns to finish what she started years ago.

Katherine has never seen Spot look so tense before. Nor has she even known him stand so close to her. The dread with which he watches the black clouds thickening and rising from the forest is unparalled to anything she’s experienced. His angry, blank facade has slipped away.

“It’s coming.” He says, “In another day or so, it will be upon us.”

She’s never considered before whether ghosts can die, but now it’s a thought that weighs heavily on her mind. Will this chaos affect her too? This death has been by no means peaceful, but it’s been nice to have a respite from the constant pain. The worst thing she can imagine is becoming sensitive to that again.

“What is it?” She asks.

Miss Medda sighs. It’s the first time she’s left the basement in all of her afterlife. She can’t stop admiring everything and commenting on the way it’s all crumbling into rubble compared to when she last walked on this earth. Katherine doesn’t even know why Miss Medda was in that basement, but all the forces are disrupted. Whatever magic held her prisoner has weakened as Leah Jacobs focuses all her strength on sending this smoky assassin.

“It’s a lost soul,” Miss Medda says, “They wander the earth looking for bodies to inhabit. It’s a sad ordeal, really. Leah must have promised to give it what it wants, though she won’t.”

“Why not?” Katherine asks.

“Leah has other plans for their bodies.” Miss Medda says grimly.

If this thing is bad news for the ghosts, Katherine’s faced with a conundrum. How does she guard Elmer from being hurt again? How does she stop Race from having something else to run from? She remembers how it feels to die, she relives it countless times - actually, physically going through that again would break her.

“We can’t let them die, Miss Pulitzer.” Spot says. He isn’t looking at her, but his expression is tinged with deep passion, an intense kind of sadness that Katherine’s never seen on him.

“I know, sir.” She says, “But I don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t call me sir.” He says, so quietly she thinks she’s imagined it. Because Spot is all about bossing others around and flaunting his authority. He would never be humble or kind or selfless.

Not that Katherine knows him at all. She’s always assumed things about him and acted like she knew him, but there isn’t a single thing about him that she’s one hundred percent positive on. And today, he doesn’t look like the man she’s spent years fearing and hating - he looks concerned, like he truly cares what happens next. And that’s enough for Katherine, that’s enough to change the way she thinks of him. It means that she was right, and there is goodness in him somewhere. It just took a catastrophe to bring it to the surface.

Weirdly, she feels this sense of pride, which makes no sense because she has no responsibility over him and no connection to him whatsoever. But, still, Katherine’s proud of Spot.

“Whatever we’re going to do,” Miss Medda says, “We need to do it soon. I’m afraid we’re running out of time.”

Spot thinks about leaving his wife, about breaking her heart, about failing to love her, about all the things he did wrong.

He thinks about the way he left. The way he chose a duel over a discussion. The way she begged him to stay but he still turned his back on her. Sweet, devoted Izzie who wanted nothing more than his love, who he stabbed in the chest. He took her love for granted, thought it was some measly thing that he had no reason to respect.

Spot is tormented by her face. Her polite smile, the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. The way they darkened like the beginning of a storm when he told her where he was going. He saw that and yet he did nothing to stop the rain from falling; he left her distraught and alone.

If there was any way to go back and change things, he would seize it in a heartbeat. Of course, that is impossible - Izzie is long dead, left to grieve his actions. He’ll never know if she moved on, if she died right then and there from the heartbreak, if she lived a full life, if she was ever happy again in the way he scorned her for being. What he did is permanent, etched into the stone walls of time long ago, now nothing more than a fading scar.

However, he is presented with the next best thing: an opportunity to save two other people the same pain he went through and caused. If not for Jack and Davey, but for Izzie, who never knew how sorry Spot was, who probably died cursing him as a traitor and a coward.

For Izzie, who deserved the best. Izzie, who should still be alive today, who should live forever as compensation for the way Spot hurt her. Noble, good Izzie for whom Spot would trade anything just to hold her again and make things right.

When Spot sees Jack, he sees himself - someone too headstrong and determined for his own good, doing what he thinks is best. It will only get him killed, just like it got Spot killed. And when he sees Davey, he sees Izzie - someone so gentle, who just wants the safety of everyone he loves. He loves Jack, like Izzie loved Spot. It’s the same story all over again: Jack will make the same sacrifice Spot did, because he believes it’s the way to save Davey.

It’s difficult to watch. Spot knows how this will play out. He knows he needs to intervene, instead of watching from the sidelines because he’s scared of being reminded of Izzie and his own life. But that was a long time ago, and unless Spot wants them both to die, he’s got to get over it. He did the wrong thing back then, but this is his second chance, his redemption. If he ever valued Izzie’s love, he would stop another tragedy from unfolding.

Jack and Davey love each other in a way that Spot could never begin to understand. But that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s something wrong with it. It doesn’t mean they deserve to die.

Spot looks out the window, at the darkness that seems alive. He makes his decision.

Chapter Text

“What you are planning, Sean, is preposterously dangerous.” Miss Medda says.

“I know.” Spot says.

“You may not make it out.”

“I know.” He says again.

But the darkness is coming. In mere hours, it will be scraping at the windows, knocking on the door. He has no time to waste on safer options or thinking things through. If he doesn’t act now, it will be too late, and this will all be for nothing. No, if he wants Jack and Davey to see another day, he has to put his faith in Miss Medda and just let go.

Letting go is easier said than done. Last time Spot let go, he had no choice. He was poisoned and his body was melting from the inside out; it was the quicker, gentler, easier choice. This time, it isn’t for him. It’s a selfless act to redeem himself. It will prove to Katherine and Race that he isn’t empty - they can’t fool him, of course he sees the way their faces turn bitter when he’s around. His whole life, people thought the worst of him - he played up to their expectations, creating this horrid persona that he never escaped from. But this…

With tears in his eyes, he understands that this could be the way out. This could put an end to the curse he’s shouldered all his life. This could be his respite, the peace and quiet he was promised by religion and society so long ago. This could transform him from the antagonist, the one in the way, the villain, into someone to respect, someone worth giving the time of day to think about.

He hadn’t realised how desperately he wanted it all to be over. But now, he finds his body craving silence and nothingness. The blankness of whatever comes next is reassuring to him, as somebody who's done nothing but suffer for his own actions for two unbearable centuries.

He wants to sleep. He’s missed the nights when he could curl up and shut himself off from the world, able to stop thinking about all the things that are going to hell around him. Being a ghost is worse than being gone - all it does is drag out his torture. He wants to lose the memories, forget everything about life, who he is and was. He wants to be nobody with no name or face or history, because only then will he finally rest.

Spot is finished with life. He is finished with this freakish, unnatural, agonising limbo he’s been trapped in ever since shooting himself. Sacrificing himself for the greater good is no chore for him, not anymore. Now, it’s a relief, a reward for sticking it out for so long, a pat on the back and someone who sounds uncannily like his wife, Izzie, whispering “I’m proud of you.”

“What do I do?” He asks.

Miss Medda frowns. The darkness outside the window is hypnotic; her eyes follow it even while she speaks to Spot.

“There’s a chance that Leah Jacobs herself is at the heart of that thing,” She says, gesturing outside, “Bear in mind that I can’t guarantee anything and this all comes down to chance.”

“That is enough for me,” Spot says.

“As long as you understand what you’re getting into,” Miss Medda’s expression is so dreary, so exhausted, “If you get lucky, and Leah is in there, you’ll have to walk through the lost soul. It will speak to you, try to convince you to give up. Don’t let it get in your head, or it’s all over. Once you’re in, you say these words to Leah: “I banish you. No iteration of your being is permitted within these grounds now or ever, no matter whether my spirit remains or not.””

“That works?” Spot asks.

“If I give you my blessing.” Miss Medda says, “I’ve been dead the longest. Therefore, I wield a certain power over the other ghosts.” She cracks a small smile, “Could’ve done it to you at any time. Consider yourself lucky, Sean.”

But Spot wants to die again. He wishes Miss Medda had forcefully removed him, annihilated him and rendered him nothing - no thoughts or feelings, able to sleep forever in utopia, undisturbed and forgotten and left to just drift through a vast plain of sights he didn’t see and sounds he didn’t hear. He wishes he could stop existing, stop being forced through another day of the same regrets and the same sensations. Miss Medda doesn’t know that this would’ve been a blessing for him.

“I am ready.” Spot says, “I will save the mortal boys, whether it costs me my sentience or not.”

Miss Medda nods. There’s something like grief in her eyes.

“I understand. In case we don’t meet again, Sean, farewell. I hope you find what you’re looking for. But even if you do not, and you walk out of this disappointed, I want you to remember that all pain fades with time. If you choose to continue living - not living, but you know what I mean - there will come a day when you can think of her without hurting.”

With that, she presses her thumb to his forehead and whispers an incantation that he can’t hear. He feels warmth seeping into him - it almost, almost reminds him of being alive. It’s been so long since Spot felt anything other than anger and pain, but now he’s hopeful. Because there’s an end in sight, and thanks to him, two lives will be spared. Katherine will never accuse him of being heartless again.

“When the time comes,” Miss Medda says, “You jump in. Before it reaches the boys. Destroy it while they run.”

The darkness moves like a silk shawl. It's almost covered the whole forest now, making its way up the garden. Then it will be here, and it will be Spot's moment to let go, whether he's ready or not. He will have to be braver than he's ever been, for the sake of two people he should not care about. It's funny how quickly people's entire personalities and values can be changed in a crisis.

“I’m sorry, Miss Medda.” Spot says.

He doesn’t say what for - because how does he list everything he’s ever done - but she seems to understand. Race is wrong about her; she’s not crazy at all. She’s wise in a way no one will ever know, and compassionate beyond that. She’s perceptive and intelligent and just as wounded as the rest of them. But if she can find it in her to forgive him, maybe there is hope for Spot.

“Good luck, Sean,” Miss Medda says, “I sincerely hope we see you again, though my better judgement warns me to fear the worst. I hope that you find your peace.”

Chapter Text

Jack makes the decision by himself, of his own free will. Whatever anyone will say later, however this will get twisted, there is no influence, nothing pulling him into the darkness. There is nothing but the good, old-fashioned love in his heart for Davey and the instinct to protect others that has not been crushed by the forces that are draining him of his strength as he makes his plan.

He knows that if he doesn’t do something now, he’ll die in this bed. Very soon he will be too weak to stand and he will have no choice but to lie down and let his body be crippled with the slow grip of death. He supposes it could be more peaceful than battling his way head-on, but it’s also the coward’s way out, the path of someone who is totally apathetic. And, believe it or not, Jack does care whether he lives or dies. Beyond that, he cares whether Davey lives or dies, and he refuses to witness the boy he loves being ravaged with something his own grandmother set off. By staying here, he condemns Davey to death too.

He knows, realistically, that they’ll most likely not make it out of here alive anyway, that anything Jack does is almost entirely futile. But he doesn’t want to risk it; he doesn’t want to be too afraid to try something that just may make all the difference. Because dying in a haunted mansion in Santa Fe is not the way Jack wants to go out. But dying fighting. That’s something he can live with - well, not live with, since he’d be dead, but the point still stands.

He presses his lips to Davey’s forehead, trying to ignore how final this feels, how much like a goodbye. The skin is cold, just like a room full of ghosts. Jack chooses not to dwell on the implications of that fact, and instead focuses on moving. He never knew something as simple as raising a leg was so difficult. Once he gets into it, the next movements come significantly easier, his legs powering forward like pendulums in need of oiling. The muscles in his thighs burn, but he simply doesn’t care. He is so close - unfathomably, overwhelmingly close to saving himself and, more importantly, Davey. He’s so close that tears start streaming; Jack doesn’t know why he’s crying, but he can’t make them stop, so they blur his vision and soak his face and clench his heart into a little ball of scrunched up paper, but he still keeps walking.

The house. This fucking house that has caused nothing but pain and grief. This house that keeps frightened souls captive and feeds on suffering. This house with its rotting wood and red-eyed crows and evil relatives. The house that somehow opened Jack’s eyes to a family that means more to him than he ever could have expected, that taught him just how much love he had for Davey, that is challenging him now to prove his desperation one more time.

Jack’s hand finds the doorknob. His fingers are alight with sparks that go crackling through his body. He isn’t just doing this for himself, not even just for Davey, but for the ghosts who have taught him so much, who have made him laugh and cry and celebrate and despair, who he has helped to heal and who have helped to heal him in return. He doesn’t know what happens to them if darkness falls over this house, but he knows it will be nothing good. And he is prepared ( mostly, though he hasn’t fully come to terms with the death he is walking into. Death? Jack doesn’t want to die - he isn’t ready, he hasn’t said what he needs to say, he hasn’t called Crutchie. He can’t leave yet. But he must.) to do this for Davey and the ghosts.

His family. He thinks that’s why he’s crying. Because he’s finally found a family, and now he might be leaving them. He doesn’t even know if they’ll thank him for it, or if they’ll be furious. At least he won’t be around to find out.

Jack opens the door. The darkness isn’t cold like he expected. It’s like stepping into the sun; the roaring of its movement in his ears is like that of a flame, disorienting him with frenzied flickering and racing. The dizziness goes straight to his stomach, twisting it with nausea as he reaches out for somewhere to regain his balance. But there’s nothing. In the heart of the darkness, there are no trees or stones - it has sucked the earth dry and left behind a big black patch where life once was, a blot of ink on the land. It doesn’t just cover the world, it destroys it, absorbing everything in its furnace-like centre and leaving behind nothing.

Jack’s body must be melting. The heat rushes through him and his thoughts turn to sludge, just like the nothingness that surrounds him, trapping him in this endless bubble of the destruction that’s left of the garden he’s walked through many times. He screams, but the sound bounces off the walls of his prison, ricocheting back and colliding with his head. It’s like someone’s dialled up the pitch to something so shrill Jack shouldn’t be able to hear, as the agony of the sound has him covering his ears, which are warm and damp and trickling with something that he can’t see.

He curls up. He hates this, everything about it - the fact that he can’t see what’s attacking him, the fact that he knows he stands no chance, the hopelessness of the realisation that this was foolish and will only kill him and, eventually, Davey too. The fire licks at him and he lets it, begs it to hurry up and melt him so this can just be over, so he can stop picturing Davey’s terror when he wakes up and finds that Jack isn’t there. Because of him, Davey will die alone. That hurts more than any of this. That summons tears that hiss with steam and evaporate on his cheeks.

He hopes that Davey’s grandmother has mercy. He knows that’s yet another foolish mistake.

Davey is so tired. He wakes up, but it feels he’s had no rest at all and has spent the whole night running a marathon. Instinctively, he reaches for Jack, but finds an empty space. An empty, cold space, which sends panic shooting through him because it means Jack has been gone for a long time. Hours, possibly.

Jack left him. That stings more than it should. Davey’s been abandoned. He tries to calm down; there must be an explanation. He knows Jack, knows that Jack would never run away from something, from him. With a sinking feeling, Davey thinks that it’s more likely Jack’s pulled some stupid stunt, trying to play the hero. He isn’t sure which is worse; at least if Jack had left, he’d be safe. If he’s taken the other option, as Davey fears he has, he’s far from it.

He grabs hold of the desk, using it to pull himself from the bed. His stiff fingers can’t get a proper grip and slip; he watches himself fall in slow motion, sees it all happening before his chin makes contact with the floor, smashing his teeth together. When he looks to the door, he sees Race and Katherine, each holding one of Elmer’s hands. Their eyes are so full of sympathy and he thinks this is all ridiculous - literal dead people shouldn’t be feeling sorry for him.

“Where’s Jack?” Katherine asks.

Davey blinks once before he starts to cry. This takes Katherine by surprise, as she tightens her hold on Elmer’s hand and takes a hesitant step forward. Davey wishes she could comfort him, touch him, hug him and tell him it will be okay. But she’s a ghost - his friends are dead people and the reality of that only hits him now, as his tears grow to boulders and plough tracks through his skin.

“Spot.” Race whispers. He and Katherine exchange silent words, their expressions grim as they nod in confirmation, “I need to tell him. I need to stop him.”

“What do you mean?” Davey asks, slightly hysterical. But Race gives him a last cryptic look and disappears into the bowels of the house, “Katherine, what does he mean? What’s Spot doing?”

“Spot was going to sacrifice himself,” She says quietly, apologetically, “But it seems that someone has beaten him to it. I’m so sorry, Davey.”

Elmer’s little face is a flurry of confusion and fright and every other emotion a child should never be exposed to. It would seem that Katherine has given up on sheltering him from all the gory details of the situation, though Davey doubts she’s told him the truth about him being dead. That makes it even harder to swallow, seeing all the grisly things Davey is feeling play out on such a young face.

“Why are you on the floor?” Elmer asks. His voice trembles with fear. Uncertainty.

“Davey isn’t very well.” Katherine says, low and dark and subdued, like she’s accepting this, accepting every horrible thing that is beginning to happen, “That’s why Spot is doing this. I think that’s why Jack has done this.”

“To save Davey?” Elmer says.

“That’s right, kiddo.”

“Why can’t we save him?”

Katherine is fighting tears, smiling weakly behind a curtain of glossy eyes and quivering lips. “Because we can’t. I wish we could.”

Because they’re dead. But of course, Katherine can’t say that. Not to sweet Elmer who just wants to help, for everything to be okay - like any kid would, alive or dead. Davey still can’t help but think how unfair this is, how these ghosts have done absolutely nothing to deserve such torture. If he and Jack had never taken this stupid holiday, they wouldn’t be stressing and crying over two boys who they’re likely to never see again. It’s all so ridiculous, and it’s all his grandmother’s fault.

“We can.” Davey says, “We have to.”

Katherine’s eyes begin to leak, “Davey, I understand. But we can’t. Spot is doing all he can to save Jack. The only way we can help is by hunkering down in here and trying to last as long as we can.”

But Davey can’t. Jack has walked out that door with the intention of dying to save everyone else. In good conscience, Davey cannot just leave him to it, not after Jack was so willing to risk everything for him. He loves Jack, and while he’s sure that Katherine does understand his reasoning, his turmoil, he also knows that she could never grasp the depth of his love for Jack.

He can’t let him die.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he says.

He doesn’t need to say more. With a tremendous cracking of bones and clicking of joints, Davey rises from the ground. He sees the tears, sees the scene playing out between a distraught Katherine and Elmer, who is also beginning to weep and demanding answers. But he turns his back on them because, as much love as he has for them, it doesn’t compare to what he feels for Jack.

“Spot!” Race’s voice shouts, “Don’t do this!”

Davey sees the figure lingering by the open door, tendrils of inquisitive darkness already starting to creep in and fill the house with its toxic body. Spot’s shoulders are hunched and he looks defeated, even though he hasn’t gone anywhere yet. Davey’s legs pound the floor, echoing through the emptiness that feels smaller than usual, more vulnerable. His own breath is escaping him, coming and going in ragged puffs that feel like an open wound in his chest, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps going until he’s side-by-side with Spot.

“It’s too late!” Race’s voice is frantic, “He’s gone, Spot!”

Race swerves into view, coming to a halt at the top of the stairs. He’s utterly dishevelled, panting and sobbing, looking half-mad with desperation.

“Spot.” He says, “Don’t! I - I love you.”

Race knows he’s made a mistake. Davey watches him clamp a hand over his mouth, choking out an ugly sob. But Spot doesn’t react, doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look his way. Instead, he turns to Davey.

There’s this moment of silence, the quiet before the storm, where he turns to his side and meets the eyes of the coldest ghost, the only one he hasn’t connected with until now. But Davey feels this understanding in Spot as they look gravely at one another, cementing this feeling with a nod. Almost like they’re swearing an oath, like they’re in this together.

Davey and Spot take the step outside in unison.

And then Spot’s gone, vanished into the abyss of Leah Jacobs, a curse grafted from selfishness and greed that lurks somewhere in Davey’s family’s blood. He hopes, if not for Spot’s sake, then for Race’s, that Spot makes it out of this. He knows it’s foolish to hope the same for himself.

The heat is instant, like holding your hands above a bonfire, except more like he’s tied to a branch and is being roasted on a rotating spit while flames devour his flesh. Sweat pools everywhere and it’s a challenge to see straight, especially since there’s only one shade in here and that is shadow. His throat feels like it’s been peeled, revealing a layer of sensitive skin that begs for water. A cruel part of his mind whispers that if Jack’s in here, he’s dead by now.

It’s strange. There’s nothing left of what he remembers occupying this area. It’s just empty. No matter which direction he waves his arms in or how far he stretches his legs, they never touch anything. Just vacant space that seems to go on forever. Maybe this is the world now. Maybe this is Davey’s life. All alone in the endless darkness, searching for someone who has probably been dissolved by this relentless heat.

Davey’s leg comes into contact with something solid. His heart skips a beat. He isn’t sure whether to panic or rejoice. He tries stepping forward again, but the object is still there, blocking his path, almost soft against his shoe. One more attempt and he hears a faint groaning, an unmistakably human sound that has tears springing to Davey’s eyes. The liquid never makes it to his dry skin, but if it weren’t so damn hot, he would be bawling like a baby.

“Jack.” He says. His voice is muffled. He sounds like the ghosts, “I’m going to pick you up, okay?”

There’s no reply. That means Davey has to hurry. He hopes that Jack will forgive him for what happens next, and that saving his life will be enough of an incentive to do so.

Jack is heavier than he expected. He’s never tried carrying another person before, but he assumed it would be easier. He awkwardly adjusts Jack’s terrifyingly limp body into something similar to a bridal position. As his fingers wander over Jack’s skin, he feels patches of sticky, shiny flesh. Burns. His heart clenches in horror as he tries to picture how they look, how they’ve disfigured the face that he adores, that brings him happiness when he’s down and brightens his day just by being around.

Focus on being grateful that he’s alive. What matters most right now is getting Jack out of here before Davey’s lungs cave in and hoping that Spot can handle the rest of it. What’s the point of escaping this, if they’re only doomed to meet the exact same fate later on, when the last corner of the house that traps them is submerged in this vicious darkness? Davey can feel hopelessness seeping into him and he tries to push it away, but the despair is all around him, dragging him down, telling him it will hurt less if he just gives up.

But Jack is defenceless and Jack is in his arms and Davey refuses to let Jack die. How the tables can turn so quickly. He can feel Jack’s head beginning to droop, lolling backwards like a rag doll tossed about by each step. If he passes out now, Jack might not wake up again. Davey is desperate, his heart writhing as he imagines tugging Jack’s already-dead body out of this hell hole.

“Please forgive me,” He says, choking on his own words, “I’m so sorry. Just hold on, please.”

Davey slaps Jack’s face, forcing out broken syllables of apology in between each hit. He does it until Jack finally moves again, lifting his neck with a rough gasp. His cheek must sting, but Davey doesn’t apologise again. He needs to save his energy.

He needs to…

Lower. And lower. And lower. His body - it comes crashing down. Jack is somewhere. Jack is - Where is Jack? There are tears. But. But what? But they melt. Not melt. Evaporate. Jack is on top of him. He can feel him. He can feel fire. He can’t - he can’t move. Paralysed. Empty. As empty as this place. Empty of energy. Strength. Jack is curled up. Where? Where are they?

Jack. Davey whispers the name. Jack. They’re together. Always. But - but why? Why does he feel so alone? It’s dark. Why can’t he see? Why can’t he see Jack? He can’t breathe. He can. But he can’t. He is dying. It tastes of blood. Why does blood taste like that? Why is he bleeding? Why does it hurt? And where is Jack? And where is Davey?

He doesn’t want to die. Like a child. He feels like a child. He wants his mother. Esther. Where is Esther? Why? Why? He isn’t ready. He isn’t - he isn’t, he isn’t. He hasn’t finished. Life. His life hasn’t finished. There’s so much to do. So much. So much left. Why is Davey here? Why is it so fucking dark?

What are those voices? Who is she? Who is the woman? Her voice says: give up, give up, give up. She knows Davey’s name. How? How does she know his name? It’s pointless; you’re going to die anyway. Give up, give up, give up.

Maybe he should. Maybe. Give up, give up, give up. Davey can’t find Jack. Give up, give up, give up. It’s so dark. So warm. He’s lying down already. Maybe it’s easy. Maybe he just needs to listen. Trust her. He wants to sleep. To give up, give up, give up.

Your wife hates you, Spot. You’re going to die again, Spot. You’ll never save those boys, Spot.

Miss Medda was right about the voices. However, she underestimated Spot’s ability to deflect harsh comments; he spent his entire life doing it, after all. It’s just like being alive again, ignoring remarks and keeping a straight face. It’s not like he can feel anything anyway. The darkness is a little disturbing, sure, but seeing his prison transformed into a desolate wasteland isn’t exactly his worst nightmare.

It all seems much more straightforward than he expected. He knows he shouldn’t let himself get carried away with confidence, but he’s almost waiting for the hard bit. Isn’t this supposed to be soul-destroying and devastating in every way? Isn’t that why Race was so overcome with emotion back inside?

Race. Now that’s a dilemma Spot never saw himself getting into. And one that he’ll think about later, not now, not when he’s trying to save two boys who have a whole life ahead of them. If he makes it out of here, he’ll have all of eternity to reflect on why someone like Race could ever feel something romantic towards someone like him.

All of eternity. Spot wishes this weren’t so easy. He wishes he was fighting. He wishes he could at least make it look like he’d tried to win, but had lost his own life - life? - along the way, that there was a cost to his good deed. Spot doesn’t want to see the daylight again. He doesn’t want to go back to that state between realms, that prolonged pain that goes back almost as far as he can remember.

You’ll never survive this. You’ll never save them. Your wife will never forgive you.

Spot wishes the voice was right. He wishes he would never get out of here. He could happily let this darkness wipe him off the earth and let it all be over if he didn’t have a job to do. But thinking of another hundred years in the house, with Race’s complicated feelings, after Jack and Davey have gone back to New York and robbed anything exciting or different from his existence, makes Spot long for death. A second death. A final one, with nothing after.

I can make that happen. Just lie down. It can all be over.

And isn’t that tempting? Isn’t that everything Spot has ever wanted? It’s taunting him, offering him his dream, testing him. He knows that if he does the selfish thing, just like he always does, the boys will die. He will not redeem himself, but prove himself a monster, just like Katherine always called him. No one will reminisce and say his name fondly when he’s gone, but they will spit it and discuss his evil heart and how there was nothing more to him than bitterness and corruption.

He is so close now. He can feel the air growing thicker as he approaches the centre. But it’s like walking through the ocean, the waves nudging him backwards every time he raises a leg. Lying down really would be easier. He would never have to think about anyone else again, never have to worry about disappointing people or failing them or pushing them away like he did with Izzie.

Izzie would want him to keep going. Spot wants to keep going. But he also wants to sleep. What if he defeats this thing and then the offer’s gone? What if this is his last chance to get what he desires? What if he wins and has to live forever as a consequence? Are two lives really worth enduring years more of this? Of course they are.

Jack and Davey haven’t even had a chance to live, and here Spot is weighing up whether to give them that or find a way for his life to end. If that isn’t cruel, he doesn’t know what is. Ironic too. They are so very young and Spot is so very old. He has lasted beyond his time - while theirs hasn't even begun - but this isn’t the way to end it. Not at the price of two fresh lives that haven’t yet been able to experience all the things he has. Spot will be given another chance at another point, but for now he holds onto the mental image of Izzie and - surprisingly - the one of Race crying at the top of the stairs. When Spot gets back, he has a lot of himself that he needs to figure out. But that’s okay; he has all the time in the world.

He thinks about Race, if only briefly - he may be about to die, after all, he can offer a single moment for his mind to wander to the people who mean something to him. Race is old, but not in the way Spot is. He is a man, but not a kind of man like Spot. He should consider this before letting out wild, half-considered confessions - that Spot is not the type of person worth getting to know, that the world Spot lived in is a different one entirely to Race's. But in some ways, is that not what brings them together? The ability to teach each other about separate universes and tell stories they'd forgotten. To think that Spot claimed to hate Race for so long.

Spot Conlon lived for eighteen years. He feels so much older, but in reality, his body is still that of a teenager. Eighteen years old and already married, already so unpopular that someone would happily shoot him down - or poison him, as it turned out. Race lived for the exact same amount of time, but he carries that age so differently. He acts like a boy where Spot acts like a man - and in truth, Spot is just a boy dressing up and pretending to be a man. He's just like Race and Katherine; young lives dragged out for years without feeling the effect of it. But at the same time, he's like Jack and Davey.

When Spot gets back. He has all these plans. He actually smiles at that. Such a positive thought; it's been so long since something so positive entered his mind. And one that he hadn’t even considered until now. It had all been such certain doom and gloom with only one possible outcome, but somehow, he’s almost looking forward to seeing the other ghosts again, to seeing Jack and Davey as vibrant and alive as they were when they first entered the house. He’ll make sure to be kinder to them this time.

Spot takes the last step. He reaches the centre, presses his hand to the solid mass before him and whispers: “I banish you. No iteration of your being is permitted within these grounds now or ever, no matter whether my spirit remains or not.”

The smile doesn’t die even as the darkness explodes around him, swallowing itself with an explosive hiss, like a rip in the sky itself, stitching back together and rebuilding the world that it had failed miserably to demolish.

Chapter Text

Jack wakes up to a splintering headache and a blinding light all around. His first drowsy thought is that this is heaven, that he really was too late to do anything and managed to die in the middle of that hurricane of black. That means that Davey is either cowering inside, fending off death until it becomes impossible, or he’s already dead, and is somewhere nearby. Jack doesn’t know what would be worse: never seeing Davey again, or seeing him in heaven, knowing it was his fault.

But then the pain sets in, stabbing up his sides and winding through his veins. It tingles and burns, like his skin has been peeled off like bloody orange peel, and there’s this numbing cold right in his core. If he was dead, he wouldn’t feel anything. He isn’t sure whether to be relieved or exhausted by the fact that he’s still alive; on the one hand, he isn’t dead and he can go home and see his brother again, but on the other hand, he’s still in Santa Fe, beaten to a pulp, and he doesn’t even know if he can stand up without passing out from the anguish.

A croaky voice crackles in the background of Jack’s conscience. He would jump - if he didn’t feel so drained - at the beautiful familiarity and reassurance of that voice. The voice he was afraid he’d never hear again, that he could spend his whole life listening to and still remain as attentive and hooked on every word as ever. Nothing boring or unimportant could ever come from that mouth and Jack wants to cry just hearing it again. It makes him think that maybe, just maybe, things can be okay again.

“Spot?” Davey’s asking, his blood-stained fingers reaching through the grass that has returned to the earth, “Spot?”

The garden is back. Despite the blurriness of Jack’s vision - the wavy lines and the contorting of the trees that seem to have doubled in amount since he last saw them - he can see that everything is how it should be once again. The darkness is just…gone. Vanished without even a trace of the decay that had tainted - no, replaced - the nature that was here before.

It’s all over? What happened? How come it all ended so suddenly? Is Leah Jacobs gone for good? Is it all safe now? Jack can’t quite accept that after so long of panicking, of waiting for death and stressing over all the details and intricacies, that he can relax now, that he’s going to be alright. Talk about anti-climaxes. Jack’s gotten so used to being on edge, to preparing his mind for disaster and trying to numb himself to the approaching end, that he can’t believe it’s done, that it could all resolve itself so swiftly and tidily.

“Spot!?” Davey calls out, “Spot!”

Jack doesn’t know what happened since he exited the house and blacked out, but Davey seems restless and uncomfortable. It clearly hurts him, but he’s trying to get up, calling out Spot’s name in that scratchy voice. His eyes find Jack; they’re bloodshot and full of soot and dirt, spilling drips all down his scuffed-up face.

“Jack,” He gasps, flinging himself onto the other boy. The contact feels like being punched right in a bruise, but Jack ignores it - he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care because he’s alive and Davey’s here and this hug is like resolving every issue in the world, sewing back together every hole and fixing all that’s broken inside him.

They sob into each other’s arms for a while, letting out all the tears that have been building up, and releasing all the fear and the relief and the disbelief and shock out into the air, where it can drift away and leave them alone for good. All Jack wants now is to curl up in his home in New York with Davey by his side and never move again. He is so unbelievably grateful that they both survived; he can’t quite convince himself this is real because, in all honesty, dying and going to heaven seems like the more plausible option after the holiday he’s had.

“Did you see Spot?” Davey whispers into Jack’s hair, his fingers tangling themselves in it. He takes a sharp breath and then chokes out, “Oh Jack. I thought you were dead. I thought I was going to die.”

The pain in his voice breaks Jack’s heart. It’s like witnessing a beautiful stained-glass window shattering, unable to do anything but collect the broken pieces in your hands and hold onto them until it can be fixed. All that beauty and wonder and intelligence that makes Davey who he is - it’s all drowning under the horror of the experience they’ve endured, swept away by loss and terror and the unshakable feeling that there’s other things, more powerful, dangerous things out there in the world. How can you ever forget something like that?

Davey’s body slackens as his sobbing intensifies. Jack rubs his back gently, even though he is as much of a shaking mess as Davey. The quiet around them is disturbing, inevitably disguising the fact that something awful is going to come. Jack doesn’t think he’d even bother running - he’d just let himself be taken. He’d give in and spend his final moment in oblivious bliss with the boy he loves.

But nothing comes. Because it’s over. It really is over. Jack squeezes Davey so tight, holding on to remind himself that he’s still here, still breathing. He can have a second chance, an opportunity to get old and live a whole life full of Davey and Crutchie and - Crutchie. Jack misses him so much that he can feel the physical tug of his heart in the direction of New York. He can’t wait to wrap his arms around his brother and wish he never left. And his family - the ghosts. He sees them too in his vision of the future. He sees Katherine and Race and Elmer and - surprisingly - Spot. Someone should go and let them know it’s safe to come out now and then - forgive Jack for being a hopelessly idealistic dreamer - Crutchie can find a way to break them out of the house.

“Did you see him, Jackie?” Davey asks.

“No.”

“He was out here,” Davey looks around, scanning the area, his expression all confused and bewildered, like he’s struggling to catch up, “I saw him. He stepped outside with me; I think - I think he was trying to save us.”

Oh God. Jack’s heart freezes, the exhilarating buzz of hope dying out instantly.

“I think he was going to sacrifice himself. He looked so determined, so brave.”

It wasn’t a miracle at all. Of fucking course it wasn’t - crazy monsters like the ones out here don’t suddenly drop dead just because. There’s no such thing as luck - there are just ridiculously courageous idiots like Spot Conlon who are willing to throw everything away, to destroy every last scrap of who he was and could’ve been, just to save two boys who he hardly knows.

“Is he…”

“He’s dead, Jack. He died for us.” Jack’s head shoots up when he hears Davey’s voice crack again. He laces his fingers into the ones clasped over Davey’s mouth - as if that could silence the violent and endless stream of broken sounds as everything collapses again and again, just after it seems it will be okay.

Jack is done with hope. If people like Spot Conlon are prepared to die for people like him, the world is truly lost. Flipped on its head, impossible to make sense of. All rules that he thought applied are worthless. Everything he knows about human beings is susceptible to change - not only that, but will change. Because people evolve and grow and open their hearts and learn to feel again and Jack is moved beyond words that he was the one to help Spot to reconnect with his soul, just as deeply as he is destroyed by the knowledge that because of him Spot is gone and will never return.

He finds this new respect for Spot, as he realises that he never knew him. He assumed and guessed and judged and pretended to have Spot all figured out, but now he recognises that Spot was a much more complex person all together, a tangled clump of wires that Jack never came close to unlocking. There was so much more in there, something unbelievably deeper than the exterior let on, and Jack wishes he could have more time to even get a glimpse of the true Spot, the one who threw himself into the firing line and was shot down.

Spot is dead. Spot is dead. He’s facing whatever comes next for ghosts.

Jack thinks it’s wrong. Spot shouldn’t have to pay for his mistakes. It was Jack who wandered into danger, but it was Spot who died. Somewhere along the lines it stopped making sense. There must’ve been some kind of miscalculation, a glitch in the system powering the universe and selecting unfortunates for death. Spot is already dead - he’s already had his share of death. Surely, that means it must be Jack’s turn.

“He shouldn’t be dead.” Jack says quietly.

“I know.”

“No, Dave.” Jack’s throat is sore, like there are talons raking across it, “It should be me.”

“Jackie.” He looks like he’s going to cry again, “Don’t say things like that. I almost lost you. Do you know how hard it would be for me to live without you? For Crutchie? Your life is worth so much more than you seem able to understand.”

“But Spot shouldn’t be dead,” Jack can’t look at Davey, at those eyes that drip with melancholy and the sing the saddest melodies in the galaxy - all because of Jack, because of his clunky words and his ugly thoughts.

“I agree. But Spot made his decision. He knew what he was doing. I don’t know why, but he was just…ready, I suppose. In the end, his actions are up to him, and him alone. And if he knew that he wanted to save us, he must’ve really cared.”

It still doesn’t seem fair. Death doesn’t seem fair. Why is it that people aren’t warned? Why is it that the world thinks it’s acceptable to let you be alive one day and then just swoop you away the next? Why can lives be over so quickly, as if they were worth nothing? Is human life worthless?

“This sucks.” Jack’s voice is flat and defeated.

Davey nods. He wipes his face and stands, holding out his hand to help Jack do the same. It doesn’t hurt anywhere near as much as he expected, more like easing out a bad cramp than walking on a shattered bone.

“I’m sure the others are waiting.” Davey says.

“For us? Or for Spot?” Jack says darkly, “Because if they’re waiting for him, they’re gonna have a surprise.”

“Jack.” The pleading tone is enough to silence Jack’s snarkiness. It isn’t fair to depress everyone around him; it isn’t fair to act like the victim when Davey is hurting just as much as he is.

It occurs to him that Katherine and Race might not even mourn Spot, that they might be totally unfazed. It's an ugly, sickening thought that Jack desperately hopes to be proven wrong about, but there is a possibility. They didn't exactly like Spot, as far as Jack’s aware. Up until this exact moment in time, Jack would’ve gone as far as saying that nobody liked Spot.

How can he say that now, after Spot’s died for him? He feels he owes Spot everything, that he should forget all the awful things Spot did and glorify his memories as some kind of romanticised legacy. That’s wrong on so many levels, but Spot’s dead and it’s all Jack’s fault and he feels it’s his responsibility.

Jack’s hand finds its way into Davey’s. His fingers are scratched and bleeding and bedded with dirt and soil, but he feels more refreshed than ever, more aware. Like he’s woken from a coma. His whole body is light with relief, the sudden release from all the pressure and anxiety that’s been building and building until it dropped. Even the old house doesn’t look quite so scary, not after what he’s been through. The claustrophobia of the furnace of the darkness’ belly - curled up and begging for death, suffering through every heartbeat - cannot begin to compare to a dreary building. Talk about growing accustomed to terrifying things.

The house is still there, as hideous as ever, though Jack thinks there are a few more hunks of wood nestled in the grass and a few more holes in the walls. There’s total silence in the air, but that’s probably because the ghosts are hiding as quietly as possible, as if that will help them be spared. Not that there’s anything to be scared of now, anyway. Not that he can tell his body that there’s nothing to fear.

“Last time.” Davey whispers.

“Thank God.” Jack laughs, but it’s a miserable sound.

“Then we go home. We do nothing, lie in bed for days on end and turn our backs to the world. And we never leave each other’s side again.”

Jack takes Davey’s hand. “I’d like that.”

They walk through the door together, heads held high, as if they’re suddenly invincible after their near-death experience. Emboldened, empowered, they get to the bottom of the stairs, the spot where everything started going wrong the day they arrived. The air is heavy, Jack’s chest aching; he can’t wait to leave this place behind for good.

“Katherine!” He shouts, “Race!”

There’s no answer. He figures they’ve taken Elmer somewhere so secure that they can’t hear. Maybe they’re in the basement with Miss Medda. His entire heart bleeds for them, for the desperate - yet rapidly fading - hope that they’re safe, that they’re still here, unlike Spot, that he and Davey are not the only ones left in this house.

But soon, they’ve checked every corner, every closet, every floorboard, and there’s no sign. Jack’s knees give under him - a combination of despair and exhaustion - and his fingers brush along the splintering wood. He wants to cry, but knows there truly are no tears left inside his fatigued body. He can picture their faces, their fear, running for their lives, but being wiped away as the darkness swept across the ground, erased as the last traces of curses and magic and ghosts were destroyed.

No more Leah. No more ghosts. Jack wonders if Spot, if Miss Medda, knew the price that they would pay. He wonders if the ghosts were ready, or if they had no idea what was to come. He can’t imagine the terror, especially for young, naive Elmer, being swept off the earth without a warning. It’s all just so fucking unfair and Jack wants to punch something or scream or see Katherine again - Katherine who was more of a friend to him than he’s had in a long time, who gave him reasons to smile and who cared for him in a way only two other people in his life ever have: Davey and Crutchie.

“Come on, Jackie,” Davey whispers, his eyes blazing with tears, a hand on Jack’s quivering shoulder, “Let’s go home.”

They’re gone. Jack lets himself be guided out of the house, doesn’t resist as Davey cries and nudges him into the driver’s seat. They sit and wait until Jack can clear his mind, but he’s just numb. The only words drifting around his head are: they’re gone. He can see Davey crying and it only deepens the guilt, the grief. They’re gone and it’s his fault, they’re gone and they’re never coming back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the tree. Healed over, bark smooth, as if nothing ever happened. There’s not a single name on it, not any evidence that the people he grew so fond of were ever here at all. He buries his head in his hands and surprises himself; he does have more tears left in him, after all.

Chapter Text

Jack knows he isn’t in Santa Fe, even before he opens his eyes. He’s wrapped up in something warm and every urge tells him to bury deeper into this first glimpse of comfort he’s had for - how long? He can’t even remember. It feels like years since he left his home behind. This blanket is softer than he knew was possible; he feels safer than he realised he was able to feel. After being on guard, on edge, afraid and overwhelmed and dying, the slow rhythm of his own heart is a stranger to him. The lack of adrenaline coursing through him makes it feel that something is missing - he’s grown so used to the constant panic that sitting down and doing nothing feels dangerous, like some luxury he shouldn’t have.

The blanket is soothing against muscles that have been tensed for so long. Jack remembers driving. He remembers the rain slamming against the windscreen and the empty roads away from Santa Fe, the urgency with which he left behind that cursed place. If he broke the speed limit, Davey didn’t complain; he too seemed eager enough to ignore laws when it meant getting away from whatever level of hell they’d been trapped in. Waking up, he can feel something easing its way into his body, something gentle and quiet and relaxing - and it feels so amazing. Jack finds himself reaching out for Davey, as if to ground himself, or convince himself it’s real, and when his fingers brush against hair, he finally sinks. They both made it out. He can breathe again, and it feels wonderful.

Dark. Warm. Soft. It’s everything Jack never thought he’d feel again. Every breath is easy and smooth; every breath sings with relief and the dull surprise of shelter and such a sudden, swift end to all the horrors of his so-called holiday.

A weight drops on the end of the sofa, light and cautious, preceded by even, measured steps. The blurry world of flickering orange and drawn curtains swims before Jack’s eyes, but even through the layer of exhaustion, he recognises Crutchie. He would recognise Crutchie by the sound of his heartbeat alone, even if he was on the other side of the planet. And every part of Jack yearns to snap into action and launch himself at his brother, to bask in the presence and feel close to the person he thought he’d said goodbye to for the last time, but he finds that his body just can’t move that fast, and that his head is full of air, which isn’t any good for telling his limbs what to do.

Paralysed somewhere under a blanket, tears coating his eyelashes, Jack listens to his brother sobbing quietly, unaware that he’s being heard. The frustration is excruciating, being this close but still useless, knowing that Crutchie has been put through so much, that he was woken up at some ungodly hour to see a bloodied, battered, moments-away-from-death Jack and Davey - this pair of corpses was just thrown his way and he was somehow expected to take it all in his stride and deal with it. Jack wants more than anything to hold him, to apologise, to say something, but he’s so tired. He’s so tired.

God, Jack thinks his heart is breaking all over again. His little brother, crying in a dim room. Crying over him. Crying because Jack was stupid enough to think he could have a fun couple of weeks with his boyfriend without it almost costing their lives. He should be grateful, but instead he’s furious. Furious that it’s wrecked whatever was left inside of him, furious that he had to see Davey cry, furious that he’s now having to see Crutchie cry. These past few weeks, Jack has been exposed to more crying than ever before, even in the foster homes, where the little boys asked him when their parents would come back for them.

And it isn’t just the tears. There’s been so much pain, so much loss. Jack thinks of the price it took for him and Davey to survive, of those irritating, imperfect, beautiful souls that he met within the walls of the house that he will forever wander through in every nightmare that follows such an experience. He thinks of Katherine and her books that she never got to read, the ones that he was going to read to her, that she’ll now never hear. He thinks of Race and the headphones that he couldn’t use; how he would’ve loved to bring him back to this house and let him choose whatever music he wanted. Elmer, who didn’t have a childhood, who had no idea what was happening and then was suddenly gone. He wonders if anybody hugged him in those last moments, if anybody lied and told him it would be okay, if the little boy screamed or went silently, or whether Race finally let him know the truth.

Jack hides his face in the blanket and weeps. They were so much more than ghosts; they were friends to him. He can see the place they would’ve filled in his future. He can see the futures that they deserved. Stupidly, he loved them. And now he’ll never see them again. All because he wouldn’t leave when they warned him to, because he was too stubborn and thick-skulled and insufferably pathetic. He couldn’t even fight off Leah Jacobs; he couldn’t even save them. Spot had to do that for him. And if Jack is no good at saving people anymore, what’s the point in him being here? He wishes Crutchie could hear his thoughts - he wishes he could find it in him to vocalise them - so that he could reassure him and stop these destructive notions.

But he can’t. And he doesn’t. And every second that Jack is still alive, the ghosts are still dead.

He wonders whether they died hating Spot, or whether they forgave him. He wonders if they knew what he did, or if they think he ran away as a coward. He hopes they know. He wishes that Spot was still here, that he didn’t have to die just as he’d begun to change for the better. He wishes that nobody was dead, that he was dead.

That’s a cruel, selfish thing to wish for. He looks at Davey, peaceful and unaware, looking rested for the first time in too long, and that’s enough to make him feel like a monster for wishing such things, for being so miserable. Davey does everything to help, to silence those thoughts - if he knew that they were still there, he would cry again.

Jack’s seen enough crying to last a lifetime.

And it’s not that he wants to be dead, exactly. But if he was given the chance to trade his life for that of the ghosts, to give them a real, beating-heart, breathing-lungs life again, he wouldn’t hesitate. Sometimes it’s just hard to see the point to your existence, to why you were given a space on earth, especially when other people, better people, are robbed of theirs.

When he shuts his eyes, he sees crying. Davey with his delicate, pearl-like tears; Elmer’s confused, terrified tears; Katherine’s broken, yearning tears; Miss Medda’s nostalgic, lonely tears; Race’s anxious, frantic tears. So many people, all of them crying for different things. All of them are haunting Jack now, even if they aren’t here. And there’s no escaping. Cructhie’s tears are in this room even now, and the traces of Jack’s own tears can still be found if he searches far enough.

Maybe Spot was the only one who didn’t cry. Maybe Spot just did his crying in private, or maybe he was crying on the inside the whole time. Maybe he’d forgotten how to cry and held his tears in his heart like a plug. Jack wishes he could’ve helped him reconnect with that human part of himself, wishes Spot had been around long enough to remember how good it could feel to let it out.

Suddenly, Jack’s aware of a noise, a low droning sound, like the hum of electricity. Crutchie is muttering to himself, his head almost in his lap, his eyes squeezed shut. He’s chanting. With a rush of cold that spikes right to his stomach, Jack realises where he recognises the sound. Miss Medda. It reminds him of Miss Medda in the basement. Her magic.

He wants to jump up and scream, to force Crutchie out of the chair, to slap a hand over his mouth. A bright, flashing panic races through him as the words float into his ears. Not Crutchie. Hasn’t Jack’s life been ruined enough by all this supernatural bullshit? He can’t lose Crutchie too, not after all this, not after only just making it back home by some miracle.

But he can’t move. His body simply doesn’t respond. He listens to Crutchie and he balls his fists, digging into his palms with the nails, leaving tiny pink dents shaped like crescent moons. Instead of light, they seem to illuminate the world with red, filling the sky with blood, tainting Jack’s vision a sickly colour. The frustration is a flame inside him, licking against his sides and heating him internally until he feels he’ll implode, engulfed in a muffled cloud of smoke that is hidden within. He thinks that his heart is being burned, like this is the final straw tipping him into something so painful that he’ll never return.

After everything, after thinking he was going to die, what finishes him off is the sound of Crutchie’s desperation, the sound of something eerie and familiar that scratches at his brain.

The words stop quickly, the room swallowed by silence for a second, before these great, wracking sobs fill the air. These are followed by a shaky voice repeating the same phrase over and over: “It isn’t working, it isn’t working, it isn’t working.”

Isn’t that just the story of Jack’s life? No matter what he does, it doesn’t work. He couldn’t even save a group of lonely ghosts. He truly is good for nothing; all these depreciative thoughts are exhausting, and he’s running low on energy as it is.

He wants to see bright, smart Katherine again. He really did trick himself into believing he could be friends with her, with these people who were never quite people. It was completely fucking stupid, when he looks back, to have actually thought that a dead girl could be the best friend he’d never had in his childhood. He can still see her smile, an ever-fading impression left on his eyes, one that he tries to focus on, as if that will make it stay forever, so that he’ll never forget her face.

Somewhere, he has a notebook with the pictures he drew of the ghosts in. Somewhere, there are pieces of paper that hold the key to strengthening his memories. He realises with a sickening jolt that in the rush, in the fight, when he charged out of the house, he left the notebook. Jack wants to cry all over again, his stomach turning with nausea; the drawings are still in Santa Fe.

It’s only a matter of time before he forgets completely.

He could draw them again. He tries to remember the precise facts - they are facts, logical and right or wrong; crucial facts that Jack can’t let himself forget - of their features, but, with rising panic, he realises that he can’t. He can’t remember where exactly Katherine’s hair curled or where the freckles on Elmer’s nose were or what type of flowers were pinned into Miss Medda’s hair. It’s already disappearing and no matter what threads he tries to grab, it’s all slipping away. Was Katherine’s eyeliner black or brown? Which side of his chest was Spot’s gunshot wound on? What brand were Race’s trainers? All such small things, but the very details that distinguish between fictional characters and real people, that prove he really lived these moments with them.

How many bracelets were on Katherine’s arms? Where were the scuffs and threadbare patches on Elmer’s cap? How is Jack supposed to ground himself, when it feels like everything is floating away? He could ask Davey what he remembers, but Davey’s asleep and Davey’s hurt and Davey’s been through enough. If anything, Jack’s being his usual selfless self, thinking about people who are dead and gone instead of facing his own pain.

But what is he supposed to do, when his own pain stems from other people’s pain? As long as the ghosts are gone, he isn’t able to see why he’s here. Why he of all people is still alive, yet some people die for no reason, without deserving it, he will never be able to understand. It will gnaw and plague him forever.

Memories fade. Jack falls into the darkness, his arms around Davey. He breathes in Davey, feels his warmth so close, tells himself over and over that Davey is here, that Davey is going to disappear like the ghosts did, that this won’t be another hug that feels like the last - there will be more mornings after this one when he can wake up to Davey’s face. There will be a future for them, one that he can still build, that hasn’t burned down yet.

“Jack.” Crutchie’s voice is light. Jack’s first thought is that something awful has happened, that someone else is dying, that he’s about to be hurt again - he rises with a sharp jolt that shoots through his chest like a needle and watches as Crutchie’s face scrunches with worry (worry that shouldn’t be there, that should have no place in this safe house, miles away from any traces of ghosts and death).

Crutchie’s hand brushes his, a small smile creeping onto his face. “I think you should see this, Jack.”

There’s hope on the horizon, coming from Crutchie’s weary eyes and encouraging smile. It feels odd to have such a warmth in him, as Jack’s gotten so used to the cold. But that smile is every bit as golden and sunny as it was before he left and it feels like going back in time to a place where Jack didn’t know that he was about to have his heart broken. It feels like comfort and home and he trusts it entirely - he trusts Crutchie with his life, not that his life feels particularly valuable anymore, now that he’s realised how quickly and thoughtlessly life can be taken away.

Jack nudges Davey gently, who is still lying so close that he struggles to see where he ends and Davey begins. There’s light in the kitchen, filtering through a crack in the door and casting the room in gold; it all looks so pretty and perfect that it’s easy to forget how bleak and grey the days have been recently, how bitter the hopelessness of surrender tasted in his throat.

“Good morning.” Jack whispers. For some reason, he finds his voice catching on something tender, pulled a little from the beautiful softness and domesticity that this moment brings, a kind of homely comfort that he never thought he’d feel again.

Davey’s eyes open. They look so relaxed, so at ease, so completely different from the wandering, frightened eyes he’s gotten to know. And the urge is too strong - Jack gives into it and lets himself kiss Davey, knowing this is not the last time, but the first of many more. He kisses him, knowing that there is once again a future for them. And it’s sweet and a little desperate and he sinks into it; he wants to drown in Davey’s arms, knowing that as he goes down, he is not alone. He will never be alone.

“Get a room.” Crutchie says. There is nothing but love in his voice.

It feels like everything is okay again, like the shaking has stopped and the world has fallen still. Here, with Davey, he can pretend nothing happened, that they’re just a normal couple who dream of normal things like marriage and buying a better car, instead of haunted houses and the ghosts of people they wish they got to know.

But Crutchie is waiting and Jack still feels that pile of lead resting inside him as he remembers what’s been lost. As he stands, he realises he’s still in the same clothes that he wore on the last day in Santa Fe, the same necklace pulling him down into the dark memories of the blood and the pain and the way his knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel. And just like that, it’s all real again, and he isn’t normal at all, but someone who will never be able to sleep again without seeing dying faces.

Davey’s hand in his is calming. Davey leads the way. Davey, who Jack has been trying to protect all this time, is now the one guiding him. He doesn’t want to move, but Crutchie is still smiling and Davey is helping him and he’s getting closer to the kitchen, where he’s sure he can hear voices - though he’s probably just in shock, probably hallucinating - and then -

“Crutchie.” He whispers, “How?”

Because they’re here. They’re…well, not alive, since they were never alive to begin with, but they’re not dead. Not completely, anyway, because his kitchen is colder than the other rooms and there are flickering, translucent bodies standing right in front of him. The people that he thought he’d never see again, that he’s spent so much time crying over, are back. And they’re in his house.

“They were hidden.” Crutchie says, “It was just a matter of looking in the right places.”

Miss Medda rolls her eyes. Seeing such an easy, effortless movement from someone who was gone goes straight to his heart, tugging at something fragile that has been left behind in the wake of tragedy.

“Your brother is too humble,” She says, “He’s quite the little witch.”

Jack tries to laugh, but he chokes. On tears, on surprise, on the overwhelming feelings that are flooding his mind. He clamps a hand over his mouth, biting down on his tongue and looking at them. Examining them. Memorising the details of faces that had begun to fade, faces that are so alive even if he can see right through them. He sees that Davey is frozen, transfixed with shock, and when their eyes meet, a loud mess of sobbing and laughter forces its way through Jack’s throat.

And he’s running, his arms reaching out for Katherine, whose gemstones are clattering as she brushes her fringe behind her ear; whose lonely, miserable eyes are filling with tears. He doesn’t even think, ignoring the awful streak of cold that races through him when he comes into contact with her, not caring that he feels nothing in his arms. Because he lost her once and here she is, crying with him, finally out of that prison of a house.

There’s a small noise behind him and Jack turns to see Elmer - little Elmer - taking off his hat and smiling with all the sweetness in the world. In his eyes, Jack sees the boys in the foster homes, the ones he failed, the ones who hid, the ones who asked him every night when their parents were coming back, the ones he lied to and the ones he tried to save. Elmer is one of these, one that Jack thought he’d failed, one that was too innocent for the darkness of his life, and it takes everything he has not to try and scoop the boy up and hold him in his arms.

And it’s then that he notices something’s wrong. He sees Race, standing to the side, a smile on his face - but a small one, a subdued one. He looks like he’s waiting. Jack realises that Spot isn’t here. He goes to ask, but Race knows. He knows what’s coming and his eyes glisten as he swallows hard.

“He ain't comin’.” Race says, “He’s gone.”

Jack can’t believe it - won’t believe it. Spot can’t be gone. He sees that Race is grappling with the same thoughts, that he also thinks it unfair that the others should all get another chance, while Spot stays gone. If anyone deserves life, it’s Spot - he sacrificed himself. He died for the hope that it would save others.

But that was what he chose, wasn’t it? Spot knew what he was doing. He knew the risk and he still made his decision. It may seem cruel and it may hurt, but this is what Spot wanted, to redeem himself and secure such a wonderful legacy by saving people he cared about. And it’s clearly taking its toll on Race, but it’s okay. Remembering Spot as a good guy is what he would’ve wanted, and having known him at all was an honour. But getting to see him grow into someone who would die for his friends, that was the greatest gift of all.

Miss Medda pats Race’s arm gently. “He loved you so much, Anthony.”

Race smiles, but it’s tainted with pain. “I know. That’s why it hurts.”

“It’s not fair,” Davey whispers to Jack, “That we’re all here without him.”

Jack nods. The room has grown sombre, what was initially exciting turning sour. There’s something missing - a person who is loved by everyone in this room, who should be here right now, who never got a chance to become what he hid on the inside and prove the world wrong.

But Spot didn’t die for everyone to spend their lives mourning. He died so that they could live. He wouldn’t like the heavy silence that settles like clouds of smoke over the kitchen. He wouldn’t like the misery in Race’s eyes. Jack hated Spot for so long, but now he wishes he could see him again. It makes no sense. And the reality is that Spot is never coming back and that the least Jack can do is preserve him in his memory and make sure others know what a good person he was. He can let Spot have the peace he deserves.

“What are you gonna do now?” He says.

The ghosts aren’t tied down anymore. They can go wherever they want. A jealous part of him wants them to stay here forever, but he knows that’s cruel, and that after years in one place, they’ll be ready to explore the world.

“I want to read again.” Katherine says, smiling wistfully. Her eyes catch the light, glowing inside delicate strokes of eyeliner.

There’s an inexplicable lump in Jack’s throat when he nods.

“I don’t have a library,” He says, “But there’s a bookshelf upstairs.”

“Oh, Jack,” She says quietly, her words full of gratitude and compassion and pure happiness, “Could you read some to me?”

“I’d love to.” He says.

He wants to hug her again - hug her and never let go. There’s something so gentle in her eyes, something heartwarming in the way her face lights up. She doesn’t look like the skulking figure who haunted a library, all alone for eternity, staring at books and reliving her death. Jack sees her joy and he wants so badly to believe that it is him who has saved her, but it’s not. He can’t take all the credit. It is Spot who gave her this extra chance at life, who is to thank for this unexpectedly happy ending.

It is Spot who is the hero. And Jack will never forget him or stop being grateful.

“What about you?” Davey asks Race.

“I dunno.” Race says. His eyes are distant, like he’s waiting, “I guess I thought that…I thought he would be here too, and we could be together.”

Miss Medda takes his hand and smiles. “You can come with me, Anthony - until you find your way, at least. I’d be grateful for the company.”

“Where?”

“To the theatres. I want to see if there really are women onstage.”

Race exhales, seeming to relax into skin he’s getting used to all over again. And he nods and smiles tightly at Miss Medda - it’s genuine and Jack can see it’s full of gratitude. Of course, it will be hard for Race - but everyone will miss Spot in some way, and there’s no point wasting this miracle wishing it could be different and meaning that Spot died in vain. By taking this chance, his death can be worth something.

“Do you want to stay with me?” Katherine asks, crouching down so she’s at Elmer’s level, “Or go with Race and Medda?”

“I want to find my mommy.” The little boy says.

“Oh, Elmer.” Katherine glances at Race, her eyes alight with tears.

And Jack’s expecting Race to come apart, to crumble into pieces, but this seems to make him stronger and he pulls himself together, putting on a brave face for Elmer and maybe for Spot. He holds out his hand and when he speaks, his voice is firm and certain.

“Come on, kid.” He says, “Let’s go see the world.”

Race’s arms are around Katherine - a tight and powerful hug, a result of years trapped together, of caring for a small child together, of dying together and escaping a curse together. She cries as she holds him, saying words that Jack doesn’t hear: perhaps a goodbye. Or perhaps goodbyes are too hard for people who have known nothing but each other for so long and are now preparing for a world without them.

And Race smiles one last time at Jack and Davey, hoists Elmer - who wails gleefully - onto his shoulders and runs. Running still, just like he has been all along - except this time he’s not running from something, he’s running towards it.

“Thank you.” Miss Medda says.

Jack isn’t sure what she’s thanking him for and he doesn’t want to see her go, but he knows that he would be as bad as Leah if he kept the ghosts locked up here. They have their freedom now, which is all they ever wanted, and he is happy to know he played some small part in it. So, he smiles - because that’s all he can do, because he can’t hug her like he wants to - and he watches as she walks out the door.

The room is ten degrees warmer. Davey’s hand traces soft lines up his arm. Crutchie smiles tearily from a corner. And Katherine is still crying, but the tears trace her lips, which are turned up to the sky - perhaps they are aiming for Spot. And perhaps he sees what is possible thanks to him. Jack hopes that he is resting and that he's happy and that he knows that no one will ever hate him again, that he succeeded in proving himself to people who will always remember. Jack hopes that Spot knows his wife would be proud of the man he's become.

“I know a book you’ll love.” Jack says.