Chapter Text
A supposedly dead man lay in a meadow of softly blowing grass that glistened with dewdrops in the light of the sun. This was new. Where was he now? He was used to showing up without a warning in seemingly random, unknown worlds. That was the annoying part of being a “ghost” of sorts. This felt different though. His spirit felt more corporeal, no, more real. He felt each blade of grass weave between his calloused fingers and the wind blow against his neck. This felt different.
Sal Fisher was emotionally drained. The last thing he remembered was his restless spirit floating between realms and realities, trying to stop the cult, which he had been prophesied to defeat, from spreading The Dark across the world. The chaos felt like it happened ages ago. The cult, and frankly, the world at large, had torn everything from Sal: his mother, his friends, the family who accepted every part of him, his life, and not to mention his face. That part was probably the most obvious.
He died years ago, paying the death penalty for his heinous crimes: thirteen murders within a night, none of which he wanted to commit. With the infestation of the Red Eyes threatening the entire world, he was left to contain it by killing all those it claimed that night, including his father, stepmother, some of his closest friends, and others he’d grown up with. It was horrific, and the nightmares that plagued the “Sally Face Killer”, as the media called him, for the rest of his life were grotesque and brutal.
Now, Sal sat up in the open field, observing the wide area around him. The meadow felt like a liminal void, caught between boundless life and frozen hollowness. It was bright and coated in the overwhelming rays of the sun, yet it was cold and empty. The earth was flat as far as his eye could see, and Sal heard no life safe for the rustling of oddly vibrant grass beneath him. It was odd, even for him.
Sal pulled his hands through his bright blue hair. It was a tangled wavy mess. No longer was it pulled up in pigtails the way it was when he was younger; it was loose and draped over his shoulders. He reached up to the back of his head for the black straps of his prosthetic face, unclasped them and looked up into the empty blue sky. “Sally Face” clutched his mask, held together by small pieces of tape plastered across its broken edges. He looked behind him, feeling the firm strap of his guitar along his torso and seeing the familiar instrument he once cherished lay with him. Years ago, one of Sal’s friends, Todd, upgraded his red electric guitar as a gift, allowing Sal to interact with and fight the spirit world. It was his weapon against the monsters devouring his home and his family. After all the nauseating ghost hunts he and his best friends had been through, the instrument was a reassurance to Sal back then. However, at this moment it felt more like an omen. Running his hands across the worn metal frets, Sal remembered the gruesome horrors of the apartments. The red body of the guitar was a reminder of the pools of blood he left behind him to purge the building and its people of the darkness that penetrated every wall, every floor, and every patch of flesh it found.
Sal sat in the unsettling stillness of the meadow, the only sound coming from the guitar as he tuned it out of boredom. His prosthetic lay beside him in the grass. He wasn’t sure what else to do; he was completely alone with nobody to call out to. His wrists were a bit tense for some reason, and he took note of the slight stiffness of them.
In the distance, Sal saw a shadow slither across the ground. He froze in place, observing as a thick, ink-like substance slowly rose to form a figure. It wasn’t remotely human. That he knew. Its neck stretched far too tall, its limbs were so thin they seemed as snappable as a twig, and its hands were unnaturally massive and were crudely pointed at the fingertips. Sal grabbed his prosthetic from the ground, and brought himself to his feet, slouching as he always had. He put his face back in place and gripped the neck of his guitar tightly. He watched carefully as the figure stalled aimlessly in the field. Then…
it saw him.
Despite its lack of eyes, or any facial features for that matter, the creature seemed to have spotted Sal in the meadow. The man waited as the figure melted rapidly back into a viscous puddle atop the ground. It dashed toward him, eviscerating the once vibrant grass, leaving nothing but a trail of goopy navy remains.
Sal stood still.
The creature slithered with unnatural speed through the vast limbo. Whatever kind of creature it was, it was hostile and animalistic.
Sal stood still.
He looked down at the familiar guitar. After a moment of silent thought, Sal began to play a melody that felt unbelievably natural, despite how long it’d been since he held the instrument in his arms. The song was much softer than the music he used to listen to, but it felt completely right in this moment. The creature continued its charge, darting across the meadow. Sal’s fingers danced along the fretboard, leaping from string to string, and he watched the monster with a calm determination.
Sal stood tall.
Time felt nonexistent, and when the ravenous creature was within meters of the man, Sal felt nothing at its presence. It was close now, ready to latch onto Sally Face with its dripping navy tendrils, but as it was on the cusp of grasping the guitarist, the music formed an orb of lime green energy, crested with symbols of old, which surrounded Sal in a protective shield. The creature recoiled at the energy’s touch, hissing breathlessly into the open air.
Sal felt himself rise into the air with the energy of the guitar, and he had an even vaster view of the world around him. His hair blew around his head, and his limbs were light as he rose with the notes of his guitar. Like a puzzle piece thrown together haphazardly, with no regard for the intended image, the meadow was bordered unnaturally at one edge by a dense city and surrounded by a black void at another. Sal gazed down upon the inky creature, which was extremely out-of-place in the colorful landscape. He played a final, powerful chord that rang through the sky, and the energy of the guitar sent him flying far backward, toward the city.
There had to be more to his return to life than met the eye, and the city was Sal’s best bet at finding answers.
It wasn’t a graceful landing by any means. Sal shielded the guitar with his body as he barreled into the ground. The knees of his muted red jeans tore against the rough ground. Sal chuckled, reminded of the time he spent as a teenager tediously tearing holes into the knees of his jeans while his best friend had the radio playing at full blast through the room.
Once he rose to his feet again, Sal looked around him to see a barren street, with remnants of that same dark gunk coating lamp posts and mailboxes. In the distance, he heard a gut-wrenching shriek, and he instinctively ran toward the sound as quickly as his legs could carry him.