Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The blood hasn't rushed through my body just yet, as I can feel the numbness of just about everything in my body. I'm laying on a gurney with thin, scratchy fabric that digs into my skin and I realize as I try to move, thick black straps hold my body down, securing my body down in case I did think of escaping. Or, maybe it is meant to protect me. I don't let myself think harder about the circumstances, except for the fact that before I was dead. And now I'm not.

The gurney rolls down a blue and white hallway with number plaques next to each closed door. No one else is in this hallway, thankfully, just me and... whoever was rolling me off. I can't crane my neck and see as another strap holds that body part down, too. What I can make out though is a breathing mask secured above my face, allowing lukewarm air to enter my body, aiding my lungs to breathe, something I didn't know I was doing until I feel a sharp pain stab that area repeatedly. They were still, of course, the lungs collectively stopped moving after my death and now, like an old car with an engine that threaten to go out at any moment, I was struggling. Thankfully, the mask was offering what little air I could get myself and I began to feel all of my other bodily motions follow after. After my lungs, it was my heart, which I could feel beating and pulsating blood to every inch of my body. It is slow, though, waking up from a brief slumber. My fingers twitch as I touch the blue fabric and rub it between my index and thumb, pulling away when I realize the fabric felt like needles digging into my skin. So, I lay. And wait.

How much longer is it?

How long have I been dead for?

The waking world probably doesn't realize I've died. From what I can remember, I don't have much family. I doubt anyone would've planned a funeral for me. Did anyone come to see my body? I began to reason that whatever was rolling me away was a friend or perhaps a family member. Grief can take many forms and maybe this was one of them. They couldn't accept my death and wanted to steal my body for purposes I couldn't even begin to fathom. Or, maybe it is as simple as I was being wheeled to my final resting place, the ground. I began to imagine the forever dark that would encase my body and the decaying progress. I didn't get to pick my coffin. Maybe I wouldn't be inside of a coffin. I realize that I could very well be thrown into a body pit, just like those in the medieval era, stacked upon one another like sardines. Then, as a collective, we would lit on fire, our souls becoming one with the smoke.

That's stupid.

This is all really stupid.

This whole thing could be a death dream, something I'm thinking about as I die out wherever I am, blissfully accepting what is to come.

The gurney takes a sharp turn to the right and then the left and then the right again before smoothing out. The hallway we are in now is darker than the previous one, now with lights illuminating some of the rooms and other rooms with doors that are open and as I crane my neck, I can see that the beds are neatly made and the curtains are open, letting in warm sunlight. The rooms themselves are plain with medical equipment near the beds, unplugged, waiting to be used. I look away from these rooms and again, at the ceiling, where I'm met with an alternating pattern of lights and vents. The lights are dimmer in comparison to the other lights, some blinking and some buzzing with dead bugs behind the fluorescent light cover.

How do the bugs even get in there?

Do they realize how long eternity is as they lay there dying, staring into a blinding sun?

Maybe they just know they're going to die and accept it.

Does the same apply to me?

I don't remember how I came to be here.

My brain's fuzzy like that, I guess.

The pieces are there, but they're out of my reach.

The gurney stops moving and I can hear the shuffling of feet, followed by the sound of keys jingling. The stranger who has been pushing me moves just in front of my sight, looking me up and down with a frown. She's a girl with unbrushed brown hair, wearing a dark green parka and under it, a shirt that reads, "Do You Believe In Ghosts?" in a vintage black and white font. A ghost is in the middle, wearing tacky sunglasses and has it's arms raised, almost as if to attack.

"Are you feeling alright?" she asks, silently.

I do not reply. Or, I can't really reply. My throat feels parched. I only stare at her, wide eyed.

"Do you know how you died?"

Loaded question.

"Do you know who you are?"

Seriously, what is with these questions? I flick my eyes down to my throat, or at least, in the general direction. Then, look back at the girl.

"... Right, you can't talk."

A pause. She then moves out of my line of sight and the gurney begins moving again. She pulls me through a set of double doors and we enter a dead office space, with black computer screens sitting on top of desks that remain perfectly in tact, despite not being used in who knows how long. A lot of the desks do not have chairs.

She pulls the gurney to one of these desks, one that is a bit farther out and near a expansive window display. I look towards it and see a city sprawled out before me. Office buildings dot the landscape and I can even see a murky river in the distance, glistening under the sun. A harsh reality begins to seep into my bones and I'm reminded that no one knows I'm dead. A living world outside of my reach continues on. I turn my attention back to the ceiling and try not to cry. I do not have tears to cry with.

The girl begins to slowly unbuckle the straps that hold me down, starting with my neck and working her way down. Once she finishes with my neck strap, I immediately suck in a deep breath, filling my lungs with musty air from both the mask and the outside. My throat hurts, still, but at least, this is progress. I slowly sit up as she unbuckles the other two straps and I feel my bones, everything, start to ache. One by one, I move my fingers as a way to give life to them until I can move them all together in a clawing motion.

I notice a skeletal pattern on my hands, inked in to show the individual bones and I touch it lightly. The tattoo itself travels up from my hands to my arms, ending just at my shoulder, where the tattoo shows more of a skeletal structure of my chest, something I realize as I peek down through the hospital gown I am wearing.

Weird. I can't remember if I've always had these tattoos. They seem important, though.

The girl has left me again. She'll be right back, getting some water or something.

She told me to look around the place, get used to my surroundings. But, I feel rooted in my place, the straps leaving a ghostly grip around my body. The ground feels so far away, too. I'm an astronaut untethered and looking out onto the Earth below, galaxies away yet still close in contact.

I don't think I could trust myself to walk. Instead, I pull my legs close to my chest and hum, staring off at nothing in particular.

The girl is back and she has water in her hand. It's inside of a cup and when she hands it to me, a shiver runs down my spine. I hold it two hands and take a single sip, testing out the liquid. Confident enough that the girl isn't trying to poison me or use this water as anything other than water, I take a heaving gulp.

The coldness of the water hugs my throat and I drink all of it, down to the last drop.

"You want some more water?" she asks, her arms crossed over.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. A haunting gasp greets her instead. I nod. She grabs the cup and she moves to a water machine ten or so steps away, and I watch her. She moves rather sluggish, almost as if she doesn't want to be tending to an alive corpse, and at the water fountain, she watches the water just as I do, mesmerized by the clear liquid filling up the cup rather quickly.

She returns and I begin to sip at the water, treasuring the liquid instead of swallowing it whole, like I did previously. She watches me carefully, making sure I was working properly. If water hadn't worked, what else would she have done? Clearly this could've been a set up of sorts.

"I should introduce myself," she says, now looking away from me with her back turned. She's turning on one of the computers and a bright blue screen greets her. White lettering covers the screen momentarily before flickering to black. The gentle hum of the computer fills the silent space around us.

"I am Lark Lore. And I am the one who killed you."

It takes a moment for this information to seep into my brain and it settles a bit of dread in my heart upon hearing that. Or, was it anger? I clear my throat to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, I shake my head, squinting at Lark. My grip on my water cup tightens and splotches of water stain the hospital gown.

She turns around and has the audacity to smile. "Not what you expected, huh? Me either. But, it was your fault, technically."

She begins typing at the computer, her fingers moving quicker than I can catch up. In a moment, white boxes fill the screen, but I can hardly tell what they say. She then turns back and walks over to me, her arms going back to being crossed, and that same smug smile is still on her face.

"Do you remember what happened two days ago, Tucker?"

Chapter Text

May 5th, 2020

Bobbin's Tackle and Flower Shop is a family owned business, I know the owners. Loving folks.

I go over there every Tuesday, just for the talk of the town and also to buy flowers for the local cemetery. No one really puts flowers on the forgotten gravestones, the ones with the names faded from the years of different storms. The wife, Annie Rose, suggests I use white tulips or roses. I know jackshit about what flowers mean, but I take her advice, and so every Tuesday, I get a bouquet of white tulips and roses.

My birthday is today, too. I didn't tell Annie Rose or her husband, Hubert. They're busy folk with a small business squished between a donut café and a now empty shoe store. The posters are still hung to the windows, but you can see the inside of it. A barren wasteland with a singular light still on, no matter the day. I remember it having shelves upon shelves of shoes, expensive things just for putting over your feet, and the lines that were circle around the block. Teens who wanted the new thing. I never understood it. Neither did Hubert or Annie Rose. They sold bait to the locals, half off advertisements plastered on their windows in round red and yellow lettering, and the flowers always brought new customers, their smell luring those from just across the street. You can even see the colorful bunches, pressing against the glass, longing for escape into the blinding, spring sun.

I arrive to the shop, pausing momentarily by the door. From inside, it seems as though Annie Rose and Hubert were talking to someone new. A stranger with long grey hair that was woven into a braid. They have it slung over their shoulder and they talk with their hands, waving and pointing. They both look interested. I push open the door and the bell rings, and everyone looks over at me.

"Tucker! Welcome, welcome," Annie Rose exclaims, standing up and excusing herself from the conversation. The stranger follows Annie Rose and then looks at me with piercing golden eyes. They smile a little, shoving their hands into their coat pockets, now focused on me, which frankly made me feel exposed under a stage light. I scowl at them before I'm scooped into a tight hug, pressed against Annie Rose's warm, teddy bear body and I smile sheepishly.

"I hope you've been doing well, sweetie," she says, squeezing me once more before setting me back on the ground. She smiles brightly and I feel at home, once again.

I smile back. "I've been doing better, yeah. Keeping up with work and all that."

"How's the pizza business going, kiddo?" Hubert asks from his seat. He is a bit built like a bull, shoulders always squared and arms crossed. I've seen him fight the locals at the bar, throwing some of the drunks through a window and into the street. They'd either scramble away like rats or come back to the fight, determined to win.

"Good enough," I reply. "But, you know how Jones is with staying over."

Hubert laughs. "You outta stop doing that, Tuck. You're going to work yourself to death."

"Well, I'm making less than minimum wage, so I reason staying over is actually worth it. Plus, freebies with pizza no one claims. It's a win win situation," I state. "That and how else am I going to afford my flowers? With pennies? I don't think so."

Annie Rose reaches over and rustles my hair, and I giggle, eyeing her. She then moves away, going over to the flowers and grabs my weekly order. The stranger is still staring at me and I meet their gaze, running my eyes over them.

I look over at Hubert. "Who's this guy?"

"Oh, this is -"

"Grey Byrd, at your service," they interrupt, announcing it as though I should know already. Their smug smile doesn't make it any better and I begin to grow annoyed.

"That sounds like a fakeass name. What're you doing here?"

Their eyebrows rise up and they appear offended, putting a hand to their chest. They look over at Hubert for help and he only raises his hands up. "Sorry Mx. Byrd. I've got some orders to deal with. Have a good rest of your days now," he replies, standing up and going into the back.

Grey scoffs and turns back to me. "I'll have you know my name is not fake. I picked it myself! And I recently opened an occult shop and I figured I would come by to meet the other shop owners."

I snort, crossing my arms. "Really now?"

"Yeah," they start, "and you are?"

"Tucker Mallory. Local menace and the only pizza deliveryperson in this town."

Their eyes widen, cartoonishly so, and then begins muttering to themselves. Before I could really ask what they were saying, Annie Rose comes back with my flower bundle, the red roses bleeding through the white tulips. I take the bundle carefully and offer my thanks, while Grey has sort of back away from the conversation. Worry covers their features steadily, those golden eyes becoming cloudy days that always threatened rain. They're not looking at me, either. The ground seems more appealing, I guess.

I pay for my flowers at the front, idling with Annie Rose, gossiping about Amber Saltsword and her family, how were they going to survive the summer when their house was out of AC? Or, Farmer Renard and his corn that would not grow? The little things that made me feel still involved with the stories of this small town and once I was done buying my flowers, I head to the front door but stop before heading out when I feel a hand on my shoulder. Turning around, I know it is Grey and they open their mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Or, at least, they're trying to talk, but something's stopping them. I don't care what it is, though, as I push through the door and walk backwards into the street, clutching my flowers.

Grey shouts something, but their words are too quiet as the world slips out from under my feet and I feel the impact of a truck hit my side. Hit doesn't really even cover how it feels. Maybe a punch is better. A strong enough force that sends me into blackness and I do not scream when it does happen. My body doesn't hurt. I'm falling and falling and falling into pitch emptiness, stretching my arms up to the sky with no stars. Blurry projections of my life play on a silver screen in my head, but I've turned the TV off and now, I'm tired. Too tired. I let the river currents carry me away to something better as my body is surrounded by concerned vultures with faces of townspeople who cared about me.

May 7th, 2020

It all comes back to me in little fragments. A shattered vase that I have to glue together and once it is done, I want to break the vase again. Smash it against a wall or something. Something hard.

It had been my fault.

Maybe Grey had been shouting to save me, but I was lost in my own world to really pay attention. That road was always busy during the afternoon, locals and visitors driving down to visit the small shops. I felt venom and cotton fill my mouth, gluing to my roof, and I take another gulp of my water.

Lark is near me now, patting my back, soothing me. But, it feels like pins and needles stabbing me over and over again, and I feel like swirling water going down a drain. I want to watch the water, though, to see where it travels. There is always an end. Not in my case, though.

"You still killed me", I spat, shaking from Lark's touch. "You did this to me. You ruined me.."

Lark only hums, pulling away and tilts her head to the side. "My brakes failed in that moment," she begins, "not sure why. I would've honked or something, but everything had happened too fast."

"What's your purpose with me? Why not leave the dead to be dead? Do I even know you?" I allow my questions to spew like a leaky faucet, spilling water everywhere.

"You don't, no. But, I know you. From a friend of a friend," Lark answers as she goes back to her computer, clicking at another white box. She begins typing, talking to someone behind the screen. "And well, the reason why I brought you here is because you're going to help me."

"Help you?" I ask, breathing a breath of exasperation. "I'm not helping the person who killed me."

"Oh, I didn't ask if you would. You are helping me. Whether you like it or not, Tucker."

"I could just leave."

"Yeah? And where would you go?"

I pause, gripping the thin needles that cover my legs as a blanket, and swallow down the tears that build in my throat. "I have... a home, right?"

Lark looks up from her computer screen and at me, raising an eyebrow. "I don't know, do you?"

"You should know! Don't you work at the morgue?"

"Yeah, but I don't have access to the files or whatever. I knew your name because they had it attached to your foot on a name tag," she answers plainly, resuming her typing.

I open and close my mouth, feeling a ball of white light burn bright in my chest and I grit my teeth together. I knew Annie Rose and Hubert missed me, but how would I explain coming back from the dead? They'd probably think I was a lunatic, bringing back the memory of someone close through an elaborate trick, or something similar to that. I missed them too. I just couldn't go back yet.

"... What is it you even need my help for?" I ask, resigning to my fate of being a nobody.

Lark snorts, now standing up and walking around me. "I have a bit of a side gig I do when I'm not working at the morgue. It is stable enough, but recently it's been dragging on. I have no new ideas," she explains, pausing in front of me. "That's where you come in."

Irritation seeps into my already tired bones as I frown. "Okay. And what is it you do then?"

"I hunt ghosts for a living and post videos about it, and you, Tucker, are exactly what I need to make a big hit on the internet!"

I can't tell if the room is shaking from an earthquake or this discovery is so earth shattering that my entire surroundings are crumbling before my eyes as realization sets in. "I'm sorry, but you mean to tell me you're going to use me for views? That's just not fair!"

"Oh, I know. Anything for the clicks, though."

"You're insane. You're not using me for any video dealing with coming back from the dead or ghosts. I don't even believe in them!"

She raises an eyebrow and squints at me. "You sure about that?"

"Yes!" I exclaim, desperately wanting to be anywhere else but here right now. "The dark hug of the Earth sounds more comforting than dealing with a spiritual influencer who swears that ghosts walk amongst us with grainy, unusable footage," I add, seething. "I'm not doing anything relating to that."

Lark's lips scrunch up and she strolls over to me, leans down, and pokes my chest twice with a sharp fingernail. "You can think I'm just that, but they exist. They're all around us and you've made them very angry by saying that."

I snort and roll my eyes. "Right, and what exactly are they going to do about that?" I felt a challenging presence in that room as I said that, hanging over Lark's shoulder and near where we came out from. A door left open to a dark hallway. Had it always been that dark? The lights had gone out one by one, leaving only a singular light fixture near the entrance. As the darkness swelled in color and mass, it became to shift and become humanoid. I'd like to blame the fact my eyes could've been playing tricks on me, something to do with my stress of this situation, but it continued to morph and shift until the humanoid shadow stepped forth slowly, almost tantalizing me with what it could be. It had no eyes, but I know it was looking right through me. Through every bit of being that I was, it knew who I was. And it wanted me.

My body feels too cold.

I've been dunked into ice water, drowning for who knows how long, and Lark is only staring at me, formatting what to say. I know she is right, though. I continue to stare at this ever-growing black mass so far behind us as Lark pulls away from me and moves to her computer again. As she does so, the humanoid figure seemingly dissipates and I blink, sucking in a breath I didn't know I was holding. Had she said something to me?

"A ghost can manipulate just about anything as long as it has it's sight on it," she answers, her voice faint and staticky. "I've seen cases of ghosts using people as puppets and throwing them onto others or using cars as a means to cause an accident." Lark then looks at me, frowning. "They will do anything in their power to make your life a living hell."

I suck in a deep breath and let those words wash over me. I've always been a sort of menace to the living. I cause problems because I enjoy the thrill of the attention. It is all I am ever good at.

I look over her shoulder again and the hallway is lit up.

"Fine. I'll help you. On one condition, though."

"And what's that?"

"You have to let me scare your viewers."

Lark squints. "How're you going to do that?"

I laugh, a bit too loud if I'm being honest, and then lean back down on my gurney, resting my hands behind my head. "Oh, leave that to me. I've got a plan."

Chapter Text

Lark's truck rumbles down the gravel road, low beams illuminating the path. 

There is nothing for miles, just us and the ever winding road before us. I don't know exactly where we are, but there are two cornfields are on either side of us with a thick tree line behind it. I stare out the window with my chin in my hand, counting each individual stalk. A number couldn't define the amount I saw, though. Even in the pitch darkness, I could only make out with what little light I was offered graciously from both the moon and the headlights. I reason, though, there is roughly 180. A big number. A round number. Perfect for the cornstalks that join us on our journey. 

Soon, I grow bored of guessing cornstalks and turn to face the road ahead of us. Staticky pop music plays from the busted radio, filling this shared silence with music I faintly remember hearing somewhere. Where had I heard it? The words ran through my body like track stars, finishing at my fingers, which drum along with the beat. 

"Where'd you say we're going again?" I ask, turning to look at Lark. 

She hasn't slept. 

Or, maybe she has. 

Her hair is messily tied into a ponytail and her lips are stuck in a frown, staring off into her own world. Does her world have the same gravely road as mine? She's changed her jacket to something lighter, something that doesn't allow the heat to stay inside, a light grey cardigan with her YouTube logo stitched on her breast. Speaking of heat, ever since I woke up, I kinda wish I was more thankful for how cool death feels. There was always a river under my body and it lead me along, covering my body in a cool embrace, and I floated along. And now, I'm awake. Sitting in a shitty Toyota Tacoma with poor AC. 

"Griffinfield's Asylum and Petitionary," she replies finally. She sucks in a deep breath as if jolting herself from the false reality that had been laid before her eyes. A gravely road was no longer a gravely road, but an ugly yellow brick road that lead to a crummy, dead house. 

"Right, and what's the importance of it? I know, I know, ghosts. Yeah. What else is there?"

She shrugs. "Just ghosts."

"Cool. So, how likely is it going to be we run into a guy who could kill us? A real guy, mind you."

Lark sighs. Her grip tightens on the steering wheel. "The place's been empty for years, Tucker. No one's in there."

I scoff, crossing my arms. "You say that now. But, if one of us gets stabbed with a needle or something like that, just know. I was right."

"I know self defense."

"Really? Are you going to try to get them to believe in ghosts? Or, are you going to spray holy water at them? Do you even have pepper spray?"

Suddenly, the truck jolts to a stop. I gasp and press my hands against the dashboard, turning to glare at Lark.

"Shut up," Lark hisses, not turning to look at me. 

"Why? Because you know I'm right?" I say, a bit of laugh forming in my throat. "Fine. Let's go to this totally safe, ghost infested building where there will be no threats. At all. And we'll see who is right." I lean back in my seat, waiting. 

The truck doesn't move. 

Finally, Lark sighs, turning to face me. "Maybe you're right. Maybe there is a guy in there who could kill us both, it's practically perfect bait for a double murder. There are long corridors, there are doors that open off the edge, and there are rooms that go on and on forever. Maybe you're right, but I need this, okay? I need ghosts. And I need you to help me."

I stare at her. I then reply, "there's really doors that just open off the edge? With no room?"

She nods. "Straight drop down."

I cackle loudly. "That's awesome! Now, see, if we do encounter this guy, we have an escape route! Which would result in a much humane death than being stabbed with a needle filled with unidentified liquid."

She snorts as the truck moves. "I'm not jumping out of a door 20 feet off the ground, Tucker."

"Why not? There's a technique to it, you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but I can only show you it when we come into that situation."

"If. If we do."

I wave my hand and put my hands behind my head, leaning back in the uncomfortable seat. "Right, right. How much longer?"

Along with the faint pop music playing, Lark's phone is mounted and on the screen is the path we are going down. Instead of gravel, it is a red line that curves and stretches up. I had mocked the GPS' voice earlier and it was then that Lark had silenced Evening Primrose, a nickname I had given the voice. 

"We're nearly there. 10 minutes."

I groan, closing my eyes. When I open them again, I stare back out into the corn. 

I know there's something out here. 

A bright, eyed being that is crunching the stalks under their feet. They do not have hands. The stalks bow down to this being. Waves of yellow become curtains for a show that this being puts on. Every night, they watch, waiting for some people like us. Unprepared. One wrong move and they'll latch onto us, seeping our very souls from our body and I'll get to experience death again. Would I mind dying again? Would it be the same feeling as before? 

Is it like coming back to family? 

I wonder if she would recognize me, just like the first time. 

I'm quickly snapped from my thoughts by Lark's hand on my shoulder and I jump. 

"We're here. You okay?" she asks, turning the truck off. Cricket sound filtered through the windows and I blink, trying to regain my senses. Static begins to swim around my body, covering my skin and I can't move. I can only look at Lark and over her shoulder, where just in the trees, I can see a white figure swaying from side to side, long knotty hair tied and hung over their shoulder. They know I'm looking. They meet my gaze and just from where I sit in the truck, I can see their eyes. A sickly orange. A warning. 

They move forward. 

"Tucker?" Lark asks again, shaking me. 

"Sorry," I reply, meeting her gaze and smiling weakly. "I must've dozed off or something."

She doesn't say anything to that, just looking me up and down before shrugging. "Right, well, let's get out of the truck and go set up. I need your help carrying in the cameras," Lark says, opening the door and jumping out. I almost want to stop her. 

The figure isn't out there.

I get out of the truck reluctantly. Despite how humid the air is, I shiver. I can feel someone watching me too. From the bushes. From the empty husk of a building before us. A forever empty coffin that houses entities and things beyond our imagination. I wondered if it looked homey in the daylight, the sunshine rays giving light to the front but everything else staying in the shadows. What lays in the shadows on a beautiful sunny day? Would we see it tonight? I knew the answer already, thinking about the strange figure from earlier, their orange eyes still burning in my brain. 

I follow after Lark into the building, huffing as I carry the 100 pound camera. Upon entering, I cough on the stale air, my lungs burning while Lark marches onwards, unaffected. Probably because she's done this for her whole life. As I gather my breath, my brain flashes mock photos of baby Lark entering a haunted house, proudly, with a camera around her neck and in the windows, I can see a ghost or two, children, smiling wide. But, baby Lark doesn't see them. She's proudly pointing to something just beyond the house, something cowering in the shadows.

"You coming Tucker?" 

I suck in another deep breath and my lungs no longer burn. 

"Yeah, no, don't mind me, I'm just dying for the second time over here," I reply jokingly, jogging over to Lark. She looks unimpressed. "What? It wouldn't have hurt to ask, 'hey, you doing okay?' or maybe a little warning with how ancient this place is?" I point out, scoffing as I move on. 

She rolls her eyes and matches my pace. "Well, I'm sorry. I thought you read over the document I sent you."

"Document? I didn't get a document."

Lark stops, squinting at me. "You forgot to read the script?"

I also stop and turn around slowly, appearing more and more guilty as I clutch the camera closer to my body. "I - well, no, I just... I kind of thought you'd do improv or something. Plus, I was busy."

"Busy doing what?"

"I was looking through Garfield comic strips for, like, a week straight. He got me to try lasagna for the first time and man, he's right. Monday's do suck and lasagna is all you ever need."

Lark groans, pinching her nose bridge. 

"Look, it'll be fine, Lark, don't worry! I'm great at improv, just let me lead the show and do my thang, mkay?"

Her eye twitches momentarily. "Fine. Just don't do anything stupid."

I cackle, my laugh echoing off the graffitied walls. "Unfortunately, stupid is my middle name."

Lark begins filming and things go off without a hitch. 

She and I sit in blue camp chairs, pointing towards minimum camera set up with a lone camera pointing at the two of us on a tripod. I look around, eyeing the cracks in the walls and the windows. Crickets aren't very active tonight, too. It is just me and Lark, and the empty air that surrounds us. I fiddle idly with a piece of string handling off my red flannel - something I grabbed from a Goodwill in town before this investigation even started. Not one soul knew who I was or what had happened as I bought my clothes there, they were waiting in a line just like I was. 

Lark sits perfectly straight next to me, folding her hands in her lap and looking at the camera as it clicks once, now filming the scene before it. I don't look at it. 

"Hey BooCrew! It's your girl, Lark, and I'm here with another investigation," she begins, waving to the camera. It is incredible how peculiar she is, sitting here as she begins to apologize for the lack in videos. "Recently, I've come across a bit of a runt, you could say! Nothing really felt new or interesting, and I figured taking a step back from the haunted world could clear my head and, well clearly, it did!" She laughs. 

What's so funny about that? 

"I'm also here with a special guest," Lark looks to me, a signal to introduce myself. I only wave to the camera. "This is Tucker Mallory! He is here to help me get more in tune with ghosts and everything that is related to them. Over the next few weeks, we will both be investigating different locations across the nation as a way to show that the dead live amongst us."

"I should preface," I speak up, leaning forward in my chair. "This ghost stuff? I don't believe in it. Lark only dragged me along because she's afraid of the dark. And that's the truth!"

"Afraid of the dark? Me?" she says, putting a hand to her chest in mock offense. "If only you knew the things we've seen in the dark."

I roll my eyes and cross my arms, leaning back in my chair. "Right. I can bet a dollar. Or, no, maybe fifty cents that it was just your mind playing tricks."

"You can believe that all you want," Lark begins, grabbing a manila folder that was under her seat and begins flipping through it. "When I tell you about this place, you'll think otherwise."

The rest of the segment, Lark begins explaining the rich history and tones this dead building has to offer. I sort of zone out, finding an interesting red and black beetle that crawls on the wall in front of us. I hardly had anything to add, anyway. At one point, Lark stops recording and suggests we start looking into some of the rooms nearby. 

We enter what was a small nursery, the remnants of childhood innocence still present as a lonely orange haired doll with green button eyes sits propped up on a shelf. On the floor, there are three balls of varying sizes and colors, I assume left there by previous ghost hunters as a means of reliving the first time they've played catch with their fathers. Or, maybe not. I can't get ahead of myself and think that the ghost hunters who left these balls had a good relationship with their fathers. Maybe they never really got the chance to play catch. 

In this room, too, there are worn and torn posters that feature different cartoonish animals that look sinister in the dark. 

I stand to the side, shoving my hands into my pockets and watching as Lark begins her own investigation, turning on a spirit box to communicate with the dead. After a few moments of ear piercing static, Lark speaks. 

"Hello, anyone out there?" she asks as the spirit box simply crackles and screeches. I scrunch up my nose and begin to walk outside of the room, somewhere where the static hadn't touched. She continues to speak, giving her name to the spirits if they so wished to speak to her. I honestly couldn't imagine being a spirit, attempting to communicate as the, what I believed, to be the equivalent of an alarm going off rings continuously in the room. Do they hate the noise too? Maybe they scatter, like feral cats in the city. Maybe they like the sound, masochistic entities that live on the thrill of nails on chalkboard. I couldn't care less. What the ghosts like or dislike is none of my business. 

I find myself in a room adjacent, similarly fashioned for children with books on a bookshelf and wooden tables with lonely writing utensils that lay in the center of the desolate center. On the far wall, there is a chalkboard with some words faded, written from past explorers like Lark. There is your general nonsensical gibberish, scribbled funny words such "a fish without it's eyes is just fsh" or someone simply writing their presence, a "Harlow Was Here". Among this, though, there were crudely drawn faces. Some were of animals, some were of what I presumed to be personal logos. Though, one in particularly caught my attention. 

It is of a face I had seen earlier. A figure with long knotty hair and orange eyes. 

The white chalk smears across their round face as their eyes, pinpricks against the blackboard, stare directly at me. I feel myself grow sick. The static from the neighboring room is no longer there, and I am instead greeted with a deafening silence. My stomach flips inside out and a numbness rolls over me, hugging me as if I was a lost child.

I turn around. "Lark?" I yell, my voice sounding small and fragile on my ears. I try to step forward, at least, distance myself from the chalkboard, but my feet are bound. Had Death missed me that much? I attempt to push back against the thickening dark that entangles my steps, but desperation doesn't aid in my escape. Instead, I turn to look at the nearby broken window and see, to my panic, a landscape of black.

The stars were no longer in their places. 

The moon had fallen back asleep. 

It makes sense, doesn't it? 

I am alone. 

I am always meant to be alone. 

Desperation cradles my head in hands that feel so welcoming, humming a song that lights my bones on fire, scorching the marrow and everything that made me me, and from this fire, I move on. 

In this room, there is something else.

A figure with orange pinpricks for eyes and they briefly watch me struggle, taunting me with their freedom. But, they move on. The whisps of grey follow closely behind, pronouncing each step with a foggy, black footprint. 

Lark is alone. 

Lark has always been alone during her investigations. 

My head has been thrown into a woodchipper as I stagger forward, slowly, hands reaching out to the ghostly figure. "Don't take her, please," is what I want to say but the words are still in my throat, a rock wedged between the flesh and spit, as I cry out instead. A familiar yet stranger tug strings me along and I'm freed momentarily from the inky trap, and I watch myself from above, each action out of my control as I leap forward and grab the specter between my hands. The inky black suffocates my nose and mouth and they screech, their own desperation clawing at my skin. 

"You're not welcome here," I say with a finality. My voice isn't my voice, though. 

Or, maybe it always has been. Deep. Threatening. I don't know.

I can't tell the difference now. 

The specter stills in my hands, seething. "You're not welcome here," they mock, reusing my words. 

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"Do you?"

I growl again, and squeeze the specter, attempting to compress the whisps of fog into a ball. Something, anything, intangible from what it was now. 

They laugh dryly, reaching their decaying hands to my face and squeeze, too, as a chill travels through my body and kisses my bones, extinguishing the fire. 

I feel my face cave under their touch but I am persistent, stumbling both me and the specter into a wall. Upon impact, the specter screeches loudly and a bookshelf shudders, books tumbling out of their residency. 

"You cannot harm her," I warn, digging my fingers into the specter's flesh. "Do you understand?" It is surprisingly easy to cut into the thin skin and what oozes from the new wound is not blood, but instead, opaque white rivets that trail down the specter's dark face. They only laugh. I dig even further like termites to wood. 

"There's more of us," the specter whispers, slacking now. "She will die. You cannot stop it." Another raspy laugh escapes. 

The white rivets dip onto the floor, forming a puddle, and eventually, the specter crumples, hands curled and raised. I step back as the puddle grows larger in size until the white ooze touches my shoe, and I'm suddenly aware of where I was. 

I run to Lark.

"Lark? Lark!" I cry out, running into the room. She is still there, looking up at me with her face bathed in a small candlelight as the spirit box still cries out. Never before have I missed the sounds of agony. 

"Tucker? What happened to you?"

I open my mouth and simply respond, "I think I encountered a ghost."

And as soon as I walk to her, to find something in the static, the familiar hug of the dark pulls me under.