Chapter Text
Ever since Chris the stripper crashed into the ceiling of Mahesh, Sam had trouble sleeping at night. Though it would be more accurate to say that ever since she crashed into the floor at the bottom of her staircase, she had trouble sleeping at night. In a literal sense, because of the noise that she heard from the ghosts, and figuratively because wherever she went, she saw dead people.
She couldn't go anywhere. Hospitals, roadways, large bodies of water. Every building she entered ran the risk of being home to some insane asylum filled with unethically murdered patients, or the site of 19th-century hangings of the violently criminal, or the place where a pit of cholera victims met their unfortunate end. It was only subtly calmer in the small town she lived in, only minimally less spirits to trifle with. Minimally less reasons to lie awake at night.
No one ever considered the toll it took on her. Jay did. He rubbed her back and told her that everything was going to turn out fine, even though they both knew it wasn't. It seemed to her that four years ago, it was the other way around. But other than her husband, it didn't seem like anybody realized the strain. There had been times, yes, where she sipped chai with Bela and tried to reach out. She'd touch her arm and try to give her a look, that look, any look, but Bela simply went on about whatever else it was that was bothering her that week. Something Eric said, or something that happened on her shows. It was no use.
She couldn't always confide in Jay. As his wife, it was her job to be honest with him about everything, but if he were to really know how upset it made her sometimes, how upset it made him sometimes, the conversation almost felt like the one they had four years ago. That conversation about whether or not this was a good idea. And more and more she could feel Jay more unhappy. Mahesh was going well except the cholera outbreak and the mob occupation and the stripper crashing through the ceiling. But ever since he was pulled out of his body in an exorcism, Jay hadn't quite been the same. Something had changed. Sure, he was happy to have met the ghosts, to know that Pete had gotten to see his daughter, but still yet something had changed.
After Chris the Stripper died, she didn't even know his last name, Sam had been thinking a lot about fate. There seemed to be something following Woodstone mansion, maybe following her family, definitely following her business. And she wondered if it was all really worth it. Every day she struggled, and for what? Dead men in her husband's restaurant? Every day they struggled for money, the book never really helped like she thought, the money she got out of Ari Cantor for that watch long gone. They had to fix the hole in the roof. They had to pay Mark to fix the hole in the roof. They had to pay Mark. And Gabe. And Amanda. And Cobra. And Neel. And Bela. Everything was expensive now.
Trevor had a fucking job. And what was he doing for Woodstone?
So how many times would she have to pay the price? How many chandeliers were going to break? What if one day one falls on someone's head? The worst part of it was that the guilt doesn't go away when the body's gone. There's somebody left behind to remind her.
At least Chris left. At least that's what Isaac said. She wasn't sure what she believed anymore. She wasn't sure why she believed the ghosts about anything.
She loved them, they did. They were her family. She didn't want to give it up. But after all the bodies she had to see taken away, what happens when it's her? When it's Jay?
There were times when she thought she could raise a child here. She had no time to think about a family, but it wasn't out of the question. But how could she bring a child into a cursed B&B? Was that cruelty?
Not long ago, at Christmas after everything, Champa had asked Sam in earnesty about what Sam thought of her future. Of whether her and Jay were planning on having a baby. In some sick selfishness Sam almost thought to say, well of course we will. Some day. We want to keep the house in the family, after all. Haha. But instead she said she'd like to, but she was nervous. And she left it at that.
And so that night, months later, not so long after that stripper, she thought a lot about curses. About Thorfinn, and what he said all those years ago. And she thought a lot about boiling cinnamon and sugar.
Earlier that day, something had happened. Something that was a small item in the laundry list of accidents. A tree fell near the forest while her and Jay were trying to find some… something, for one of the ghosts. It had been far too close for comfort. Just a tree, a few feet from them. Mark had said it had been swaying for awhile and they should probably cut it down, but after the last incident Sam was sure that every tree on the property had a story. She didn't dare repeat what happened. So she let it fall. And it nearly fell right on top of them.
How much more was she willing to take?
But she couldn't lose the ghosts. And worse, they couldn't lose her. They just couldn't.
Could they?
That was a bad thought.
Sam lay face upwards in her dark bedroom. Jay was sleeping. It was a good thing Jay was sleeping, because he would probably convince her not to do what she was about to do.
Sam slipped out of bed quietly, feet slipped into her slippers for comfort against the cold hardwood flooring, and to disguise her footsteps.
It had gone too far. Everything had gone too far. What would happen if another person died in her house? What would happen if next time it was her fault?
So she had to stop it. She had to end the curse, once and for all.
It was quiet in the kitchen, the ghosts were sleeping. And so she gathered up the big jar of cinnamon, the big jar of sugar, and set them on the counter, and put on a pot to boil.
This was ridiculous. There was no such thing as a Viking curse, was there? It seemed absurd, unrealistic, and frankly kind of racist, to believe there was. But Sam was at her wit's end here, she'd believe in anything if it meant nobody else would get hurt.
As she sat back and waited for the water to boil, she was startled by a voice.
“Sam?”
“Ah!” She jumped a bit, and stepped back. When she turned her head, she realized it was Pete, there in the dark of the kitchen. “Pete… what are you doing up?”
“I guess I could say the same about you, couldn't I?” He laughed a little, though it felt somewhat hollow. “But I usually just uh, like to make the rounds, y'know? Late night walk. Really take in the place.”
“You can't sleep.”
Pete looked down slightly, a bit of shame in his voice, “The old arrow makes it impossible to sleep on my side, and that darn sleep apnea…”
Sam's expression softened, sympathetically. She had done everything she could to make things easier for him. But nothing worked. She felt terribly guilty that his manner of death made him suffer, she was a people pleaser, what could she do? “I guess I can't sleep either tonight. Do you… want to sit with me?”
Pete nodded, and Sam pulled out a chair at the table so he could sit.
“What's got you up tonight?” Pete asked. “You look awfully down in the dumps.” There was something fatherly about how she spoke to her sometimes, she couldn't help but feel comforted by his presence. To think she was planning on risking getting rid of this. To think she was planning on letting him suffer in silence.
“I just feel like…” How could she put this in a way that wouldn't tip him off or worry him? “I'm just lost right now, Pete. In front of me there's this huge decision that I don't know which the right option is. If I do it, it's a big step in my life, and I'm not sure if I'm ready for it. Ready to potentially change everything. But… if I don't, I might regret it for the rest of my life.”
She couldn't tell what that expression was, the way his eyes widened just a bit, the way his eyes darted behind him like he was worried someone was watching. Pete leaned in a little closer, his voice a little more hushed.
“Well, Sam… I think that while it might seem like this big impossible thing, it really won't be all that bad. I think that if you really think this is right for you and Jay, you should go for it. I'd support you, I'll support you in anything you do. Except murder. And maybe like… being really mean.”
Sam felt really mean. “You really think this is a good idea? What if it backfires, what if it happens and I hate my new life?”
“Well, you've got Jay to help you. Every step of the way. You guys can do this on your own. I know you can.”
And maybe it was true that Pete did not think Sam was talking about what she actually was, but Sam did not know that. Sam could not have known with such conveniently vaguely optimistic words that Pete was encouraging her to do something completely different. But Pete's words, as they often did, because she genuinely trusted him, sent her over that edge. She knew what she had to do.
“Thank you, Pete. You've always been a good friend.”
And Pete smiled, completely oblivious to what he had just done, “That's what I'm here for. A Pinecone Trooper always helps a friend in need.”
Sam's eyes were misty, but she smiled. “I wish I could hug you.”
“Well, we can always do a little air hug.”
Sam nodded, and they got up, and she motioned to air hug Pete, careful not to touch him. “Thank you. You really gave me the courage to actually do this.”
“Well, I'm happy to help!”
“...You should try to get some sleep.” She worried about him sometimes.
“I'll try. You should too.”
“I'll try.”
And Pete headed for the door. Sam realized that there was a chance she might not ever see that face again, so just before she left, she said, “Goodbye, Pete.”
And Pete's face twisted in confusion, though she did not see it, as he left. “Goodnight, Sam.” Maybe he should have stopped her.
As soon as she was gone she approached the stove, took a deep breath, and took the pound of sugar and the cinnamon and dumped it in the pot. Thor had told her a lot time ago the words she had to say, and so she said them, and she watched as the spices swirled together in the water.
She had no way of knowing if it had worked. If she still had the ability to see ghosts. But she was tired. And she leaned against the counter for just a moment…
And her eyes opened.
She stared blankly for a moment, confusion reading on her face as she looked around. This was not her kitchen. This was not Woodstone. She saw a stark, white, minimal kitchen, everything was shiny and modern and sleek. The walls sad beige. Subdued wall art. No dust in sight.
“Oh my God!” Sam exclaimed, searching through the kitchen, to the living room, it was open concept. This felt like a fancy New York apartment. She saw a phone on the coffee table. Her phone. And she picked it up, catching a glimpse of her redlection. Her hair was done up in a way she only did at dinner parties, she brushed her fingers over her lips - red lipstick.
She pressed the button. It was morning the next day. Immediately she searched her contacts. Jay, Jay, Jay…
Ring, ring, ring…
Click.
“Jay? Where are you? I think-”
“Sam, I told you to stop calling me. Can you please just respect that? It's like seven AM anyway, I really don't want to be up yet.”
“What? Jay, why can't I call you? Where are you? Are you at the house?”
“I'm gonna hang up now, okay? You've really got to let this go.”
Click.
Sam lowered her phone, and slowly approached the huge window in the living room, and looked out to see high rises, a sea of skyscrapers, and water in the distance.
The New York City skyline.
She was in NYC.
What happened last night?