Chapter Text
A van drives through the open gates and parks a few feet away from a man. The driver steps out and approaches the man, who seems to have a plain red umbrella hanging from his right arm and his left hand out. Going for the handshake, the driver adjusts, bending his back slightly to meet the much smaller man's eyes.
The man is considerably on the heavy side, with a set of tired eyes. His hair is dark brown, nearing black, and only really growing on the sides of his head. He sports a red business casual suit, more fitted for going out in. At least compared to the driver, who is in a much heavier, layered outfit. Seeing the weather, the driver will change his mind in due time.
"You're right on time, the man says. The driver has to remember to let go of his hand. The man is visibly put off, but he continues, nonetheless. "This base here has had a Ghost problem for years, Mr. Anselm, and I had to watch it get into such a state. It was only recently that my higher-ups allowed me to search for someone."
Anselm, the driver, looks up at the base. With the sheer size of it, he can only imagine what a business was going to do with it, with no other visible vehicles except for a worn-down campervan outside the garage. "I reckon you didn't hire me on accident, then."
The man chuckles, if only to lighten his mood. Anselm remains with his straight, serious face. The man clears his throat. "Well, yes, ehm. We—well, I—need you to clear the premises. With the locals making up stories about our dead employees wandering the town, causing havoc like they did, the company isn't being treated seriously here. We'd soon be beaten in the market by someone else. Maintaining a monopoly is no easy manner, you understand."
Anselm nods, not really understanding the man. It'd be better to get on with it.
"Good, good," the man says. He starts walking away. "Call me when you're done, Mr. Anselm! The company paid top dollar, and I must ensure that you can deliver!"
Anselm watches the man go into a car just outside the fence, next to the gates. He watches him take off like the Ghosts have come to chase him, until he's out of sight. Then he returns to his van, going through the doors in the back this time.
He takes in the foul-smelling air, ectoplasm and bleach and something else all mixed together. He's gotten used to the smell, thinking of how much of everything he's spilled over the years and the gallons of bleach he's used. Just yesterday, he was experimenting with some ectoplasm a passed Ghost left behind and spilled it when he was trying to mix it with potassium carbonate. The ectoplasm was so easy to clean off, but it's going to smell for years...
Anselm starts to sift through boxes on the counterspace, searching for a case. He finds it behind a cardboard box full of broken beakers he's been meaning to dispose of. The case itself has a silver sheen, specially designed to be near unbreakable, and keep the contents within safe for years. On the top, the logo and business name "Ghost Specialists Inc." etched onto it. Two black locks on the side keeps the case together, other than the hinges. He takes the case into his hands and, with his thumbs, flips up the two locks. He puts the case down and lifts up the top, revealing a much smaller case. This second case is just about the same as the bigger one, but it's smaller and only has Ghost Specialists Inc.'s logo on the top. A sharp-edged eye with three meticulously shaped tears inside it stares back at Anselm.
With shaking breath, he places the case in the pouch on his belt and continues to the mirror.
Ansem overall to quite a grim looking man. His white skin pale from his lack of time in light, his shaven face thin from the nights he didn't eat, his gray eyes tired from the nights he didn't sleep. From the exposure to the ones between pulse and pulseless, his skin has started to gray on his hands. Though those hands are riddled with gray patches and spots because of his constant handling of the ectoplasm, rather than his body being influenced by the unliving. He is, to his knowledge, far off from that, age-wise. His hair is black straight through, except for some strands of gray that were caused by his job. A small cluster of black hair remains on his forehead, refusing to move anywhere else to allow him to have a cleaner look. He's grown to care more about any stray strands, however.
His outfit consists of a dark gray turtleneck, a lighter gray labcoat, puffy parts matching his turtleneck, and a pair of boots also matching his turtleneck. There are other details about him, such as his numerous pockets and black belt wrapped around his labcoat. He could be described as a monotone man, created from a black and white film instead of flesh and bone. Perhaps, should one be creative, Anselm was created from Frankenstein or Night of the Living Dead. Both of which he has watched in his free time with his portable television.
Anselm touches up, trying his best effort to appear presentable. If the regulations were never put into place, he'd probably do the same amount of preening and poring, considering he's a constant guest in someone's home. Acting the opposite of a door-to-door salesman. Someone must call for his help, someone must need his help. The only similarity is he must talk someone into something. The most feared thing. Someone's existence must end when he is no longer a guest.
The thought always raises the hairs on his neck; it always turns his blood cold. One would consider him a murderer, ending lives as he does for a living.
Before Anselm leaves, he grabs another box. He pulls it out of its regular spot, his face unsure as his hands force open the top. He pulls out a gray, metal box, with red tubing connected to a device resembling a futuristic cannon. The parts were welded together, with straight lines and screwed-in bolts. The object did something else before—Anselm knows that. He is unsure whether he created it—his shaking hands always say otherwise. The true mystery is what a mostly perfect contraption was doing with him in the beginning. He shakes his head.
After having made sure the pack wouldn't fall off and everything is in place, his boots make contact with the sand-dusted pavement again.
This place, what was described in the man's crude illustrations of the blueprints, is really the last place Anselm would have expected to have Ghosts living in it. Long halls, numerous rooms, large spaces... That is perfect territory for the Mourning and the Angered, not Ghosts. He guesses Ghosts could live in those spaces too, but the towering building before him, built in the middle of a desert, still quite far from its closest town, would make them hungry. So far from human connection, miles apart, nobody with a heartbeat having lived with them in years.
Anselm wouldn't blame those souls, for everything they've went through.
Anselm opens the door, a wave of this new feeling drowning him. He stares into the dark hall, forcing upon himself the thought of how unprepared he could be. What dangers lie ahead. Angered or Ghost, he has to deal with this. He wouldn't lose much, yes, but he should make a point. This company, since the beginning, has been his life. He owes so much. It must be taken seriously.
One boot after the other, further and further down this singular hall he goes. He dares not risk turning on his lighter. Closer to the kitchen, pots and pans can be heard clambering around, hands grabbing and letting go of them, busying themselves. Closer, he hears water running. Until his eyes lay on the room, he thought it somewhere in his mind that it was reality. The faucet is dusty, like everything else. Painted clay hens lay around the kitchen, like they made a coop, also caked in dust. A ceramic rooster made its home on the counter, watching over the gas stove. A spider's web was made in view, the spider nowhere to be seen. The walls and cabinets are wooden, something of a plain style. Charred marks cover the wall behind the stove, yet it looks like those belong perfectly.
The man goes one door down the hall, immediately finding the connected dining room. The dining room is the opposite of the kitchen, at least to the visitor. Gray concrete is all the walls are, a closed wooden door being the only semblance of a domestic setting. The two tables and nine chairs are all cold metal. Likely leftovers from a war fought in New Mexico.
Now that Anselm really thought about it, what would a weapons company need with a military base? There's the obvious, but an entire base? And why would they decorate the kitchen? He assumed these employees worked on testing and shipment; they couldn't possibly have spent their lives living here!
He continues on, the thought gnawing like a moth on clothes. And the idea only seems to be more confirmed.
A room with a red sign above it is labelled "REC ROOM" in large white letters. A majority of the activities Anselm could think of is here. Hell, there's even a piano in the corner! On the coffee table, coffee mugs surround an unfinished chess game. Two bookshelves in the back are stuffed full of all these different books. Children's books, Russian literature, medical textbooks, even a few in French; all of them have whites on their spines, except for the textbooks. He finds a book titled "The Art of War" on the floor, flipped open to a page near the end, as if it's waiting for someone to come back and finish reading it. A mirror has been hung up on the wall, a thin layer of dust not stopping him from seeing a reflection. He doesn't touch it. He stares at the mirror, looking at the corners of the room and every part of his surroundings, except himself. When he returns to his reflection, he finds a gas mask behind his shoulder. The eyes are peaking out, seemingly nothing behind those goggles. No skin, no face.
Anselm turns around, his heart pacing. He can feel the blood rush through his body. His pale face only loses a little less color. His eyes are wide. He forgets to push up his small glasses, if only to prove what he saw.
But there is nothing.
He takes a handkerchief out of his breast pocket. His glasses, now in his hands, are like clean, circular windows, freshly washed after a week of all those eyes looking through them. But he cleans them again, fearing that dust has dirtied them. Back on his face, he still sees nothing. No gas mask. No body. It's only him.
He walks out the rec room, mouth open. He can see his breath in form of disturbed dust. What he can see, anyway. The hallways are all silhouettes. The doors are barely highlighted by the few windows littered around the place. It's barely enough. And it only gets darker.
Further into the building, a new room calls to him. A large pair of white metal doors, with windows peering into a room he can't see. Above the doors, there is another sign with the word "INFIRMARY" on it. The doors are quite plain—except for the silver handles. He reaches out to one of the handles, his mind lulled into the thought of entering. When he touches the silver, however, a sound echoes off the walls.
A scream.
Anselm's hands lay flat on the sides of his head. His eyes screw shut. Vibrations roam up his body, raising every tiny hair and conjuring gooseflesh. The vibrations stay in his skull. The leftover of a sound of pure fear—or anger.
He forces everything into motion. His eyes open, his eyelids showing more than before. His arms unlock, one hand burning as it's forced against the wall. His legs clamber at first, before his mind remembers how to put them one in front of the other. The cold air bats Anselm in the face, and he feels like it's hard to breathe despite knowing, feeling, that air is moving in and out of his nose.
His hand eventually finds air, and he ducks right. He pulls a door, finding force on the opposite side until it clicks. His back against the door, his body lowers, lowers, lowers, until he's on the cold tile floor.
The new room is full yet empty; it is completely decorated like a meeting room, but it looks so superficial. The large circular table in the middle holds ten chairs, one of those said chairs in more disuse than the others. In the middle of the table, a broken projector lays there. The reels that are already in it are littered with cobwebs.
Anselm stands up, breathing deeply. This room is warmer than the halls, as if he's gone to a completely different building altogether. He walks around the table, looking in marvel at the older modernity. He stops, taking note.
The chairs are each in equal distance from the table.
Except for one.
This chair has seen slightly more use than the others. It's still dusty but has obviously been given more attention. There are no scratches or dents in it. It's noticeably farther from the table, until Anselm laid eyes on it.
Almost like it's surprised, the chair quickly drags itself into place. The smell of cigarette smoke becomes more apparent, until it's hitting Anselm like a fist to the nose.
A person slowly takes form in front of the man. Tired eyes look back at his, probably even more tired than his. A face, sunken in, hidden behind a balaclava. An unamused mouth following soon after. A thin body takes shape before him, too. A suit Anselm has only seen the wealthy wear is sported, a two-piece with a tie and jacket to match. Gloves cover a pair of hands, and dress shoes shine. The smell is overwhelming, a full-on war, Anselm's lungs feeling like they've breathed in pepper seasoning.
The Ghost looks up and down, analyzing the man. He meets Anselm's eyes after merely a few seconds.
"I am glad you have made it, Anselm," the Ghost says.