Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Okay, let’s go through it one more time, from the top. Sass?” Sam suggested as she directed her gaze towards the left side of Woodstone Manor’s main entrance, where said ghost was currently standing.

To which he made a big show of rolling his eyes before crossing his arms, and speaking in a flat voice. “I’ll be waiting out on the front porch until I see them pull up, at which point, I’ll let you know that they’re here.”

“Perfect! Jay?”

The professional chef/B&B co-proprietor/first-time restaurant owner, who was now positioned parallel to the young Lenape on the right, managed to do a better job at keeping his eyeballs stationary and his tone somewhat peppy, if only to avoid getting lambasted for it later. “As soon as Sass tells you that they’re here, I’ll make my way back to this spot and wait for them to knock before putting on a smile, and casually opening the door while saying, ‘Welcome to Woodstone!’” He made a grand sweeping gesture with his arms as he said that last part.

“Wonderful!” she beamed. “And then I will take care of the rest once they get inside. Good job, you two!”

Sassapis just rolled his eyes a second time in response.

“Thanks, Babe. Now, if nobody minds, I have a beef Wellington to get back to,” Jay said both to his wife, and to any other spectres who were more likely than not somewhere around nearby, before making his way back to the kitchen.

“Good morning, ladies! Oh, and Sass,” Pete declared cheerfully as both he and Isaac entered the foyer at that moment, and proceeded to join Hetty and Alberta, who were standing near the threshold to the main floor living room watching this all go down. “What’s going on here?”

“Sam and Jay are rehearsing how they’re gonna greet their first guests this week,” Alberta replied.

“Wait, what? Guests? I didn’t know we still got those!” Issac jibed.

“I know, right?” the lady of the house joined in, fully aware that her four times great-grandniece could hear it all from behind the reception desk just a few feet away.

“Hold on a minute,” Pete then spoke up, effectively bringing the hoopla to a halt. “Guests on a Tuesday? Most people usually can’t afford to come all the way up here until the weekend. Who are these weekday rebels?”

“I don’t know, but they don’t deserve an entire welcoming ceremony, if you ask me,” Sassapis answered, reminding everyone of his presence.

“Then why are you helping to pull it off?” the lounge singer catechized. 

“Because Sam promised me an hour of private TV time if I did.”

“Speaking of which, Sass…” the other B&B co-proprietor/freelance journalist/amateur author gently interjected as she gestured her head in his direction. Or, more specifically, in the direction of the door behind him.

“Whatever. Later,” was all the second oldest Woodstone spirit said in return as he rolled his eyes for a third time, turned around, and phased through the closed egress.

“No, seriously Sam, who are these people going away to a Bed and Breakfast in the middle of the week?” the part-time Scout leader repeated his initial question as he and the others approached the desk.

“Well, if you must know,” she began as she clasped her hands and smiled dreamily. “It’s a married couple who are gonna be staying here until Thursday to celebrate their fifteenth wedding anniversary together! And, get this; he intentionally chose those days when he made the reservations two weeks ago, to ensure that both he and his sweetheart would have the place all to themselves!”

Alberta was the first to speak after a beat of silence passed over them. “Okay, I’ll admit it, that’s actually pretty adorable.”

“Ooooh! And just who is this distinguished gentleman?” Pete added as he leaned suavely against the desk.

Sam checked the check-in log. “He only gave me his last name: Mister…Schlumberger.” 

And with that, Alberta burst out into a fit of hysterical cackling. “‘Schlumberger?!’ And I thought ‘Higgintoot’ was a stupid name!”

“Um, I prefer the term, ‘clinically under-appreciated,’ thank you very much,” the Continental Army Captain said nonchalantly, pretending not to be hurt by the Prohibition-era performer’s affront, however true it might have been.

“Well, I, for one, can’t wait to meet this Schlumberger fella, no matter how silly his surname may be!”

“You won’t have to; they’re here,” Sassapis responded to Pete’s remark as he phased back through the door at that exact juncture.

“Oh, Jay! Jay, it’s time!” Sam called.

“Alright, alright, I’m here,” he assured out loud as he made his way into the foyer, cleared his throat, straightened the shirt his spouse had picked out for him, and waited for the knocks. When they came, he slicked his hair back, took a deep breath, and pulled the door open. “Welcome to Woods—!”

“Wow, what friendly service! I feel like a king already!” the man commented in amazement before letting himself into the almost two hundred-year-old mansion. The man standing all by himself on the front porch, hence why Jay’s greeting died halfway through on his tongue; something the man did not acknowledge as he strolled up to the reception desk.

He was White, middle-aged, and about three feet taller than Jay. He had short, styled ash-coloured hair, a couple of wrinkles on his stubbly face, and a bit of a pot belly. He was wearing navy blue straight fit jeans, a long-sleeved baby blue cotton shirt, and stunningly clean tan hiking boots. Topped off with a matching tan leather belt, an expensive-looking watch on his left wrist, and a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from the V-neck of his shirt.

“Good morning!” Sam politely recited her welcome with a smile to match, graciously picking up the ball that her husband had inadvertently dropped. “Mister Schlumberger, if I’m correct?”

“Oh please, call me Pete,” he chuckled.

The full-time travel agent gasped in excitement. “A distinguished gentleman who shares strong marital fealty and a first name with me? What are the chances???”

“So sorry we’re late, but the muffler was acting up again,” he went on as he checked his watch. “Took me a good ten minutes to tune it up and get it working again; otherwise, we would’ve gotten here on time, for sure.”

“And he’s a handyman who values punctuality! Good Lordy, if I still had blood pressure, it’d be skyrocketing right now!”

“Well, I can assure you it’s no problem at all, Mr. Schlu—um, Pete,” Sam replied as she glanced at the time on her phone. 10:22 AM. Their scheduled check-in time was 10 AM. “You and your wife are still our only guests for the time that you’re here, so you’ve got our complete and undivided attention for the next three days.”

“Whether you like it or not,” Hetty retorted, with the other ghosts except Pete snickering in agreement, knowing just how…much her last direct descendant could be with guests at times.

She ignored them regardless. “Speaking of which, where is your wife?”

“Luggage alert!”

Upon hearing that announcement, everybody, both living and dead, turned towards the entrance to see Jay coming in with two large suitcases, one black and one red, that both looked rather heavy, based on how much he was struggling to get them up the couple of front steps. And right behind him was a woman holding two medium-sized carryon bags in colours matching their respective wheeled counterparts. She was White, a little taller than Sam, and noticeably skinny. She had long, dull brown hair with several streaks of grey in it, and looked to be at least a decade older than her husband. And everything she was wearing was black; black turtleneck pullover, black bootcut jeans, black sneakers, black wide-brimmed sunhat, large black cat eye sunglasses; not exactly the outfit one would expect someone to have on in late May. Even her purse was completely black.

“Oh, Crimmy Dear, I told you I was just gonna get us checked in quickly! You didn’t have to do this without me,” Pete the guest said as he rushed over to his wife to take the bags from her hands, set them down by the suitcases, and wrap an arm around her waist. “Well, no better time then now to introduce my better half, Rebecca. She’s the woman I’ve dedicated the last fifteen years of my life to.”

Jay decided to take that opportunity to shake their hands, starting with hers. “Well, it’s a pleasure to—”

Only for her to flinch and take a half-step back from his outstretched arm, before wordlessly hanging her head in shame.

“Oh, um, you’re going to have to excuse Crimmy here, she’s a little shy around new people,” living Pete explained apologetically to fill the pin-drop silence that had suddenly befallen the manor lobby.

“Um, ‘Crimmy?’” Sam questioned as she came around from behind the reception desk.

“Oh, that’s my little pet name for her. Her favourite colour is crimson, hence the luggage.” 

“Oh, that’s nice,” she answered as she tried to make eye contact with Rebecca to get some sort of confirmation from her, but all she got instead was a split-second glance from behind her sunglasses that she still had not taken off yet for some reason, before her spouse spoke up again.

“Anyway, if you two don’t mind, we’ve been on the road since the crack of dawn, and would really like to get settled in now.”

The amateur medium hesitated for a beat before remembering her job. “Oh, of course. Just follow me upstairs to your room.”

And with that, she began to lead the couple up to the second floor while telling them all about Woodstone B&B’s services and rules for bedtime and meals, leaving Jay to deal with their luggage.

“Oh no, it’s cool, you guys, I can handle the bags all by myself, thanks for asking,” he muttered under his breath as he nestled one carryon strap in each of his arm crooks, grabbed a suitcase handle in each hand, and proceeded to make his own way up the stairs, one single, plodding step at a time.

“Wow, I bet that if you looked up the word ‘husband’ in the dictionary, his face would be there,” Alberta said with stars in her eyes as she watched Pete the guest ascend the staircase, still holding onto Rebecca’s torso.

“You think he’s a husband, you just witnessed a real wife right there,” Hetty pointed out with a hint of pride. “Does what he wants without him having to ask, and lets him speak uninterrupted!” It was not until a couple seconds of silence had passed that she finally noticed three of the other four ghosts staring at her with a mix of confusion, shock, and offence. “What?”

“Okay, I’m calling it right now: they’re not gonna make it past the second day before they get bored outta their minds and leave early. What do you think, Pete? Pete?”

The arrow-impaled spirit did not hear Sassapis’ prediction as he continued to gawk at the couple. Or, more specifically—

“Pete, are you alright?”

Only when they disappeared from view on the main floor did he finally snap out of his trance. “Huh, w-w-what?” he sputtered before whipping his head around to see who had addressed him. It was Isaac, with a look of grave concern etched into his countenance. “What’s wrong?”

“You went real quiet halfway through the check-in process all of a sudden. Which, normally I wouldn’t complain about, but…you look like you’ve just seen a ghost. No pun intended, of course.”

After seeing the same worried expression on the remaining three faces looking back at him, Pete took a moment to think about how to best respond to that as he directed his gaze back to the stairs. “There’s something about that woman that looks…familiar.”

“Familiar, how?” Hetty inquired.

“Like…like I’ve seen her before.”

“During your afterlife or life-life?” Alberta followed up.

“I…I don’t know.”

Sassapis spoke next. “Okay, well, think: did you ever personally know a Rebecca who was a fan of the colour crimson?”

“I…can’t…say. And before any of you say it, no, this isn’t another senior moment like when I thought I pretend-married Laura with lilies instead of orchids; I know the answer’s there somewhere, but it’s just…not coming to me.”

Sensing that Pete was now starting to get genuinely frustrated, Issac offered his two cents. 

“Well, trying to force it out isn’t going to do you any good. I suggest you just give it some time, and let it come to you naturally. Oh, and engage in some good old-fashioned ghostly eavesdropping on our new guests; that should help jog that old memory of yours.”

As much as Pete wanted nothing more than to know exactly who that woman was right now, he also knew deep down that the gay military man was right. “Yeah…yeah, that makes sense. Thanks, Issac,” he eventually replied, hoping that it at least would not take too long for him to get his answer.

Chapter Text

“Ha, see that? Clarissa say it’s a date, but Brian not agree. That mean it is date.”

“Okay, Thor. I know how these movies work by now, thank you,” Trevor said, trying not to sound annoyed, lest he want to accidentally anger the Viking.

“Wow, she is not going easy on him, is she?” Flower observed.

“Obviously. That’s why the movie is called, Whether You Love Me or Not.”

“Thor still think Brian will be first to share backstory on why he not want to love Clarissa.”

“I don’t know. I have my hopes that she’ll come through in all her hot, brunette glory.”

“How about Pete? Does he think Thor or Trevor is right?”

It took the fatally neck-wounded ghost a good moment to register that he was being spoken to, at which point, he ripped his empty gaze away from the Hallmark movie that was playing on TV, and turned to address the other ghosts sitting on the couch with him. “Huh? Oh sure, yeah, that-that’s alright with me.”

Both the oldest and third-youngest Woodstone spirits looked at each other before coming to a silent agreement, resulting in the latter muting the television for the time being.

“You’re not still thinking about Rebecca, are you?”

“Yes. I mean, no, I…” All it took was one reluctant glance at the Norwegian pillager, Jewish stockbroker, and even the polyamorous hippie for Pete to realize that they were not going to drop this until he answered them. As much as he loved his dead companions dearly, sometimes even he did not appreciate just how fast news and gossip could travel within the mansion. “There’s just…something about her that rings a bell with me, and it bugs me that I can’t put my finger on it, no matter how hard I think. It’s like having an itch you can’t scratch.”

“Then why Pete not just go eavesdrop on her in room?” Thor suggested.

“They just got here an hour ago; I don’t wanna invade their privacy. Yes, I know they can’t see or hear me, but that’s no excuse to be rude, now is it?”

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with forgetting things, Pete,” Flower remarked. “Look at me; I forget things all the time, like…wait, is the TV broken? There’s no sound coming from it.”

“Just be patient, Pete,” the pants-less spectre said sincerely. “Sometimes, all it takes is a certain word or facial expression or article of clothing to trigger a memory. I’m sure yours will come sooner rather than later.”

Upon hearing him say that, Pete actually felt a little less anxious. “Yeah…yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Trevor. You know, it’s time like this that make being a ghost particularly hard; just waiting around for the right time to come to you instead of you going to it. You feel so helpless. I just hope I won’t have to wait that long, you know what I mean?”

“Hey, Pete!” Issac suddenly called as he and Hetty appeared in the doorway to the television room. “We thought you’d like to know that Rebecca and her husband are about to drive into town to do some sightseeing.”

“Wait, what? I thought they said they were tired from driving all morning.”

“Well, I guess they changed their minds. They’re downstairs asking Sam about some ‘interesting local hotspots’ right now.”

“Ha, ‘interesting,’” Hetty scoffed. “Please, there hasn’t been anything interesting around here since that orphanage turned child circus was forced to close its doors in 1869. Who’d’ve thought that giving a bunch of six to ten-year-olds knives and flaming batons to juggle would end in disaster?” It was not until a couple seconds of silence had passed that she finally noticed four of the other five ghosts staring at her with a mix of horror, shock, and disgust. “What?”

“Cheese and crackers, this is it!” Pete exclaimed as he stood up, completely oblivious to the lady of the manor’s casual mention of child endangerment and abuse. “My opportunity to observe Rebecca without feeling like I’m spying on her!” He was about to make his way towards the stairs when he stopped and turned towards Issac and Hetty. “Thanks, guys.” They both smiled and nodded in encouragement before he turned to face the three ghosts still on the sofa. “Alright, I’ll see you all later. Wish me luck!”

“Good luck, Pete!” Flower called out. “Wait, what are we wishing him good luck for again?”

Never before did a ten-minute drive feel more like ten hours to the myopic free-range spirit, and he was a notoriously devout follower of the speed limit in his day. For literally the entire trip, neither Rebecca nor Pete said a single word to each other, creating an atmosphere so tense, dead Pete genuinely thought that he was going to swerve and hit a tree at any second. 

It was not until they had parked in front of a bar at exactly quarter to noon that he felt like he could at long last relax in the backseat. 

“Two o’clock. Sharp. Understand?”

Rebecca just nodded in response to the curt tone her spouse had used before they both exited the car, and went their separate ways without so much as a single wave, kiss on the cheek, or even some small sweet nothings. Given that they had both been in such a good mood earlier this morning, Pete just assumed that they had gotten into a fight before leaving, and Issac and Hetty simply forgot to mention it. Yeah, that had to be it; God knows that he and Carol definitely had their fair share of those during their marriage. After all, what else could they possibly have to be upset about on a romantic anniversary getaway, of all things?

But that was a question that could be answered later, because right now, he had some important business to take care of.

Once living Pete had gone into the bar, Rebecca began to make her own way down Main Street at a brisk pace, purse clutched tightly in hand, and gaze on the sidewalk just in front of her, effectively hiding her face from any and all passersby. After about five minutes, she stopped in front of the local bookstore, where she admired the big square display window showcasing this season’s hottest reads for a minute, before eventually heading inside, unaware that she had an invisible stalker right behind her.

It was then that Pete watched this unusually eccentric woman briefly survey her surroundings, completely ignore the young employee who greeted her at the door, and make a beeline straight for the very back of the store, where almost nobody else was. Only when she was absolutely sure that no other living soul was in her immediate vicinity did she finally breathe a sigh of relief, take off her hat and glasses, and begin perusing the shelves.

Now that her face was free of any obstructions, the Pinecone Trooper scoutmaster could see that her eyes were a rich shade of brown, like that of the most delicious hot cocoa you ever had. But that was not what drew his attention to them. If the eyes really were the window into someone’s soul, then it was painfully obvious after just three seconds of looking into them that Rebecca’s soul was practically drowning in sadness; it was unlike anything Pete had ever seen in either life or death. In fact, he did not even know before this moment in time that it was possible for eyes to be that miserable, that suppressed, that…pained.

No wonder she always wanted to keep them covered.

And then, all of a sudden, they were not. Well, actually, no, they still definitely were, but now there was something else starting to grow within them.

Curiosity.

And it did not take long for the neck-wounded ghost to find out what it was that had piqued it: a thick, hardback book with a bright red jacket that made it stand out amongst its thinner, cooler coloured shelf-mates. Its cover was deceptively simple: a downward-facing kitchen knife leaning against a bright red backdrop with the silhouette of a person’s profile in the shadow it cast, causing both its title and the name of its author to stand out with their elegant, yet sharp white font: The Violence by Delilah S. Dawson.

After staring at it for ten whole seconds, Rebecca opened it ever so slightly to read the little synopsis printed on the front jacket sleeve. Due to the angle she was holding it at, Pete could not read it with her, but based on how wide her eyes got as she neared the end at the bottom, he believed it was safe for him to say that it was, at the very least, interesting.

When she was done, she placed the book back on the shelf, reached into her purse, and pulled out a wristwatch of her very own. Unlike her husband’s, however, this timepiece was not at all in the best shape; it was scratched up, oxidized to the point that it was now green with patina in some places, and its buckle was gone, hence why she was not wearing it. But at least it still seemed to function as intended, because as soon as she saw the time it displayed —11:58 AM, to be precise— Rebecca gave a small nod of approval, grabbed The Violence again, and promptly made her way to the furthermost rear corner of the little literary establishment, where there existed an alcove just big enough for her to sit cross-legged on the floor in, completely out of sight from anyone who was not standing against the back wall it was open to.

The next thing Pete knew, he was being jolted awake by a loud, horrified gasp, and something hard landing with a thump beside him, followed by the sound of someone scrambling to their feet. He sat up just in time to see a woman in black practically sprinting towards the opposite end of the…bookstore? Wait, what on Earth was he doing in a book—?

Upon looking back to where he was initially facing, everything immediately came back to him.

Although it took a while for Rebecca to stop being antsy and make herself as comfortable as she could get inside the little wall niche, once she had dedicated her full attention to the novel that she had snuck in with her, she became as still as a statue, save for the steady turning of the next page. It was then that the undetectable spectre decided that there would never again be a more perfect time for him to privately observe her in public, and see if she would produce any natural mnemonic triggers for him, like Trevor had proposed. So he sat down on the lovingly worn hardwood floor in front of her, crossed his own legs, and waited.

And waited. 

And waited. 

And waited some more.

Eventually, though, the peace and quiet of the slow day that the bibliophilic business was experiencing on this otherwise ordinary Tuesday must have gotten to him, because the last thing he remembered seeing before unintentionally slipping into the void of unconsciousness was Rebecca Schlumberger nose-deep in her book, and actually genuinely smiling, both with her mouth and her eyes. 

The very same book that now lay on the floor, right next to where his head had been. 

By the time he returned his gaze to what he now knew was the front of the store, she had already breached the main entrance and was now expeditiously making her way back in the direction of the bar, leaving a trail of surprised shoppers and staff in her wake.

Even after being dead for a grand total of forty years, there were still many, many things about being a ghost that Pete did not know, or even understand the mechanics behind. One of which was both how and why he could not run any faster now than when he was alive, despite no longer possessing the ability to get a leg cramp or become out of breath. Maybe, in hindsight, it turned out to be a good thing that he currently had more pressing issues to take care of, lest he want to end up falling down that existential rabbit hole. He was just grateful that the bookstore was only a straight couple of blocks away from the pub where Rebecca had left her spouse; otherwise, he had no doubt that he would have missed witnessing her getting into the driver’s seat of the car she shared with him among the hustle and bustle of the small, but no less lively Ulster County town.

Out of all the things he could have expected to see upon phasing into the backseat of the glossy black G20 BMW sedan, Rebecca all alone and clutching her broken watch as she waited for her heart rate to return to a normal pace was definitely not one of those things. And then he noticed that it was 1:56 PM, less than five minutes before the mysterious deadline that her husband had set for her for some reason.

Now the spirit with an arrow transfixed through his neck was confused; nothing about any of this made any sense to him whatsoever. What was going to happen at two o’clock? Why was living Pete so insistent on his wife being precisely on time, when they were supposed to be on vacation together? And what did they fight about earlier that caused him to become so upset, that even over two whole hours later, she still seemed nothing short of terrified at the prospect of reuniting with him again? 

Unfortunately, it was looking like he was not going to get an answer to any of those questions until said reunion actually happened, which according to her unwearable timepiece, would be at any moment now. And so, with literally no other option, he made himself comfortable behind Rebecca, turned to look out the window where the front entrance to the bar was in crystal clear view just a few steps away, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Now, Pete himself would be the first to admit that if there was one thing he absolutely disliked (not hated; that was far too strong a word for his personal taste), it was tardiness; either from himself or other people, and especially when someone else missed their own scheduled meetup time without a good justification for it. And Rebecca’s distinguished gentleman of a partner had already missed his by ten full minutes.

And yet, she did not appear to be anywhere near as upset as she should have been. In fact, were it not for everything that he had observed over the last three hours and fifty minutes, then the unhindered globetrotting ghost just might have actually thought that she was in the wrong here, based on how anxious and forlorn and…ashamed she looked as she continued to stare at the tavern’s door like a lost puppy.

That was what did it for Pete Martino. If he could not believe it before, then he definitely could now; there was something seriously off about this couple, and he was going to find out exactly what that was if it was the last good thing he ever did with himself. And with that, he phased back out onto the sidewalk, marched right up to the pub’s main entrance, and phased inside.

Despite it being only the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday, the atmosphere inside the liquor-centric establishment was actually pretty lively, with several barstools and almost half of the tables occupied with patrons enjoying alcoholic beverages and deep-fried finger foods alike, both alone and in groups. Upon closer inspection, Pete realized that nearly all of them were in the latter half of their lifespans, which, in turn, caused him to recall something that Sam once said about a sizeable percentage of the town’s population being made up of retirees who wanted to get away from “all of the noise, pollution, and narrow-minded workaholics of the nearby major cities.” 

“I KNOW, RIGHT?!”

Even in a public indoor space filled with dozens of unique voices, the spectre instantly recognized the one that shouted out those three words. So he followed it all the way to the far end of the bar, where he found a group of four men huddled together and laughing heartily, with four empty pint glasses on the counter in front of them.

And then he saw him, seated in the middle of two seniors —one short and stout, the other of average height and build— but both bald, bearded, and wearing clothes that had clearly seen better days.

“Alright, I got a confession to make,” announced the last man rounding out the tetrad; a tall, slim, clean-shaven, and slightly better-dressed silver fox, before he positioned himself to face their little guest of honour directly. “When I first saw you walk in here, I thought to myself, ‘Oh great, here comes another city slicker tourist pretending to be a country boy.’ Then when you mentioned being an insurance agent, I just about almost got up and walked out altogether.” He allowed a beat of silence to pass between them. “But you know what? I’m glad I stuck around, ’cause you, Mister Peter Schlumberger, are actually a pretty cultured young fella; one that I’d be more than happy to call my friend.”

In response, the other two men commended the man of the hour sandwiched between them and clapped him on the back, while he just smiled bashfully.

“As a matter of fact…hey, Tom!” the silver fox waited until the bartender turned to look at him. “Another round, and put it on my tab! It’s about time our new pal Petey here gets a proper Hudson Valley welcome!”

It was then that the short man casually checked the watch that he was wearing on his right wrist. “Oh wow, is that the time?” he then turned to address their new friend. “Hey, Pete, didn’t you say that you were supposed to meet up with your wife by now, or something?”

Never before had dead Pete seen a person’s entire demeanour change as fast as living Pete’s did in that moment. “And do what?” he scoffed out in the most disdainful tone that the eavesdropping spirit had ever heard anyone use before. “Don’t you guys forget, I’m married to the most boring, feeble, ugly, miserable, pathetic, and downright sorry excuse of a woman in quite possibly the whole goddamn world! And on top of all that, she’s a librarian; her idea of a ‘fun night in’ is trying to read an entire novel in one sitting.” He chuckled snidely. “You know, between you and me, I’m honestly amazed she still even has a job at all, ’cause lemme tell you, if I was the manager of that branch, I’d’ve fired her ages ago.”

The other three men exchanged glances with each other for a second before the physically average one spoke up. “If that’s the case, then why in God’s good name did you marry her in the first place?”

He scoffed again. “Because she said yes the first time I asked,” he then replied, voice dripping with sarcasm just barely disguised as mock indifference. “Shoulda known that was a red flag, but…” He shrugged. “You live and you learn, I guess. Plus, she said that she’d always wanted to stay at a B&B. But, once again, I guess I’m the idiot for daring to believe for one lousy second that coming here would finally make her…happy.” His gaze fell upon his wedding band as he uttered that last word with so much raw vitriol. “Oh, my dear, sweet, loving…Becky,” he practically vomited her name as he temporarily removed the silver-plated ring from his penultimate sinistral finger to inspect it up close. “You really are nothing without me. And you wonder why your best friends are all tattered old books.”

After engaging in another pithy conversation with his elderly peers consisting solely of stares and facial expressions, the short man made the first move by placing an arm around Pete’s shoulders, causing him to jolt out of his spiteful trance. “Well, at least for the time that you’re here, you’ve got us,” he smiled reassuringly as soon as their eyes met, which the out-of-towner eventually reciprocated with a smirk.

It was then that Tom the bartender came over to them with four new pints of golden, foamy beer fresh from the tap, before taking the empty ones away.

“I’d like to make a toast to Pete,” the silver fox spoke up once they all had their drinks. “Our honorary country boy, and fellow prisoner in the societal jail cell that we happily call…marriage.” They all clinked their glasses and took a nice, long swig. 

“Hang in there, son. It really does get easier with time,” the physically average man added encouragingly.

To which he just scoffed a third time out of what could best be described as playful contempt. “I’ll believe that the day she actually manages to satisfy me. And not with food, if you know what I mean.”

That got another good laugh out of the trio as they resumed their bonding time with Pete. Little did they know, however, that there was another Pete in their midst; one who could not be seen or heard by anyone in that bar, giving him the freedom to say exactly what he was thinking with pure, unadulterated horror.

“This isn’t a distinguished gentleman; this is a, a…a riffraff!”

Chapter Text

Issac just shrugged, eyes sparkling with the immaculate light of the full moon as blood slavered from his adorably fanged mouth, and ran down his chiseled eight-pack chest like a river of the sweetest honey.

“What can I say? The British just…suck.”

Sam let out a frustrated groan and buried her face in her hands to try and hide from the sentences that she had just brought into fruition. She allowed a few good seconds to pass before daring to sneak a peek at the screen in front of her. When she saw her impeccable writing still staring back at her, she sighed and absentmindedly picked up her phone to check the time. 

8:04 PM.

No wonder.

And with that, she saved her progress, shut down her laptop, stood up from her seat at the dining table, and stretched until she felt her spine snap itself back into place. Issac the heartthrob vampire’s romantic quest would just have to wait until tomorrow to continue, because right now, that bed was calling her name. 

But not before properly cleaning up after herself, of course. After all, as Pete once said, fatigue was no excuse to be an Oscar Madison. So she picked up the glass and small plate that once held some milk and a couple of Jay’s famous chocolate chip sea salt cookies respectively, and brought them to the kitchen to be washed.

As she was finishing up, she just so happened to look out the window above the sink, where she found a sunset that was nothing short of gorgeous. Although, to be fair, all of the sunsets (and sunrises!) around here were always gorgeous, but there was something about this one in particular that just had that…extra touch to it. 

It was only then that the young innkeeper realized this was the first time in a good while where she felt…at peace, and not just because all of the ghosts, save for Pete, were currently over at Mahesh enjoying all of the excitement and smells of her husband’s restaurant finally being back in business again after Chris’ untimely death via malfunctioned parachute. Granted, not having several needy souls vying for your attention all at once played a big part in that feeling, but so did the fact that deep down, she was genuinely very happy with the life that she had. Even with all of the unexpected sacrifices, unnecessary extra problems, and all of the time, money, and surplus slivers of sanity that being able to see and hear the dead cost her more of than she would like to admit, watching tonight’s sunset ended up being a friendly reminder that she really, truly would not want to be anywhere else other than right here, right now. Which is why she decided to take a quick moment to thank her great aunt Sophie for inadvertently setting her and Jay on this crazy, but nonetheless rewarding adventure four years ago—

“SAM!!!”

And just like that, it was over.

“Well, it was nice while it lasted,” she sighed to herself before taking a deep breath, and exiting the kitchen to go and see what the restless spirit to whom that unmistakable voice belonged to wanted.

“SAM, WHERE ARE YOU?!” 

“I’m right here, Pete!” She called out as she entered the foyer. “Issac and Hetty told me where you went off to. Are our guests back yet?”

“Yeah, they’re just parking their car right now, but—”

“They are? Well, I gotta go get the door for them, then! They’ve been gone for over eight hours, and I—”

“SAMANTHA.”

Hearing Woodstone’s most peaceful and politely perky phantom sternly bark her full first name was more than enough to not only stop her dead in her tracks (no pun intended), but also make her jump and spin around to meet him with wide, consternated eyes. 

Which said phantom noticed almost immediately. “Sorry, but I have something very important to tell you. It’s about Rebecca—”

“Oh, I know, Pete, don’t worry,” Sam interrupted with an understanding smile. “Sass and Alberta were more than happy to fill me in on everything while you were away. So does that mean you were able to figure out where you’d seen her before?” 

“Not really, no, unfortunately, but that’s actually not what I was gonna tell you.” He then took a few steps forward until he was standing mere inches from her. “Now, I know that what I’m about to say is gonna sound pretty kooka-looka, even by my standards, but Pete—” 

“HOW MUCH!? I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!!!”

Even if her back was not pressed up against the front door, Sam was pretty confident that she would have heard that voice screaming at the top of its lungs loud and clear, no matter where she was in the manor. So despite the urgency written all over the spectre’s contorted countenance, she reluctantly turned her back to him and opened it. The sight that they were both met with on the other side was…surprising, to say the very least.

“You’d think they’d know how to charge people, but they DON’T!” Pete Schlumberger slurred out, completely oblivious as to how loud he was talking, or how much his wife was struggling to keep him upright as he was putting almost all of his body weight on her dextral shoulder. 

“Oh my God, Pete!” the Bed & Breakfast co-host exclaimed as she went over to meet them on the driveway. “Are you alri—?” The moment she got within three feet of them, the smell hit her like a brick wall. “Oh, okay, I see. Yeah, you’re drunk outta your mind right now,” she realized as she waved a hand in front of her face to try (and ultimately, fail) to dissipate the alcoholic miasma, before turning to Rebecca. “Um, he didn’t drive, did he?”

She had just enough time to frantically shake her head “no” a couple of times before he spoke up again. 

“I AIN’T DRUNK, OKAAAY?! Who you think y’are tellin’ me what I yam n’am no? I rock, ’kay?”

“Alright, that’s it,” Sam said with newfound determination and a surge of adrenaline as she went over to Pete’s right side, and put his arm around both of her shoulders to help him stand better. “Come on now, up we go.”

“Ooooh, where’re we goin’, lil’ cutie?” 

She cringed internally at the tone he adopted to ask her that. “Upstairs, where there’s a nice, big, fluffy bed just waiting for you to get under its sheets,” she smiled regardless.

“Is yer hot blond self gettin’ in with me?”

Sam froze on the spot as she felt every last drop of her blood instantly turn to ice upon hearing what this man, who was supposed to be commemorating fifteen years of being matrimonially loyal to the same woman, actually just said to her. In that juncture, the Earth could have opened up and swallowed the mansion whole right before her eyes, and she would not have cared in the slightest. Because how could she, knowing that deep down, from the darkest and most depraved depths of his psyche, her latest guest essentially wanted the two of them to have an affair with each other?

“Well?” 

Against her better judgement, the happily wed freelance writer turned to look at the middle-aged spouse, whose intoxicated eyes were now filled to the brim with lust as he waited patiently for her to answer him, lewd smirk plastered on his face. And somewhere in her peripheral, she noticed the mute, chagrined silhouette of Rebecca, who seemed to be trying just as hard to avoid making eye contact with her as she herself was.

And then she got an idea. An honestly sick and twisted idea, but an idea, nonetheless.

“Why, of course, Petey-Pie,” she replied in the most seductive voice she could muster. “What kind of woman would be a fool to decline such a generous offer? I know I’m not. There’s just one little problem, though.”

“And what would that be?” he drawled with as much charm as a near-blackout inebriate could have.

“Well, you see, we’re outside right now, and the bed is all the way at the end of the hallway upstairs. I can’t reach it by myself. Is there anyway you could help me make such an arduous trek?”

That was all it took for him to stop swaying, and begin walking as fast as he could back into Woodstone and towards the guest room that he was sharing with his wife, whom he had let go of as soon as they crossed its threshold. Sam was just able to catch a glimpse of her locking the front door before her subconsciously adulterous partner practically dragged her up the stairs, never once losing his grip on her shoulders, even when he lost his balance and stumbled a few times.

Once they had reached the intended room, Pete wasted no time in leading the adventitious medium to the side of the bed, where he began giggling in anticipation, hastily turning it down, and stroking her arms in a clumsily flirtatious manner. “Time for beddy bye, Goldilocks.”

In response, she playfully traced a finger along the edge of his jawbone, down his neck, and around his shoulder. “Yeah, it is,” she grinned cheekily before leaning in to whisper in his ear, “You first.” And then she put both of her hands on his chest and shoved him hard onto the bed, knocking all of the air out of him, and causing the springs of the mattress beneath him to squeak in protest as he landed with a thud. 

Even though his eyes promptly closed upon impact and he did not move a single muscle afterwards, Sam still kept her eyes locked on his motionless form, and waited with bated breath to see what would happen next. Until finally, after several year-long seconds of torturous quiet, he started snoring.

Her idea had worked.

But that did not at all stop her from feeling wracked with embarrassment and guilt as she turned to face his ebony-attired significant other standing in the doorway with an unreadable facial expression.

“Oh my God, Rebecca, I’m so sorry about that; i-it was the only thing I could think of to get him to go to bed. But you have to believe me when I say that I would never, ever, in a million years—”

A soft hand on her shoulder, a genuinely nonjudgemental smile, and a reassuring wink.

That was it.

After witnessing her own husband make such an audacious pass at another married woman in her physical presence, just to then be forced to watch that very same woman encourage such atrocious behaviour, no matter the circumstances, that was Rebecca’s only reaction. Sam refused to believe it, and continued to brace herself for her to drop the other shoe by slapping her or screaming in her face or something else along those lines. But it never came, not even after what felt like a solid minute of staring into those deep, brown, understanding, and…scared eyes? Either way, Sam eventually felt like it was safe enough for her to drop her guard, and accept Rebecca’s forgiveness; partially because she had literally no other choice, and mostly because the adrenaline had since worn off, enabling the fatigue from earlier to begin trickling back in.

“So, um…are you hungry or anything? Guests get a special twenty percent discount on daily specials at Mahesh, and Jay knows how to make a pretty heavenly beef Wellington, if you don’t mind me bragging.”

Rebecca politely shook her head.

“Okay, then,” she said as soon as she realized that was all the answer she was going to get. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. And please, don’t hesitate to let either me or Jay know if you need anything else, alright?”

Rebecca politely nodded her head.

“Okay, then,” she repeated before making her way towards the doorway, Pete’s snoring the only thing keeping the awkward silence at bay. Once she reached it, she turned around to look at the incredibly stoic woman one last time. “Well, good night.” 

One single nod and a quick grin later, she pulled the bedroom door shut, leaned against the hallway wall, and allowed herself to finally relax. Only then did her fatigue fully set in, making her eyelids suddenly feel over a thousand pounds heavier. So she peeled herself off the wall, trudged all the way to her and Jay’s room, turned around, and flopped down on the bed in a supine position, almost losing consciousness right then and there.

“What are you doing!?”

Sam just barely managed to stifle a shriek as she sat up with a jolt upon hearing someone insistently shout that question. When she saw the arrow-impaled spirit standing at the foot of the bed, her relief quickly became replaced with confusion.

“Oh, Pete…wait, what are you talking about?”

“What do you mean, ‘what am I talking about?’ Pete Schlumberger just showed his true colours by hitting on you behind Jay’s back and in front of Rebecca’s! Why aren’t you doing something about it?!”

As much as she wanted to be annoyed and scold him for breaking her one rule about not entering the bedroom while she and/or Jay were occupying it, deep down, she knew that he was only acting like this because he cared about her. Whether that was due to his naturally pleasant and altruistic personality, or her being just a little bit younger than his one and only daughter, she still managed to hold her tongue, take a deep breath, and address his justified frustration calmly and comprehensively.

“Three reasons, Pete: one, the man who started this whole mess isn’t exactly capable of explaining himself and being reprimanded right now. Two, there’s still…” She paused to pull her phone out from her pocket to check the time. 8:28 PM. “Just over two and a half hours left of service at Mahesh. If I tell Jay now, it’s only gonna get him riled up and affect his cooking for the rest of the night. And three, after spending literally all afternoon trying to rewrite Issac’s biography, I am so tired right now, I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“But don’t you think this is something that should be taken care of as soon as possible? Not to mention that this is just the tip of the iceberg of what I saw when I went into town with them today—!”

“PETER.” 

Now it was his turn to be taken aback by her abrupt shift in pitch and formality. 

“Sorry. Look, all I’m asking is for you to please wait until tomorrow morning. Then, I promise I will talk to Jay, Pete, and Rebecca, and you can tell me all about your little outing today, okay?” 

“Okay,” he begrudgingly gave in after a moment of tense silence.

“Good,” she replied gratefully before a yawn overtook her. Once it had passed, she stood up from the bed to, among other things, gently shoo Pete out the door. “Until then, why don’t you head on over to Mahesh? I’m sure the others would love to hear you talk about it now. Good night.”

“Good—”

Sam shut the door in his face as soon as he was in the hallway again. 

“…night,” he sighed as he just stood there for a minute, unsure of what to do now.

And then he heard a clicking sound coming from down the hall. Or, more specifically, from the room that the Schlumbergers were temporarily calling theirs. So he made a split-second decision to head in its direction, and phase through the wall that led into it, just to see what was going on. 

Darkness. And quiet. Save for living Pete’s persistent snoring, the entire bedroom was shrouded in both.

But that was not what held the ghost’s attention within it. No, instead, it was the fact that while her spouse was sleeping nice and soundly in the queen bed, Rebecca had opted to sleep on the old, lumpy love seat on the opposite wall. Or, try to sleep was more like it, as she kept tossing and turning for at least ten full minutes before at long last finding a decent position, and settling down into a soundless slumber. But even then, she still looked extremely uncomfortable all scrunched up on the small sofa, with only a single thin blanket to keep her warm.

As it turns out, there actually was something else that Pete Martino disliked more than tardiness; much, much more. Maybe even, dare he say…hated? Yeah, that sounded—no…felt right.

Abusers.

People who treated other people as inferior to themselves for absolutely no good reason whatsoever.

Especially their own partners.

Unfortunately though, it seemed like Sam was right when she said that there was nothing else that could be done for the rest of the night. After all, what could possibly even be done when everybody was sleeping?

“Holy Toledo, that’s it!” he gasped as he then got an idea, and phased out of the room to put it into action.

It was just after 9 PM when Pete phased back into the Schlumberger bedroom. But he was not alone.

“Alright, buddy, do your thing.”

Sassapis just shot him a glare. 

“Oh, sorry. I mean…” He cleared his throat. “Alright, buddy, do your tier one thing.”

“Better,” the Lenape youth smirked before making his way over to Rebecca, holding a hand over her head, closing his eyes, and entering her dream.

The pizza-loving Native American opened his eyes to find himself in a crowd. A very rowdy crowd. Upon seeing that he was wearing a police officer’s uniform, he finally realized that everyone else around him was, too. And they were all shouting the same thing while facing the same direction.

“MURDERER! MURDERER! MURDERER!”

Over and over again, in perfect sync.

So he began to push his way through the sea of faceless cops to try and get a better look at this supposed murderer. Given that it was a dream, it took a lot longer than it should have, but after a while, he finally reached a small clearing, indicating that he was now in the centre of the infinite angry mob. What he saw within it was horrifying enough to render him completely speechless, save for three little words.

“Oh…my…Kishelamàkânk.”

Chapter Text

Jay immediately knew something was not right as soon as he opened his eyes. 

First of all, despite the curtains being drawn, because they were not blackouts, the entire bedroom was perfectly illuminated by the warm morning light that managed to seep in through the few sparse gaps between them. Just from that, he could already tell that today was going to be just as gorgeous and cloudless as yesterday. But then his attention was drawn to his right side, where Sam slept. Or, where Sam usually slept, because not only was she not there when he woke up, her half of the bed was completely cold, implying that she had gotten up quite a while ago. Still not able to believe that his late sleeper of a spouse had actually managed to get up before him, he reached to grab his phone from the nightstand behind him to see if he had forgotten to turn on his alarm that he had set for 6 AM, well before the sun was due to rise. The time it displayed almost made his jaw drop.

9:02 AM.

The professional chef then practically leapt out of bed and burst out into the hallway, not even bothering to open the curtains or change out of his pyjamas, before making his way down the stairs as fast as he could, and heading straight for the kitchen.

“I’M UP I’M UP I’M SORRY I SLEPT IN I’LL GET BREAKFAST STARTED RIGHT AW—!”

As far as his visual and olfactory senses were concerned, Jay had just run head first into a brick wall, for there, on the ligneous counter-topped island, were four large plates: one of scrambled eggs, one of crispy bacon, one of golden brown home fries with sautéed onions, and one of fluffy pancakes; all hot, juicy, and fresh off the stovetop. And in the middle of it all, now walking towards him with a smile on her face and a steaming cup of cream-kissed coffee in her hands, was the one responsible for their creation.

“Good morning, Babe! Did you have a good sleep?”

It ended up taking him a good moment to come down from the adrenaline high he had just given himself, register everything that had happened in those few seconds, and then try to come up with a decent response to all of it. “Sam, did…did you make all of this?” he eventually settled on as he took the mug being offered to him.

“Well, the ghosts certainly didn’t, I can say that much,” she replied with a chuckle before turning to her left, staring at the far wall for several seconds, and encouragingly adding, “Yes, I’m sure you would, Thor.”

Unbeknownst to his wife, Jay did not hear a word she just said as he grabbed a fork from the utensil drawer, and sampled a bite from each plate. The only way to describe what he felt afterwards was pure gustatory bliss. “Oh, my God…Babe, this is incredible!”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Learned from the best.”

“No, I’m serious, Sam…” He paused to turn and face her directly so that she would hear what he had to say with crystal clear clarity. “You’re a really good cook. Are you sure you don’t wanna work at the restaurant with me? We could open for breakfast!”

“Uh, no thanks, I’m good. Waking up while it’s still dark every single day is not something I could do long-term. And besides, I’ve watched more than enough episodes of Hell’s Kitchen to know that cooking for my family and cooking for the public are two totally different things.”

“And yet, you made enough for our guests, too. More than enough, actually,” he remarked as he made his way over to her to wrap his arms around her, close his eyes, and give her a long, passionate tongue kiss. During which, he swore he could feel her hesitate a couple of times, but he brushed it off as nothing more than reactions to the comments that the ghosts around them were undoubtedly making. But he did not care; accidental spiritualist or not, he loved Samantha Arondekar with every fibre of his being, and he was going to express it whenever, wherever, and however he liked, restless souls be damned.

Theoretically speaking, of course. 

Only when he felt like he was going to pass out if he kept this up for even one more second did he finally pull away, begin to catch his breath, and touch his forehead to hers, hazel eyes locked on brown. “When was the last time I told you how much I love you?”

Sam subtly widened her eyes for a second, then looked away for another before answering in what he interpreted as a playful tone, “Um, yesterday, before you went to prepare for dinner service?”

“No, that was just a regular ‘I love you,’” he elucidated as he graciously returned a few inches of her personal space. “What I meant was…” He then lovingly cupped her face in both of his hands. “When was the last time I told you that I love you more than words could ever say?”

When he saw a gossamer layer of tears glaze over her eyes after saying that, he mentally patted himself on the back, and proudly imagined Hetty, Alberta, and Flower gushing over his impeccably sharp romantic skills.

“Oh Jay, I already know that. You don’t have to keep reminding me,” she scoffed off as she blinked her eyes dry, softly shoved him away, and turned to head for the refrigerator. 

Needless to say, that was not the reaction he was expecting to get out of her. 

“And even if I am as good a cook as you say I am,” she continued as she opened the fridge and rummaged through it, as if she did not just dump a bucket of ice water over his heart. “There’s still one thing that you’ll always know how to make better than me.”

“Which is…?” he could not help but catechize.

She then turned back around to face him, and dump her armload of what he could now see was fruit onto the island; namely a bag of grapes, half a watermelon, a carton each of strawberries, blueberries, and blackberries, a whole cantaloupe, two pounds of Honeycrisp apples, and a bag of cherries. “A fruit platter.”

“Oh, that? That’s one of the easiest things you could make. It’s all in how you cut and present it.”

Now it was her turn to saunter over to him, sexily drape an arm over his shoulder, and give him a cute little coy smile. “Show me?”

All of this emotional whiplash was starting to confuse Woodstone’s latest landlord, to the point where he almost called its latest landlady out for it right then and there. But at the last nanosecond, he ultimately decided to hold his tongue and keep the now recovered moment intact.

“Sure thing,” he replied with a smile of his own before pecking her on the nose, and going to get the supplies needed to help with her request.

After a few minutes of slicing and arranging the fruit on a serving tray in peaceful silence —save for Sam’s occasional one-sided utterances to the ghosts— something occurred to Jay as he was finishing his coffee.

“Hold on, so…if you cooked all this by yourself, that means you had to wake up at, like…six thirty, at the absolute latest.”

“Five thirty, actually,” she corrected, prompting her husband to do a double take. “I went to bed early shortly after Pete and Rebecca came back last night, so it’s not like I forced myself to get up before dawn like you. I also turned off your morning alarm so that you could sleep in for a change.”

“I figured,” he said with an appreciative smirk as he finished cutting the last apple into slices. “Speaking of, are they still sleeping?”

“Uh, yeah, they are. Guess they both like to sleep in, too. Which makes sense; they are on vacation.”

“You know, come to think of it, I don’t even recall seeing them at the restaurant last night. What time did they get back?”

“Oh, I’d say…around 8:15.”

“And then what’d they do?”

“They went to bed early, too.”

“Okay, wait up…they were gone for over eight hours yesterday, and neither of them were hungry for dinner when they got back?”

“They went out.”

“What?”

“Y-Yeah. As it turns out, Pete did his research, and went ahead and booked a reservation for the two of them at that place you and I were gonna go to for Valentine’s Day a couple of years ago.”

“Really?” She nodded. “Huh…okay, the guy’s got good tastes, after all.” Had he not been busy scooping the seeds out of both halves of the cantaloupe in that juncture, then he would have noticed Sam mouthing something to the empty space at the end of the island on her left. Specifically, the phrase, not until we’re all together. “Still, I hope they decide to give Mahesh a try at least once before they go. You should’ve seen the place last night; packed to the rafters! Granted, most of them were there just because they wanted to eat in the same place where someone died for whatever morbid reason, but at least we sold almost all our beef Wellingtons! I guess Mark really wasn’t lying when he said all business is good business. Although, I am a little worried about what kind of clientele we’ll be attracting if—” 

“Jay.” 

If the gravely pleading tone that she had suddenly adopted was not enough to grab the budding restaurant entrepreneur’s attention, then her matching physiognomy definitely was; one with just a hint of…guilt? Fear?

Maybe both?

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she sighed defeatedly before turning to face the empty space by the sink this time. “Something I need to tell all of you, actually, but…” She brought her worried gaze back to the only other living person in the kitchen. “I need you to promise me that you won’t freak out.”

“Wait, what? Why? What happened?”

“Just promise me first, please?”

It only took Jay a couple of seconds of staring into those eyes to relent. “Okay, yeah, sure, I-I promise.”

Sam exhaled a breath she did not even realize she was holding in until that moment before sneaking a glance back at the farmhouse sink, giving a single small nod, and locking eyes with the man that she had vowed to spend the rest of her life with once again. “You remember when I told you yesterday that ghost Pete went out into town with Rebecca and her husband, Pete?”

He nodded. “Yeah?”

“Well, the reason why he went out with them is because he claimed to have recognized Rebecca, but didn’t remember from where or when. So he thought that spending some alone time with them —or, her— would help refresh his memory.” Back to the sink. “Now that, all of you already know, but this morning, before the rest of you woke up, Pete told me everything he learned yesterday afternoon…and last night with Sass’s help.” And back to Jay. “As it turns out, Rebecca—”

The sudden sound of creaking floor boards caused both of the Arondekars —and presumably, all of the ghosts— to turn towards the kitchen entrance, where none other than Rebecca herself was standing, eyes unblinking and face painfully neutral.

“Oh, good…good morning, Mrs. Schlumberger. Did you sleep well last night?” Jay greeted politely to break the extremely awkward silence that had fallen over them first, all while simultaneously praying that she had not heard any of what he and Sam were talking about just now.

The blank, taciturn stare she answered with was not reassuring in the slightest.

“Well, breakfast is ready, if you’re hungry,” he pressed on regardless. “Um, is Mr. Schlumberger coming down to join us?”

In response to that inquiry, she took a few steps forward, pulled a slip of paper out from the pocket of her fuzzy black robe, and handed it to him.

“Wha—what’s this?” he asked as he unfolded the sheet, and read just some of the handwritten words on it out loud. “‘Pete’s Hangover Diet: Three cups of black coffee with three teaspoons of white granulated sugar each, two glasses of not-from-concentrate apple juice, three bottles of orange-flavoured Gatorade, two medium-sized bananas on the verge of turning ripe, three slices of un-toasted thick cut white bread, a bowl of chicken noodle soup—’ um, I’m sorry, he has a hangover?”

“Yes, yes he does,” Sam spoke up. “That’s actually another part of the reason why they went to bed early last night, I was…just about to tell you that.”

A beat passed as Jay processed all of this new information. “Okay, well, aside from the Gatorade and soup, we have everything else, so I can just—”

And with that, Rebecca literally pushed past the young couple, and got down to business. With the drive and determination of a soldier on a life or death mission, she opened and shut almost every kitchen cabinet, drawer, and cupboard until she had three mugs, two glasses, two small plates, a teaspoon, some napkins, and a half-empty bag of white sugar in her possession. 

“Hey, wait, what are you—?” 

Next, she raided the fridge, pantry and countertops until she found the bread, apple juice, and bananas.

“Um, you don’t have to—” 

Then she pushed the four plates of breakfast food off to one side of the island, not caring for the few morsels that fell to the floor as a result, and began to fill up each alimentary vessel with their respective fare; the mugs with the coffee and sugar, the glasses with the apple juice, and the plates with the bread and bananas.

“Seriously, Rebecca, me and Sam can—” 

And then she noticed the freshly finished fruit platter, and without a second of hesitation, picked it up and dumped all of its contents into the sink, ignoring the Arondekar’s gasps and groans of dismay in the process, wiped the residual juices from the serving tray with a dishtowel, and promptly placed all of the dishes on it. Once she had arranged everything to her liking, she grabbed both of its handles so that she could carry it up the stairs to her and living Pete’s room.

Or, she would have, had Jay not slammed his own hands down on the tray a little harder than he intended, but he was actually really proud of that fruit platter, thank you very much.

“How about I bring this up to your husband, while you sit down and have some breakfast? What’s left of it, that is.”

Instead of apologizing or explaining herself or even thanking him for making such a considerate offer, Rebecca just…kept…staring. Wordlessly. 

Emotionlessly. 

Mercilessly.  

So the B&B co-owner just…reciprocated it right back. Because it was the only appropriate response he could think of giving in the heat of the moment. 

Because he refused to give her the satisfaction of getting off scot-free, even if it made him more and more uncomfortable with each extra second that they spent boring a hole into each other’s soul. 

Because he was dead set on getting some sort of answer out of her as to why she had been acting so utterly abnormal not just today, but from the minute she first set foot on Woodstone property. 

Because—

“Rebecca Natalie Harrison.”

Chapter Text

“What?”

Even before she and Pete had finished their private morning chat just a few hours earlier, Sam already knew that there would be no easy way to have this interaction with Rebecca; mainly due to the unfortunate fact that none of what she had to tell her could be sugarcoated. So when she instantly redirected her lithic gaze from Jay to her, and posed that deceptively simple question in a low, raspy voice, the other B&B co-owner was forced to quickly come to the conclusion that the best way to make up for what was about to go down was to just get it over with as soon as possible, while still delivering it in the calmest, gentlest voice that she could muster. 

But in order to do that, she also knew that she had to keep both her focus and eye contact fixed on the middle-aged woman the entire time, and never break either of them even once, lest she want to risk losing control of this necessary evil of a situation.

“That’s your name. Or, at least, it was your name before you married Peter Nicholas Schlumberger. Your maiden name, I suppose. Your name for the first thirty-four years of your life…including when you were a Pinecone Trooper, Ulster County Division, Troop number 35197…led by Scoutmaster Pete Martino.” 

The literal second that name left her lips, Rebecca stumbled backwards a few steps until her back hit the edge of Jay’s spice cabinet tucked into the corner, stony facade cracking to reveal a scintilla of trepidation.

“The same Pete Martino who ended up losing his life on the job exactly forty years ago this summer.”

Two blinks.

“You were there that day, weren’t you? In fact…you’re the one who shot him with that arrow.”

That was all it took for her mask of apathy to disintegrate into dust, and give way to full-fledged horror as she exhaled a soft gasp, slapped her left hand over her mouth, and allowed a single tear to run down each of her cheeks. Sam could only imagine that her husband and the ghosts had similar immediate reactions to that revelation as it rang out through the Woodstone kitchen like a reverberating gong, but did not. 

Because she could not afford to in that moment.

“That’s the real reason you and Peter came here, not to celebrate your fifteenth wedding anniversary. And rightfully so; after all, why would anyone want to celebrate the day they married someone who never really loved them to begin with? Who always tries to scare them into doing what they want? Who, just yesterday, threatened to beat you up if you were even a minute late in picking him up from the bar…just to end up making you wait in the car for almost six whole hours, without anything to eat or drink, while he was having fun getting wasted? And then in return for your unwavering loyalty…he hits on me and invites me to sleep with him, right in front of you.”

Even if she did not currently have an optical iron grip on Rebecca, Sam did not believe that she would have been able to look Jay in the eye after confessing that last part out loud, especially given what happened between her and Kyle not too long ago. Which was part of the reason why she decided to take that opportunity to bring herself closer to her shivering, shell-shocked guest; slowly, but surely, one steady step at a time.

“Look,” she pressed on once she came to a stop a couple of feet away. “I’m not here to judge you for your past actions, or the life choices you’ve made for yourself since. I just want to ask you one little question: Why? Why do you put up with his abuse? Why do you act as if you deserve any of it? And why did you decide to come back here…now, of all times?”

Based on how she responded to last night’s impromptu incident of near-infidelity, Sam had a hunch that Rebecca’s reaction to hearing her, some random innkeeper that she had just met less than twenty-four hours ago, spit out a slew of deeply personal information that she had absolutely no business knowing about, would be a bit more on the…subdued side. Maybe she would collapse onto the floor in a broken, sobbing mess, or tell her off at the top of her lungs before storming up the stairs to pack her and her husband’s bags, or even laugh mockingly in her face before turning around and walking out of the mansion altogether. Or faint. If she was lucky, she would just straighten herself out, pick up the serving tray, and placidly head back to her room without saying another word, as if nothing had ever happened.

But all of those hypothetical scenarios paled in comparison to what she actually ended up deciding to do.

“It’s a long story,” she sighed dejectedly as her entire body sagged in defeat, including her once petrified gaze, now one of unadulterated shame.

“Well, like my wife said when you first arrived,” Sam then heard Jay say from somewhere behind her as he came up to her right side, and put an arm around her corresponding shoulder. “For as long as you’re here, you’ve got our complete and undivided attention.”

Only then did she turn her head to get a better look at her beloved, where she found him wearing a smile so warm, so understanding, so unapologetically ready to see this thing to the bitter end, that she could not help but requite it with one of the utmost gratitude and relief. After receiving a kiss on the forehead, she turned her gaze back to the fellow wedded woman before her, and proffered a friendly hand towards her. 

Once again, the freelance writer who could talk to the dead had a feeling that Rebecca would be at least a little hesitant in accepting her and Jay’s offer. But the longer she kept staring speechlessly at her, then her hand, then at Jay, then in the direction of the staircase, then at the serving tray, then back at her hand again, the more she began to worry that she was going to end up letting her demons win, and thus, not get the succour that her mind, her body…her very soul, so desperately needed.

That was, until, she reestablished eye contact with her, dared to let the faintest ghost of a smile (no pun intended) grace her long, thin face, and cautiously, yet confidently at the same time, extended her own arm out in front of her until, at long last, the two ladies literally had each other in the palms of their hands.

Among all of the soft cheers and sincere praise that the ghosts around her were giving, Sam could also hear her own heart singing as she lightly squeezed Rebecca’s hand and unhurriedly led her out of the kitchen, with Jay right on her tail. When they reached the dining room, he pulled out a chair for her to sit down in, before doing the same for his spouse, and then himself on the opposite side of the table, so that they could both be facing her head on while she contributed her share to this undesirable, but inevitable intervention. And after taking another moment to gather her thoughts and reassure herself that this was all really happening, she finally did just that.

“It’s been said that after a major, life-changing event, your life gets divided into two parts: The Before…and The After, as I call them, and what happened to me is no exception. That being said, I believe that in order for you two to understand my After…you have to know what my Before was like first.” 

Unlike Sam, however, Rebecca was under little to no pressure to maintain constant eye contact with her audience of two (technically ten) spectators. So as soon as she saw both Arondekars give her a small, but no less kind nod, she wasted no time in dropping her gaze back onto the tabletop so that she could speak to them easier.

“I was pretty extroverted as a kid; loud, had a fairly large circle of friends, and wasn’t afraid to try out new things. If anything, the idea of doing, going, or even eating something I never had before, actually excited me; almost like a mini-adventure of sorts, which was a big part of the reason my parents signed me up to become a Pinecone Trooper in the first place…and I loved it from the start. Every time I put on that uniform, I knew that I was gonna have fun, even if it was just for an hour long mid-week troop meeting…because I always did, and I give all the credit to Mr. Martino for that.”

Whether it was due to the low volume that Rebecca’s already subdued voice was speaking at, or the way in which she managed to convey so much captivating emotion with every enunciated syllable, Sam could not help but be impressed by just how…attentively quiet all eight of the ghosts were being. 

Especially Pete, who had opted to stand directly to the right of his former trooper as she continued to relay her life story.

“I never knew how he managed to do it every single time, but he was just a master of disguising important life and survival lessons as simple, yet genuinely fun activities and games for all ten of us girls to enjoy. He’s the reason why I learned how to start a fire without matches before I turned six; why I knew basic first aid before I turned seven; why my childhood from five to eight years of age…was nothing short of perfect.

“I was nine by the time the summer of ’85 came around. By that point, me and my troop had been to Woodstone Mansion dozens of times before, for everything from nature walks to overnight camping trips. So when Mr. Martino told us that we were gonna go there to learn archery…”

She paused to wipe a couple of stray tears away. As much as Sam wanted to get her a box of tissues, at the same time, she just could not find it within herself to move from her seat, or even take her eyes off of Rebecca, and potentially interrupt her narrational flow as a result.

“I wish I could tell you exactly what was going through my head in the moments leading up to…but all I know for sure is that I was so excited to try out a new sport, and all too eager to impress Mr. Martino. Everything that happened afterwards is a blur to me, but I can still remember how far the mansion felt as I ran towards it to get help, the ambulance, police officers…so, so many police officers…”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sam noticed Sassapis visibly wince as Rebecca exhaled that last part in a strained whisper.

“There’s no way for me to say this next part without sounding horribly self-centred or cliché, but my life was never the same after that…day. Within less than a week, word of what happened had spread to not only the entire town, but the entire Hudson Valley, as well. And the fact that the Martinos never even tried to sue or charge me or my family…actually made it worse. It’s like I became an outsider in my own community overnight. I went from being the Harrison girl who loved banana splits and slumber parties, to…that girl. Rumours were spread, friendships were ended, and stares of all kinds from the pitiful, to the incredulous…to the accusatory, were traded. All the while, my extroversion and self-confidence just…went into a coma, and died a slow, painful death.”

“Oh, Becky,” Sam heard Pete mutter under his breath as he stared at Rebecca’s wilted form with absolute desolation in his myopic eyes.

“It was around that time that I started getting into books. Not that I didn’t read well or have my favourite stories before, but I just…never had the time, nor the patience to sit down and commit to not just starting a full-sized novel, but finishing it, too. But between quitting the Pinecone Troopers, parting ways with almost all of my old friends, and no longer having any desire to leave the house other than for school and errands…I certainly did now. And on top of all that, books…were an escape for me; a way for me to forget about how sad and empty my life had since become following one stupid split-second accident, and just…get lost in a good story. All without rules or judgement from anyone. Because books don’t care about who’s reading them; they just appreciate it whenever anyone chooses to read them…at all.

“And…read, I did. It wasn’t long before I was on a first-name basis with all the people who worked at the local library, even the janitors. I used my library card so often, I had to get a protective case for it. My first ever job was at that library, allowing me to earn some money to treat myself to something new from the bookstore every now and again. To keep my parents from worrying about me, I’d tell them that I was going to meet some friends…and then go spend the next several hours at either the library or the bookstore. Or both. In many ways, those two places became like secondary homes to me…maybe even more than my actual home. Don’t get me wrong, my parents never stopped loving me, and tried their best to help me move on…but even they could only do so much with the limited resources at their disposal. So when I got the opportunity to pursue a degree in Library and Information Science at Syracuse University…I took it, left Ulster County behind, and never looked back. Until yesterday, that is.”

Now both Sam and Pete understood why Rebecca was so adamant about not wanting to talk to, look at, or just plain interact with anybody in town the day before today.

“Believe it or not,” she proceeded in a voice that was now about a decibel louder than when she began. “The main reason I started working at the campus library during my first year was so that I could still have an income while studying. After all, even back then, post-secondary education wasn’t cheap…and it wasn’t like I had any real friends to help me. So I was more than happy to spend my days behind the circulation desk, helping my fellow classmates check out whatever books they needed for their schoolwork, while managing my own in the process. Between that, the occasional scholarship, and the monthly money my parents would send me…I was good. For the first time since the incident, I was…good. So good, in fact, that by the time I got my Master’s six years later, I was making almost fifteen dollars an hour; not too shabby for New York at the turn of the century. And then I found out that the head librarian at the time had personally recommended me for a paid internship position at the New York Public Library Main Branch in the New York City…one that I ended up getting.

“Mrs. Victoria Ceponis. She’s the one who interviewed me when I first applied to be a shelver as a freshman, who practically took me under her wing for the next six years…who saw my potential to become the best version of myself as a librarian…before I even did. She’s the one I owe all of my success to, because just two years later, I became a permanent, full-time member of the second largest public library system in the country…and the fifth largest in the world. As such, I was able to afford a nice little studio apartment on the Upper West Side, get paid to be around books all day long, and actually make a new life for myself in the Big Apple. In other words, after almost twenty years of heartache and guilt…I was finally happy with my life; happy with…myself.”

And with that last word, Rebecca’s vocal amplification plummeted all the way back down to the breathy mumble that she had started out with. Along with her gaze, posture, and overall mien as she prepared to delineate the part of her autobiographical anecdote that she had been dreading the most.

The part that would explain why her life had since become anything but happy.

“I first met Peter in 2009, on a day that was about as ordinary as it could get. I was working behind the book delivery desk in the Rose Main Reading Room when…he walked in; a guy that was…exactly my type; jet-black hair, visible muscles, sun-kissed skin, clean-shaven…I think he noticed me staring at him a bit longer than I should’ve been, but I was honestly just trying to…drink as much of him in as I could, before he left and I would never see him again. After all, he wasn’t the first library patron to catch my attention, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Or, so I thought, before I ended up seeing him again the next time I was behind that desk a few days later. That was when he introduced himself, explained that he’d asked one of my coworkers where he could find me…and secretly confessed that I had caught his attention just as much as he did mine.

“Even now, it still amazes me just how…fast things happened after that. We went from what started out as a secret after-hours fling, to a casual public relationship, to a seriously intimate one…to a proposal just fourteen months after we first met. He did it in the Rose Main Reading Room, waited until we had closed up for the night and were the only two souls in that room…to pop the question.” Her teary eyes then drifted over to her left hand, where the silver-plated wedding band that living Pete had presented to her that fateful night, sat on her ring finger. “After the shock wore off…I was on cloud nine. Just over a year ago, I honestly believed that I was going to die alone with no husband, no children…and no family.” She sniffled. “And now here I was, set to get married to someone who always treated me like I was the only woman in the world; who didn’t care that I’d never had any kind of dating life before him; who made me feel like I actually deserved not only to love, but to be loved, too…regardless of the fact that I killed someone as a child.”

“They always do in the beginning,” Sam heard Alberta snark from somewhere behind her, followed by Hetty humming in agreement. Pete, on the other hand, just stayed silent, all prior despondency gone from his now inscrutable countenance.

“Now, I wish I could tell you exactly when and where and how his behaviour…changed. But I can’t…because that would be too easy. And like I just said, I’d never been in any kind of romantic relationship before, much less married, so I wouldn’t have known what to look for, anyway. All I can say for sure is that one day, he was as sweet and supportive as could be, and then the next…he was telling me that I looked unflattering in yellow clothes, or that always ordering lamb souvlaki at Greek restaurants made me look conceited, or even that my lifelong dream of backpacking throughout Europe to visit the biggest library in each country…was too ambitious for a woman as naïve and sheltered as me, just to then immediately follow it up by reassuring me that he was only trying to help me improve myself as a person…and I believed him.

“From there, it wasn’t long before the offhand comments…turned into full-blown insults. Living with him very quickly became like living in an apartment made of glass. Cracked glass, to be more precise, because if anyone or anything made him even the slightest bit angry or tired or annoyed…then I’d get blamed for it; very…very loudly. Once he was done screaming in my face and trashing the place, he’d storm out and not come back for hours…sometimes not even until the next day, depending on what time his outbursts would happen. And when he eventually did, he’d be a mess; sobbing, apologizing, and literally begging me to forgive him and take him back…before gifting me with a new book to add to my personal library, sometimes to replace the one that he destroyed. And every single time…I would. Not for the books, but instead because by that point, I’d come to believe that as his wife, it was my responsibility to be there for my husband, to always support him no matter what, to honour the vows I made on our wedding day…even if it came at my own expense. Because if I didn’t…then who would?”

All of a sudden, Jay got up from his chair and walked briskly back to the kitchen. When Rebecca glanced over at Sam to see if she had any clue as to what that was all about, all the medium could give her was a confused shrug. But just as she was about to ask her husband what was going on, he returned to the dining room at a more normal pace, glass of water in one hand, and box of tissues in the other. 

Upon placing them both in front of the ebony-attired woman, he sat back down in his seat and nodded for her to resume as she was. After staring at him, then his wife, then at what he had brought her for a few more seconds, she finally relaxed and downed the glass in a single go, before drying her eyes and blowing her nose. She then placed the used tissues in the now empty glass, cleared her throat, and picked up where she left off.

“After about six years of living like this, he came home from work one day…actually looking happy for a change. Because he was happy. Because he’d gotten a promotion. For the first time in a long time, maybe even since the day he proposed to me, I too, felt genuinely happy…until he told me that his new position would require us to move up north…to Burlington, Vermont. That would mean that I’d have to give up my job with the New York Public Library, leave the city I called home for over fifteen years, throw away years of hard work…for him. When I told him all of that…he lost it.” She grabbed another couple of tissues to stop the fresh batch of tears her eyes had made from spilling down her face. “That was the day he laid his hands on me for the very first time; he shoved me up against the wall, grabbed my neck, and squeezed it so hard…I actually thought he was going to kill me right then and there. And then his grip loosened just enough for me to breathe, before he brought his face right up to mine. I’ll never forget what he said to me in that moment:

“‘You selfish little whore. Has your little retarded brain actually forgotten how long I’ve been trying to get this promotion? All the late nights and early mornings I worked; all the blood, sweat, and tears I put in, just to have even a chance to prove myself to my bosses? And now you have the audacity to tell me that you’d rather stay here…then support me? Is that what you’re saying right now? You know what? Fine, go ahead; I’ll go on to actually make something of myself, and you can stay here in New York City…alone. Good luck finding anyone else willing to put up with a washed-up, infertile, antisocial, forty-year-old criminal like you. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going out to celebrate with friends who’ll actually be happy for my success.’ He never apologized to me again after that night.

“Four months later, we’d finally gotten settled into our new two-storey house in Burlington. From the outside, our life couldn’t have been more perfect; we now had a home bigger than anyplace we lived before, I’d gotten a job at the local library, and he was now earning six figures a year. But while he was enjoying his corner office and making new friends in high places…I’d been forced to work in a small, cramped, and windowless room in the back of the library, and made to go through files six days a week…all for just ten dollars an hour; peanuts in 2016. But if I’m being completely honest, I wouldn’t hate working at that godforsaken branch, in that godforsaken room, with that godforsaken smell any less…even if I got paid a million dollars to do it. Seriously, the only good thing about that godforsaken job…is that it prevents me and Pete from having to see each other any more than we have to. But, of course…that hasn’t stopped him from getting physical with me if I so much as even look at him the wrong way, or finding other women to ‘satisfy’ himself with…or calling me every derogatory name under the sun every single chance he gets, with ‘Criminal’ being his favourite…or ‘Crimmy,’ for short.”

And with that, all ten main Woodstone residents, both living and dead, let out a sharp gasp of pure horror at the exact same time. But not even Issac could find it within himself to be happy about it, because that was also the exact same moment they realized that everything about Pete Schlumberger’s initial conduct yesterday morning, from his kindness to his chivalry to his supposedly endless love and concern for his wife, had been nothing but a lie, an act…a silver-plated facade.

One that they all blindly fell for.

“That’s why I stayed married to him all these years!” Rebecca suddenly raised her voice to declare, unable to hold either her emotions or tears back for even one second longer. “That’s why I put up with all of his abuse, and that’s why I allowed him to bring me back here to Woodstone Mansion when he looked it up and found that it’d since been turned into a Bed and Breakfast two weeks ago; because a tiny, little, wretched part of me refuses to stop believing…that I deserve it all; every bruise, every death threat, every sleepless night, every miscarriage…is the absolute least that I deserve for turning a sweet and loving wife into a widow, for depriving a poor, innocent little girl of her father…and for murdering a pillar of the community like Mister Pete Martino!!!”

And just like that, there was no longer a lanky, depressed, and horrifically abused 49-year-old woman sitting at the dining table, shrouded in black and bawling her eyes out. No, instead, there was a guilt-ridden, grief-stricken, and freshly traumatized nine-year-old girl in her place; one who had a bright future ahead of her.

One who loved her Pinecone Trooper family almost as much as her biological one.

One who just so happened to make a tragically irreversible mistake; one that she had clearly still not forgiven herself for, even after all these years.

For the first time since sitting down, Sam turned to face Jay directly to see how he was handling all of this, only to be met with the most beleaguered pair of eyes that she had ever seen him wear. And then she turned some more to check on the ghosts, where she found all of them looking genuinely and understandably upset as Rebecca’s harrowing wails continued to permeate every single room, wall, and soul within the historical house. Especially Issac and Hetty, due to the former’s experience with feeling undeserving of true unconditional love, and the latter knowing all too well what it was like to have a physically, psychologically, and financially abusive spouse. And then there was Pete, who looked nothing short of beside himself as he watched the wracked body of his old trooper convulse with each new sob that escaped her with anguished, unblinking eyes, wishing desperately that he could say or do something, anything, to make her stop.

“BECKY!!!”

  “Oh, no!” she squeaked as her entire body, tear ducts included, instantly went rigid with pure, almost animalistic fear upon hearing her husband furiously roar her name from the second floor.

“WHERE ARE YOU, YOU WORTHLESS, LAZY-ASS CUNT!?”

That was all Jay needed to hear before promptly getting up from the table, and making his way back to the kitchen for the second time that morning.

“YOU DARE LEAVE ME IN MY HOUR OF NEED?! WHEN I’M IN CRIPPLING PAIN!? YOU CALL YOURSELF A WIFE!?!?”

Just a few seconds later, he returned carrying the serving tray that Rebecca had prepared earlier, which he then proceeded to bring all the way up the stairs as fast as he could without spilling any of the liquids on it, and with a deadpan, but determined expression on his face. 

All while living Pete continued to scream at the top of his lungs.

“YOU BARELY MEET THE MINIMUM QUALIFICATIONS TO BE A WOMAN! YOU CAN’T EVEN DO THE ONE THING YOU WERE LITERALLY BORN TO DO!!! AND NOW YOU CAN’T EVEN BE BOTHERED TO DO THE ONE STUPIDLY SIMPLE THING I ASKED OF YOU?! I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR SCRAWNY ASS UP HERE WITH MY FOOD IN THE NEXT TEN SECONDS, I’M GONNA RIP YOUR GODDAMN ARMS OUTTA YOUR GODDAMN SOCKETS, AND USE THEM AS MY OWN PERSONAL BACKSCRATCH— ”

“Good morning, Mr. Schlumberger!” Jay greeted in the cheeriest tone he could summon as he found his guest clutching his stomach and leaning against the wall in the upstairs hallway. “How was everything last night?”

“WHERE’S MY WIFE?!?!” he bellowed in response, just as the professional chef got close enough to him to get a whiff of the remnants of near day-old alcohol on his breath, body, and clothes from yesterday. 

“Oof, smells like someone had a little too much to drink last night,” he remarked with the biggest smile he could force himself to wear, despite the fact that he wanted to throw up, run, and punch Pete right in his stupid face all at the same time instead. “I believe some coffee is in order? Along with a few other things, of course.”

“Where. Is. My. Wife?”

Never before had Jay come so close as to actually wanting to murder someone then in that very juncture. “Well, if you must know, she went to go and get some of the other foods from your list to help with your hangover. Pretty considerate of her, if I do say so myself.”

“Wait…what?” the insurance agent asked, genuinely taken aback by that answer.

“Oh, don’t worry; my wife went with her so that they could get everything you need in half the time. That’s Sam for you. We sure are a couple of lucky bastards to have found such kind and selfless women who wanted to marry us, am I right?”

“I, uh—”

“So it looks like you and me are gonna have the whole place all to ourselves for the next hour or so; plenty of time to get you back on the road to recovery."

“What? But—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Jay tutted as he began to herd Pete back into the dark bedroom that also reeked of stale liquor. “Not another word. You are getting back into that bed, and not leaving it until every last drop of alcohol has left your body, you got me?”

Meanwhile, back on the main floor, both Sam and Rebecca were standing at the edge of the foyer where the stairs met the second floor, so that they could hear everything going on above them, without the risk of being seen by living Pete. With bated breath, they listened intently as Jay’s voice became muffled as he entered the Schlumberger’s guest room, finally set the tray of food down, and went to close the door. The literal second it clicked shut, all of the stress keeping the librarian upright exited her body at once, causing her to collapse out of sheer emotional exhaustion, and leaving the young innkeeper with just barely enough time to catch her. 

At first she thought that Rebecca had fainted, and would now have to wait until Jay came back down to pick her up off the floor, and carry her to the living room. That was, until, she started crying all over again; not as loud as before, but definitely hard enough so that she was almost vibrating in her embrace.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, shhhhhh,” Sam soothed instinctually as she began rubbing Rebecca’s back in slow, gentle circles. And in turn, Rebecca wrapped her own arms around her torso as tightly as she could, and buried her face into her chest so that she could finish weeping in peace after having been so rudely interrupted earlier. “It’s okay…you’re okay.”

As soon as those words left her mouth, she felt like the dumbest person on the planet. Because Rebecca Natalie Schlumberger, née Harrison, was in fact, not okay. Because she had not been okay in a very, very long time, and she never would be okay ever again. Not unless—

It was at that moment that Samantha Arondekar’s, née Woodstone's, eyes went wide as she raised her head to glance over at the eight ghosts standing at a respectable distance from her and her middle-aged guest, physiognomies of concern and uncertainty having since replaced their previous upset and pitiful ones.

And then she got an idea.

Chapter Text

“Is it that sweet? I guess so

“Mmm, that’s that me espresso.” 

“Brava, brava! Oh, that was wonderful!” the one and only spectator applauded from just in front of the small, yet fancy stage of the small, yet fancy nightclub big enough to comfortably hold at least ninety-nine more people. “You, Miss Carpenter, are the textbook definition of an artist.”

“Oh, my darling Petey-Weety,” she giggled coyly as she sauntered offstage and right over to him, where she took the pink feather boa draped delicately around her shoulders, and wrapped it around his neck to pull him closer to her. “I already told you…Sabrina will do just fine.”

It was then that they both felt…a small bulge growing between them.

“Oh, you naughty little girl!” he scolded playfully as his face because a tomato upon looking down at himself, before sitting back down and crossing his legs to futilely try and hide it. “How many times do I have to tell you not to stimulate the beast down under…until I’m actually in bed first?”

She chuckled as she crossed her arms. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me, Pete-za Pie?”

“Yeah; shut your cute little mouth, and get your lollipop of an ass over there already!”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please, please, please?”

That gave her a good laugh before she turned around to start making her way to the back of the stage. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, okay, Pete Bog? Wouldn’t want me to get diagnosed with separation anxiety disorder, now would we?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my little blond popsicle!” he flirtatiously called out after her. As soon as she disappeared behind the curtain, he let out a content sigh and sank back into his plush velvet seat. “It’s good to be special. Oh, Ma’am, another can of the good stuff, if you may; I need my energy for what’s about to go down.” 

He then held a hand out to his left side, where his nameless personal maid silently and dutifully placed yet another ice cold can of beer; one that he immediately cracked open and took a long swig from, all without once taking his eyes off of where the pop star less than half his age had slipped away to.

And then he spewed it all back out like a living volcano.

“OH, GOD!” he yelled in disgust before glancing down at the can. “What the hell is—? ‘Lemon Ginger Kombucha!?’” That alone made him angry enough to get out of his seat, so that he could confront his birdbrained maid head on. “WHAT ON—?!”

“Hello, Petey-Weety.”

Only to find a teenage boy that he had never seen before wearing animal hide clothes, beads and eagle feathers in his black, chest-length hair, and a countenance that was just as, if not, more unimpressed than his voice, standing in her place with his arms crossed. 

But that was all his mind was able to process before a gust of wind suddenly blew in his face, causing him to briefly close his eyes, and stumble backwards a few steps.

“Ah! Hey! Who do you—?”

Once again, whatever accusatory question he was all set to pose died on the tip of his tongue as soon as he opened his eyes. Because the nightclub that he was literally just in had been replaced with a featureless, and seemingly infinite field of perfectly manicured grass. It was unnaturally silent, shrouded in fog, and if the light was anything to go by, early evening. For some reason.

“What in the…? Where the hell am I?” he asked himself out loud, unsure whether to feel amazed or scared at his new predicament. Or both. “What’s going on here? And who the hell was that?”

“Your conscience.”

He whipped his head around to look behind him…and saw nothing.

“Or your stomach.” 

Somehow, his already wide eyes got even wider as he realized that the Indian boy’s disembodied voice was coming…from all around him.

“Or your own personal sleep paralysis demon. There’s really no way of knowing anymore.”

“You…” he exhaled, fully committed to being scared out of his wits now. “Where are you? How do you know my name?”

“Are you kidding me?” the boy scoffed in mock amusement. “How do I not know your name, is more like it. I’ve been watching you, Pete-za Pie. From the moment you got here, and I have to say…I’m quite disappointed in you. So I decided to enter your dreams to have a little chat with you, one-on-one; man…to man-child.” 

Dreams?

After repeating that word in his head, all of his fear quickly turned into fury.

“You…little…brat,” he snarled as he raised his gaze to the overcast grey sky before him, and sneered. “I shoulda known. You think you can scare me? You don’t know bullshit about me, and I’m certainly not dreaming right now. I know myself. I know what’s real. And I know for a fact that you…” He jabbed a finger in the direction he was glaring at. “…have no power over me, no matter how much you may wish you did.” He then lowered that hand to clench it into a fist. “Now unless you want some real trouble, I highly suggest you get me outta this dump, and take me back to that nightclub now. Because I just so happened to make some very important plans with a very…special someone there, and I don’t plan to keep her waiting.”

CRAAA-AAAA-AAAACK!!!

One sudden, ear-splitting thunderclap, lighting up the cloudy expanse above him for a single second.

That was all it took to shut him up, and strike a fresh batch of raw, primal fear right into his heart.

“Don’t plan to keep her waiting, huh?” the omnipresent voice scoffed again. Except this time, all of its taunting lightheartedness was gone, and in its place was pure, unrestrained animosity. “How very…gentlemanly of you, just like when you made your poor wife wait for you outside a bar for almost six hours yesterday.” 

That last part was enough to make him reopen his eyes, and slowly return his unblinking gaze to the sky, now near pitch-black with dark, angry clouds.

“And, just between you and me,” the teen then added. “The real Sabrina Carpenter would never go anywhere near you, much less make out with you. Not even for a million dollars.”

“What do you want from me?” he whimpered, too terrified to even think about getting offended as he sat in a shaky fetal position on the grass. “Why am I here? What even is this place?”

“Oh, come now, Pete Bog, I thought you were smarter than that. You seriously don’t recognize where you are right now?”

“NO, I DON’T, OKAY!? NOW STOP PLAYING WITH ME!!!” he screamed in the most unthreatening voice, but still with enough force to stand back up before rasping a desperate “Please…” under his breath.

“I see,” the voice finally replied after several eternity-long seconds. “Well, then…maybe this will jog your memory.”

And just like that, he felt something materialize within both of his shaky, balled-up hands. So against his better judgement, he looked down to see what they were.

“What the…?”

That was the only response he could come up with as he stared at the beginner-level bow in his right hand, and its accompanying arrow in his left in anticlimactic confusion.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he scoffed in incredulity. “Some force of nature you are. Are you sure you’re actually trying to scare me? I’ve seen Saturday morning cartoons that were scarier than—” 

THUD

Upon hearing something heavy land on the ground right behind him, he jumped back with an extremely manly high-pitched yelp, and turned to see what it was.

Muscles into stone. 

Skin into ants. 

Stomach acid into tungsten.

That was what he felt like was happening to his body all at once as he inadvertently made eye contact with the newly dead body lying face up in the grass. It was that of a middle-aged-looking White man with short dark hair, glasses, and wearing some sort of scoutmaster uniform that honestly made him look rather nerdy. 

But that was not what filled him with absolute horror. No; that honour went to the arrow that had impaled the corpse’s neck almost perfectly from the side, which might have actually looked comical in and of itself, were it not for the slowly-growing puddle of dark, glossy blood that it was now half-submerged in.

And then he heard it.

Chanting.

Distant, monotonous, synchronized chanting that, just like the Indigenous teenager’s voice, sounded like it was coming from all around him. And like it was getting closer with each passing second. So despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to run until his legs gave out, or he vomited, or both, he instead took a deep breath, held his ground…and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Until finally, after God knows how long, he could make out what was being chanted. 

“Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

That word alone was more than enough to instantly turn all of his internal organs into ice.

And then he saw it. Or, them, cutting through the fog.

People. Dozens upon dozens of people marching towards him from every single direction, leaving no room whatsoever for him to escape; all without faces, all wearing police officer uniforms, and all chanting that same goddamned word.

“Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

Soon enough, there were well over a hundred humanoid cops screaming at him. And yet, somehow, he just… knew that there were far, far more behind the ones visible from where he was standing, right in the now massive pool of blood.

Wait…WHAT!?

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, NO!!!” he wailed before moving his legs to wade the hell out of that vile, shin-deep pond of thick, crimson body fluid that reeked of rusty metal. 

Only to find that he could not.

“NO!!! OH GOD, PLEASE, NO!!!!”

“MURDERER! MURDERER! MURDERER!”

It was not until he moved his hands to cover his ears to hopefully shut out at least some of the now deafening chants, that he realized he was still holding onto the bow and arrow. So naturally, he tried to throw them as far away as possible.

Only to find himself physically incapable of opening his white-knuckled hands.

“WHY?!?!?!?!”

“MURDERER!!! MURDERER!!! MURDERER!!!”

“Alright…alright, you win!” he sobbed in defeat, eyes squeezed shut as tears poured down his face. “I’m sorry, okay?! Just please stop this, I’m begging you…”

“MURDERER!!! MURDERER!!! MURDERER!!!”

After being forced to listen to this horde of authoritatively attired figures accuse him of killing the man laying lifeless next to him at the top of their lungs for a good moment, he could no longer take it, and opened his eyes once again.

Only to find all of them looming over him.

At first, he thought that they were gradually growing taller, as if he did not already feel small enough in their presence. That was, until, he looked down, where another wave of horror promptly washed over him as he saw that the blood was now up to his thighs.

He was sinking.

And yet, he did not scream, or cry, or thrash, or plead; he just silently accepted his fate as the warm, red liquid steadily swallowed his waist, then torso, then arms, then chest, then neck.

Then, and only then, did…he step out, now donned in a matching law enforcement outfit, and the only one in the crowd with an actual discernible face; one that looked no less unimpressed than it did the first time. Once he reached the edge of the blood pond, he stopped, crossed his arms, and slowly shook his head.

“Not yet, you’re not,” the Native American youth declared phlegmatically, his voice somehow rising above the screaming chants. And then he smirked. “But you will be; I can promise you that…” he added as he then playfully cocked his head, before booming out in a distorted voice, “ScUm.”

Just as the blood rose over his eyes.