Chapter Text
Oakhurst wasn’t really much of a town, Legundo decided. Yes, there were walls that kept most of the night creatures out, but inside of the walls? There wasn’t really much there. A few run down and fragmented buildings, an old tower that had crumbled into nothing, and some sort of tomb? He wasn’t fully sure, but either way Legundo wasn’t impressed.
Despite what he might think about the town, there were people here. Stupid, ignorant, and often loud people, but people nonetheless. People that deserved his care should they need it. People who sounded borderline insane, screaming about vampires and wanting to kill others because of these crazed ideas. People who disliked nobility as much as he did, turning their nose up at a few of the better dressed folks in town. There were people who weren’t either of these things, just trying to live a quiet life, make a home for themselves, or live without fear.
And then there was Owen. A stranger that Legundo didn’t interact with much, but the doctor could see that he had some sort of condition. He was quiet, kept to himself for the most part, and avoided touch whenever he could. Legundo had wanted to approach him several times, if only to offer him cleaner bandages than the ones that covered his hands. But he refrained from doing so because of one thing.
Owen was never alone. A spector hovered over his shoulders, watching him. Following him. Haunting him.
Perhaps Legundo should explain.
The first spirit the doctor saw was when he was but a boy. He had been playing with a group of boys his age when he got separated from them and ended up by the river. There, he saw a spector of sorts. Pale, softly glowing, and hovering a few inches off the ground. Their clothes clung to their skin as if they had just pulled themselves out of the water. Their hair, floated slightly around their body. And their eyes were pale, empty of life and soul as they turned to Legundo. “Oh…you shouldn’t be here, little one.” The spector’s voice was light, airy, and echoed around the young boy as he stared. “The current is dangerous, it’d pull a small thing like you down without a care.”
“Who are you?” Legundo questioned, standing still as the spirit rose to its full height. Water dripping to the ground, yet never landing. Empty eyes turned towards the river as they drifted closer to him.
“I do not know, names are the first thing to go.” The spirit reached a hand out, cold fingers brushed against Legundo’s cheek, yet he didn’t pull away. “All I remember is the cold water in my lungs. I remember the panic and trying to kick to the surface, but something held me down. My death was cruel, but I remember not the reason behind it.”
Legundo swallowed thickly as he stared at the spirit, “Can I help you? You shouldn’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”
The spirit’s laugh was gentle, kind, but sad. “I cannot leave, little one. My very soul is tied to this river, I cannot leave until my desire is fulfilled.”
Legundo should have left, he was only a child. What could a child do for a spirit. Instead? He asked the question that he’d find himself repeating many times over. “How can I help?”
The spirit’s eyes widened before a real smile spread across their face. “When I was alive, I loved colours and paint. I used to want to paint the very sky with something beautiful. I came to this river to capture the beautiful blue of the water and the brilliant white of snow. Will you help me paint one last time?” Legundo’s response was easy.
The next six months, Legundo’s parents would tell anyone who listened that their boy had become very strange. He requested oil paints and brushes for his birthday, asked for a journal to sketch in, and would often disappear to the river for hours on end. Taking his journals, his paints, and brushes with him. The town children would give him a wide berth, whispering to themselves that they heard Legundo talking to himself. Asking questions to the air, laughing at things no one else could hear, yet was far more perceptive than any of them were. After a year, Legundo presented a painting to his parents and the town as a whole.
It was a painting of the river in the winter. The last thing the spirit–who introduced himself as Marco–had seen before falling under and drowning. Legundo felt like he hadn’t done his best to capture the vision of the spirit, but his parents were astonished. The skill and technique was apparently like nothing they had seen before. But it was the reaction of one old man that made Legundo believe he did the painting justice. The old man had seen the painting and promptly fell to his knees, screaming forgiveness to Legundo, begging him to forgive his mistakes. Spouting nonsense before the town guards took the old man away. It was only two days later that the truth came out. A young man and former student of the old man had been murdered by his hands, jealous of his eye for detail and love for painting. The man passed away in jail due to his guilt and fear, and the town moved on. Murmuring that they’d never thought the old man was a killer, if not for Legundo’s painting.
“I must thank you, little one.” Marco told him after the news of the old man’s death reached him and his parents. “Thank you for allowing me to paint one last time, and thank you for helping me find my justice.”
“I don’t think I did anything.” Legundo muttered, staring at the painting of the winter river. “What will you do now?”
“I don’t know, but something tells me that I’ll be able to move on now. Perhaps I’ll pick up my brushes again and paint the sky for you.” Marco smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead. “You have a kind heart, little one. Never forget that, no matter might try to tell you otherwise.”
“Are you leaving now?” Legundo asked, feeling sorrowful all at once, hands reaching for the ghost. Only for them to phase through as tears welled in his eyes. “Please don’t go, you’re my friend!”
“All good things must come to an end.” Marco said kindly, “I thank you for bringing me comfort after nearly thirty years of loneliness. Keep my paints close to your heart. But this is goodbye.” Before his eyes, Legundo watched his friend of a year and a half disappear. Like fog lifting, he faded from Legundo’s vision, leaving the boy hollowed out and distraught.
The next morning, when his parents noticed his red eyes and asked what was wrong. The little boy said he felt bad about the young painter that had died before painting one last time. That he wished the painter had more time. And that he wondered if they could’ve been friends. His mother smiled as she placed a cup of warm tea in front of him. “You have a kind heart, my darling. I think if circumstances were different, maybe you could have been.” Legundo nodded, and said nothing else about the ghost.
Marco was his first ghost, but he would not be his last. As Legundo grew, he met others. A young girl who died due to sickness. A boy who was crushed under a cart. An old lady who passed away in her sleep. There were others, some who Legundo interacted with to complete simple requests. Deliver this letter to my loved one. Put a teddy bear underneath this tree. Light this candle for me. Easy enough, simple tasks. None of them remained, all departing the same way Marco had. Grateful smiles and words of thanks. Some left him little gifts. A book on the human body. A stuffed bear that Legundo tucked away safe in his room. A few coins that Legundo stuffed in his father’s bag.
Legundo saw ghosts, and ghosts saw him. For a while, this was fine.
Then the war came knocking.
War was…it was awful. The scent of gunpowder, the heat, the whistling of bombs, the sting of strapnel embedding iself into his body. Ghosts were a dime a dozen on the battlefield. Showing all sorts of states of bloody gore and wounds that showed how they died. Gunshot wounds, lost limbs, gaunt faces, pale faces with blood trickling out from their mouths, half mangled corpses torn apart by bombs going off from under their feet. All of them, their eyes hollow as they wandered the battlefield.
Some of the ghosts were angry. Upset that they died whilst the noblility officials got to keep living, sending so many of their brothers into the jaws of death without a care in the world. They screamed, sharp like razor wire and explosive in their anger. Some of them were sad. Trying and failing to plead with their fellow soldiers to make other choices, to turn left instead of right, to stop fighting and save their lives rather than follow the orders of a cushy noble who’d never see battle. Those ghosts wept as their fellow brothers got shot, ghostly hands held other dying soldiers as they screamed in agony. So many cried for the loved ones who’d never see them again. Then there were the jealous ones. The ones that haunted the doctor, asking what was so different about them that he couldn’t save them. The ones who’s jealousy and envy burned into his back as he did his best to save as many as he could.
Legundo felt like he was going insane. Forced to listen to all of them as he stitched wounds close. As he carved off limbs. As he made tough choices to save as many as he could. As he sent wounded men back out onto the battlefield, willingly sending them to die. As he did everything he could to atone for the pain and suffering he was causing.
It wasn’t enough, it’d never be enough.
At night, Legundo scarcely slept. Hands covered his ears as he tried to drown out the voices of every ghost he failed to save. Every ghost that he personally sent back out onto the field. Every ghost that died by his hands. Every ghost that suffered because of him. They pleaded, screamed, sobbed, and begged for just a moment of the doctor’s attention. They needed his help. They wanted to pass on. They wanted him to suffer as well. They would never leave him. Legundo could only press his hands over his ears harder. In those nights, he thought of Marco and his words, “You have a kind heart, never forget that.” Did he? He felt like a monster, hands stained red with empty eyes, numb to all the gore around him.
Legundo left the battlefield haunted, literally. He left the trenches with duller eyes, shaking hands, and a string of guilt that spanned miles. His ghosts followed at his heels, every dead man’s face, every bloody wound he couldn’t fix, it all attempted to pull him into an early grave. Legundo did what he could to help those ghosts trapped forever on the battlefield pass on. He poured out final drinks, he wrote down names in a journal, he delivered letters to ghosts’ families, and he burnt photos of soldiers. He mourned, he drank, he gave up for a long while.
Now he was in Oakhurst. Watching a ghost hover around Owen, studying him with sorrowful eyes, pleading eyes. Standing in front of the lumberjack as if hoping the man would see him. He never did, in all of Legundo’s years walking the earth, he knew no one else who could communicate with spirits. Not like him. Not how he could. He watched Owen walk straight through the specter, leaving them standing at the old rotting gates of the town. Were they tied to the town, or did they haunt the general area? Surely they could follow Owen if they wished, but…what connection was there? Against his better judgement, Legundo approached the ghost.
The ghost was handsome, Legundo could admit that. With a sharp jawline and long silver hair, Legundo had to wonder what their role had been in life. Considering their posture, it felt like they had been in some sort of leadership role, a real leadership role. Not an aristocratic one like Scott or Martyn, but one that got his hands dirty. One that knew the toll leadership and power could take on a person. His hair hovered off his shoulders, as if he was submerged underwater. His eyes were a dull red, fixated on the treeline that Owen had disappeared into. He was sharply dressed, a black vest over a maroon shirt, and black pants. A black shoulder cape covered their shoulders, holding a hints of scorch marks. Cuffs encircled his wrists, the metal fused to his skin. A thin line of blood trickled out from the corner of his mouth, bruises decorated his skin that was painting a worrying picture to the doctor.
Legundo eyed the ghost a little longer, struggling to figure out how to get his attention without appearing as another mad individual. They already had Avid and his insistence on vampires, they didn’t need to suspect the doctor as being mad as well. He took a deep breath, ready to clear his throat and attempt to get the ghost’s attention when– “Everything okay, Doc?” Both Legundo and the ghost startled, turning, Legundo saw Clea standing behind him. An axe in one hand while the other rested on their hip. Her eyes narrowed at Legundo, as if he was a puzzle they had yet to figure out.
“Yes! Yes, I’m fine. I’m…I’m sorry, I was just distracted.” The doctor explained hastily, eyes darting to the ghost. He watched the ghost’s eyes grow wide as they realised that he could see them. “I thought I saw something, but I may have imagined it.” Legundo lied, clearing his throat before gesturing to the woods. “I think I’m going to go out and collect some more materials for my clinic.”
Cleo narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing before she relented. “Alright, be back before nightfall, would you? There are some dangerous things out there that come out at night.” Legundo nodded, stepping past the rotted gates before making his way to the treeline. He only hoped that the ghost would follow him.
He stepped under the shade of a tall tree, letting out the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding. Taking a moment to collect himself, he mentally prepared himself for all sorts of situations. Would this ghost be angry? Upset? Were they wronged? Who were they? What did they want? Legundo could only brace himself as he turned around, but what he saw, he hadn’t expected. The ghost stared at him with wide eyes, rich red, almost like the colour of blood stared at him. Hopeful, excited, but so cautious. “You…you can see me? Yes?” Legundo swallowed thickly, then nodded once. Sharp, but there. He watched a bright smile bloom across the ghost’s face. Flashing a white smile with a pair of sharpened teeth. They were far sharper than any teeth Legundo had seen before, how strange. “That’s brilliant!” The ghost gushed, leaning forward into Legundo’s space. The doctor took a small step back as the ghost beamed at him. “Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve gotten to talk to anyone! This is perfect! You can talk to Owen!”
“Owen?” Legundo blinked, then frowned, “What about him? Why are you haunting him?”
“He’s my beloved!” The ghost gushed, laughing to himself as he spun in a wide circle around the doctor. “We knew each other while I was alive. Oh, this is wonderful! You can tell him everything! I’ve tried to talk to him, but he can’t hear me. But it’ll be different with you here!”
“Hold on–” Legundo started to protest, trying to follow the ghost as they pulled themselves into a ball, as if to contain their excitement. Their form flickered, the cuffs disappearing, their clothes became cleaner, no longer coated in soot or burn marks. “Wait–”
“Yes, this is wonderful, I’ve missed him and his embrace. God, how I long to hold him again, he’s so wonderful and sweet, I’m sure you’ve seen it. He can be a bit prickly, but please don’t hold it against him. It’s all he known until we met, but–”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Legundo cut the ghost off, waving his hands to silence the ghost. His mind was spinning as he tried to piece together everything the ghost said. Owen knew the ghost, that made things both easier, but also much harder. Loved ones of ghosts normally didn’t take too kindly to him approaching them to share their parting wishes. The only reason Legundo managed to get away with it after the war was because he could say that he was part of their unit. Even then, most didn’t react well to being told their loved one was gone. “You know Owen?”
“Yes, that is what I said.” The ghost nodded, suddenly more subdued, sheepish even. They brought a hand up to toy with a few locks of their floating hair. Their long nails parted the hair as they began to braid it. “We were lovers.”
Right…that. It wasn’t the strangest thing Legundo had heard of, he had been aware that changes had been happening according to who was allowed to love who. It was a slow change, but change nonetheless. Despite those changes and the slow acceptance, Legundo was more than aware that certain people–notably the church–continued to spout hateful things about people who loved “wrong”. Legundo had a sinking feeling that perhaps this ghost died because of a hateful group. “Did…forgive me for asking, but may I ask how you passed?” Legundo asked, bracing for the worst.
Sure enough, the ghost’s expression hardened. Their image flickered, revealing a man with chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles, the metal melted and fused to the skin. His clothes were ratty and old, covered in dirt, blood, and soot. Fire covered their feet with the scent of smoke and ash so heavy, Legundo feared there truly was a fire. “They took me from him, planted evidence of the occult on my person and when I couldn’t answer their questions, they threw me on the pyre and cheered.” The ghost seethed, “My dying moments were watching my beloved find me, he had to watch me burn, I heard his screams above the cheering of the people I sacrificed centuries of my life helping! All for what? For power? If they asked, I would have gladly stepped down, I wouldn’t have cared. I was tired of leading them anyways, if they wanted to destroy their precious town for a powerplay, then fine. They hurt him for years before we met, shunned him and called him names, and when I had the chance to finally embrace him, they killed me.” The words were full of rage, sorrow, and hate. The ghost’s face softened as he looked away. Their appearance flickered, overlaying with the clothes Legundo had first seen him wear. “If they wanted my place, they only needed to ask. I would have given it freely, I didn’t care. I just wanted him, I just wanted to live my life with him. Not alone anymore.”
Legundo’s heart ached as he studied the ghost. He was killed for loving a man and because others wanted his role in town. He had to watch Owen suffer whilst the people around him cheered for his death. “That’s awful, I…” Legundo bowed his head, “I’m so sorry.”
“My only regret with my death was that I had to leave him behind. I never thought…I never imagined it’d turn out like this.” The ghost sighed, shoulders slumping as they drifted closer to Legundo. “He’s never moved on, you understand? He has mourned and grieved me for so long. I only wish he’d let go of the pain. It’s only hurting him, it’s holding him back. I want him to move on, find something or someone that makes him smile again.” The ghost paused, mournful as he confessed something quietly. “His smiles were my favourite thing, they brightened my days, made the stacks of paperwork worth it. I…I miss him.”
Legundo nodded, grief was difficult, it was perhaps stronger than guilt. He thought for a moment, then spoke those familiar words he asked every ghost. “How can I help?”
The ghost’s eyes widened, “You…you want to help me? You…you don’t even know me.”
“I know that you’re suffering, I know that what happened to you was unfair, and I know that you deserve to move on and rest.” Legundo argued, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he glanced back at Oakhurst and it’s rotting foundations. “Everyone deserves that, if nothing else, they deserve rest and peace. I came to this town to help people, it doesn’t matter if they’re dead or undead. If I can help, then I want to.”
The ghost stared at the doctor before a soft smile spread across his face. “You have my thanks, young man.” Legundo chuckled, watching the smile grow stronger at the sound of his laugh. “I just realised, I never introduced myself. How rude of me.”
“It’s not like I was offering my name up either,” Legundo reasoned, holding a hand out to the ghost. “My name is Legundo, but I’ve gotten the nickname of “Legs” during my time in the military.”
“Ah, a fighter, then?”
“Not anymore, I…prefer to refrain from needless fighting.”
“That, I can understand.” The ghost reached out, fingers phasing through Legundo’s, but he tried all the same. “My name is Lewis, previous mayor of Oakhurst.”