Author's Note: Contains teen drug use, idiots, and haunting imagery. Also, fair warning—this chapter is packed.

Enjoy!

… … …

"...Anyone else think Arnold looks… kinda scary when he gets mad?"

"Yes," Eugene said, without hesitation.

Helga cocked a brow, but kept her comments to herself.

She was sure that Wyatt, if he'd stuck around the boys cabin where she idled with the guys after they'd retrieved a panicked, run-away Sid, would have agreed. Though, now graced with a more thorough account of their exchange that went far beyond the spartan, yet telling note Brainy had slipped her that day, which had sparked her own 'encounter' with Arnold shortly after—she figured Wyatt would say that Arnold could intimidate just fine without even needing to be mad.

Standing off by a set of stacked bunks across the boys, and making sure no one could watch her over their shoulder, Helga pulled out the handwritten letter Brainy had slipped her last night at the mess hall, skimming over it for the hundredth time. A stark contrast to the note that set off their recent turn of events, she mused, noting his trend of bouncing to extremes in his writing—either way too wordy, or not wordy enough, but maddening either way.

You couldn't knock his freakishly good recall, though.

Helga,

Behold, their encounter, this time in detail and to the best of my recollection, enclosed as requested. As far as they knew, they were the only ones by the lockers at that time. As much as I'd like to recount their conversation in more detailed, narrative prose, I'll keep to the spirit of "brevity from others" that you so value. Or, at least to the best of my ability. Maybe I've already said too much in just my preamble. Alas.

I didn't hear the beginning of it, when Arnold approached Wyatt—not until I'd advanced to a better position. I'm sure you understand, a former lurker yourself.

The first I heard was Arnold addressing Wyatt, casually, about you—mentioning how you'd been doing better lately, your home life. Congratulations on that, by the way. That good news was overdue. You know I'm always cheering you on—from afar, of course, as you know. Nevertheless, I digress.

"All the more reason a girl like her wouldn't be interested in a guy like you," he'd said.

Wyatt, understandably miffed, I think, asked him, "What's that supposed to mean?"

I couldn't see Arnold's face during the whole exchange, as I was facing his back, see—but I could watch Wyatt's face the entire time. I must confess, Helga, I unfortunately can't remember everything he said word for word, so I'll summarize his reply here.

He essentially told Wyatt, "Come on, look at the other girls you've dated," listed them off, and accused him of going after girls he thought were "damaged goods" to try and "rescue" them with his helpful, "nice guy" attitude.

Harsh, I thought. But perhaps not untrue. I've watched Wyatt, too. Anyway, of course he was offended, became defensive, etc. Asked Arnold who he thought he was. I will tell you, his reply wasn't brief. Here is the best of my recollection:

"A friend of hers," he'd replied, taking a step closer to Wyatt as he did, before saying the rest. "And if you think you've seen her worst, or that she's all bark and harmless, then you have another thing coming. A girl like that, she doesn't care for others easily. Rub her the wrong way, or waste her time—and she'll rip you to shreds. And she'd be good at it."

I hate to say it, but I'll do so with the utmost respect—he's not wrong, you know.

Arnold took another step towards Wyatt—who, I have to say, was rather unnerved by him, taking another step back in kind. I don't think he even realized he had.

"And if there's anything else I know about Helga, it's that she doesn't fool around. So, for your sake, I suggest you not even try with her, unless you're serious."

He took another step here, and this time, Wyatt actually backed up against his locker without meaning to. Of course, even if we'd never seen this from Arnold before, we've still seen how he can get nowadays. But had Wyatt? Had any of our classmates, his close friends aside? Arnold continued, his voice lowered, but I could still hear him. And so, absolutely, could Wyatt, who stared at him in cornered, wordless disbelief.

"Are you?"

There was tense silence before Arnold shrugged, speaking casually again. At least at first; his voice grew softer and lower again as he went on. His head cocked.

"But, hey, I can't tell you what to do. That choice is on you. But, I know this girl, so. Believe it or not, but I am looking out for you, too. Not just her. And right now, you're not even on her radar. So, I mean it—ask yourself. She worth that risk to you? Being an enemy? "

To be fair, even if I could wheeze out more than a few words at a time on a good day, I'd still have been just as speechless as Wyatt. Then Arnold said, "Just think about it," before taking off to the library.

…And the rest is history. I hope these details are of some use; I'll leave their interpretation up to you.

Til next time,

Brian

She pursed her lips—biting, in fact, her lower one as she did, just to keep a straight face, or as straight as she could get it. The letter returned to her back shorts pocket, its creases refolded, crisp and sharp. Her gaze dragged up balefully from the beaten, hardwood cabin floor, and up to the window from where the hanging noose was visible earlier that morning.

Oh, she had an interpretation, alright.

And, oh, they were still talking about him, too. Huh.

Speak of the Devil.

"I mean, sure, no one slept well last night, not with that racket."

"And your racket," Peapod kid grumbled, nursing his temples. Sig ignored him.

"B-but at least, when I was like… freaking out, you guys would at least say something to me. Not like Arnold cared."

"But didn' he console yah there, Sid?" Stinky asked, gesturing sluggishly.

"Yeah, but only the first time!" Sid retorted, ignoring one of the guys in the corner who scoffed in response. "After that, when he woke up and saw me, he just put on his headphones and checked out. Freakin'... cold, man."

Sid clutched his tiny blunt, shivering as he sucked down the rest—his first in a while, she figured, as he was one of the last campers anyone else wanted to see get high, his paranoia legendary enough. But he'd managed to nick it during his run earlier, she guessed. He'd offered to share, but only the rest of his Idiot Trio joined him, the rest who'd otherwise accept having enough common sense to know that being kinda freaked out enough, underslept, and with Sid, would not be a good hand of cards to get blazed with. Not to mention they had a ton of festival prep lined up that day.

"Yeah," Harold added, arms wrapped around his knees while rocking on the floor, "he really didn't used to be like that."

"If you say so," said Carl absently as he laced his sneakers, another guy who'd joined their ranks from P.S. 119 when they moved on to Junior High. He stood up and shrugged. "Seemed pretty normal to me."

"Yeah, I mean, what," the guy who scoffed earlier, Ian, spoke up, "you expected him to like, babysit you or something?" Carl sniggered, trading smirks with him.

"What? No! Man, shut—" Sid shook his head, gesturing impatiently, "I'm telling you, you didn't know him, man!"

"He was the kinda guy who'd stick by your side, a-and never give up on you," Eugene added, his face brightened with a nostalgic smile, before it dimmed with hesitant discomfort, his gaze skittering away. "...E-even if you'd told him you wanted him to, heh."

"I loathe to admit it," Curly added, sitting with his arms and legs crossed on his top bunk, his dislike for Arnold evident as always, "but even I miss him being a giant, self-righteous people-pleaser. "

There were some half-nods in response to that from the old crew— 'harsh, but true,' Peapod Kid admitted in the back, reaching under his bed for something.

"A-and, when his hair was big?"

"Dude, right? I thought I was the only one! It's like, down, now," Sid gestured, hands drawing down his hat, mimicking parted bangs that angled all the way down to his ears.

"...An' when he use'ta cheer us on?"

"And smiled?"

Helga scoffed at that. Exaggeration, much? Sure, he was a helluva lot moodier and sulkier than he used to be, but she'd seen him smile plenty—especially those small, sly smiles and smirks he'd sneak at her. And he'd still chuckle, even laugh big sometimes—just rarely. And it wasn't just her, she'd seen it with Gerald, and with Abner, and…

She sat down on the nearest bunk at last, absently, and noticed with a start that the soft fabric her hand had touched was, in fact, his flannel. And his sketchbook, opened on a drawing of the lighthouse, rested next to it. She shuddered. Her heart pounded, realization hitting her.

Was she one of the only few people who still made him smile?

She flipped the top page of his sketchbook without thinking, ignoring the voice in the back of her mind berating her for invading his privacy, even if the damn thing was out in the open. Sure, he may not have cared if the guys flipped through it, but she knew well enough that it was private from her.

She flipped page after page anyway.

She didn't care.

Next was a drawing of Princess the cat, belly up the grass. Then the weird salted pines above the rocks. Some loose sketches of the guys, passed out in their bunks, the varying weights of his gestural marks and attention to detail indicating a skill honed beyond his natural talent.

He'd always been fairly well-rounded, enjoying sports, science and their other classes. And while she loved competition and swinging a bat like the rest, and admired his 'dangerous lumber,' there was always a part of her that went quiet with awe when he created—being a creature of creation herself, however guarded and private. He'd always loved art, and liked sculpting, and drawing—he'd even hung out at a natural history exhibit with her last summer, just to draw the prehistoric models they saw. While she, unbeknownst to him, described her observation of her muse with an aching, poetic flourish that never saw the light of day.

While he hardly played sports or shared an open appreciation for school anymore, anytime she saw him draw it brought her a kind of relief, like he was still in touch with and nourishing something that was still innately him.

The next page was a portrait of Gerald and Phoebe on a log, watching a fire with companionable contentment.

When she flipped the next page she stopped, her throat thick.

"Well, to be fair," Peapod Kid rubbed his chin, "I don't recall him smiling too much back in the day, anyway. He was more of a… level-headed optimist. "

"And a buttinski, " Harold added, finger pointing importantly.

It was a drawing of her, with her hand clamped over her mouth as tears ran down her face. From that day at the shelter.

Her mouth went dry.

Had he… really committed the sight to memory…?

"True."

She flipped to the next page.

"Ye-up."

Her gaze scattered across its surface, covered in disjointed sketches of still lives, before they darted at last to the top right corner, where a drawing of his had been crossed out with harsh, scrambling lines.

Her eyes widened when she realized what he'd covered. If he'd shown the page to anyone else they wouldn't have caught its meaning.

But when he tried to hide the drawing he'd made, of a clenched hand pushing a captured wrist against a bookshelf, she knew what it meant.

Her breath quickened.

Hand trembling, she turned another page, and she swallowed, her brow furrowing.

Almost all of the sketches on the next page had been of her.

Sure, there were others. She spotted Sid, Stinky and Harold, even their portly math teacher writing equations on the dry erase board. But the rest were all her.

All looking away from him, her profile slanting down as she wrote on a binder, being the closest he came to drawing her face—and she looked focused. The drawing, the largest one, also came across as too honest, as she knew some would say, lacking any flattering embellishments that typified a portrait. But his details, even the softer marks and smudges he'd made across the features of her face, showed a patient consideration and care that made her lungs sputter.

For every time she'd ever caught him eyeing her, how many stolen glances remained uncaught?

Did she even have any idea?

"I mean, not that he won't get on our case or warn us anymore, but..."

"Yeah, it's... different."

"He lets us face consequences of our actions now," Sid said, his eyes glazed. "I miss not having to do that."

"Well, I reckon we all gonna grow up sooner or later," Stinky lamented sagely, his drawl slowed to a crawl.

The boys all jolted when the morning bell rang, jumpy as they were, despite expecting it. Even Helga flinched, looking up as they scattered meaningful looks at each other. They'd all agreed to not bring up the noose—the skeptics not wanting to embolden the pranksters and writing it off as a messed up, harmless prank. And the believers, like Sid, paling at the prospect of having to face the day now that the bell had called them to get up and get a move on, and not wanting to talk about it more. He looked slightly nauseous.

With their flurry of activity, Helga quickly flipped all the pages back to leave the sketchbook how she found it—then paused, realizing there was another recent sketch he'd done that she'd missed, one he'd drawn after the lighthouse…

A woman with long, pale hair walking in the fog by the lighthouse grounds, dress blown and noose trailing from her neck. Her face and body cast a dark silhouette, her features mostly indistinguishable. But, eyes fresh after scanning through his sketches of her, a particular feature of her profile did stand out.

The woman had her nose.

Helga shook her head and turned the page back to the lighthouse with a rueful half-smile, leaving it there.

She joined the guys as they stepped out of the cabin and loitered a moment outside the entrance, none too enthusiastic to start their day. She coughed as Sid sprayed himself, his friends, and the dwelling afterward with febreze. Jesus. Be prepared, much?

"Hey, Frida," a raspy voice called out, turning heads.

Helga looked up the sloping path that passed the cabin on the way to the mess hall and spotted the twins making their way down, eyerolling as some of the Hillwood crew laughed.

"Her name's Helga, dude!"

The twins stopped as though shocked, mingling with their small crowd. Mop-head put his hand to his chest in mock shock. "What? Oh, no way, dude."

"Indeed," Peapod Kid replied, his voice stilted, formal and deep as ever. "And you must be, ah, what did they say the other day? Ah, yes. Ivan and Isaac Powers." He held out his hand, offering to shake theirs. "It is nice to make your acquaintance. I am called, 'Peapod Kid.'"

They let the hand hang in the air in the awkward beat that followed, neither accepting his handshake. Purple-hair cocked his brow.

"We know that."

Her bispeckled classmate lowered his hand and took their rejection with a gracious nod. Which, in turn, had the twins nod their own heads back, frowning thoughtfully at his chill response.

God, these guys were weirdos.

"Hey, what's the deal with you guys, anyway?" Harold blurted out, eyes red and unfocused.

The twins squinted at him, their faces pulled back with scowled offense. Mop-head scoffed, and shook his head as he returned Harold's question with a pointed look.

"Well. One of us only tells the truth."

"Right," purple-hair concurred with a sharp nod. "But the other one always lies."

"Solve our riddle."

"I—what…? Aah, I'm so confused!" Harold threw his head back, grimacing hard and rubbing the start of a headache at his forehead. "Why you gotta throw that at me when I'm high? "

Helga barked a laugh.

"Please. You couldn't even take that on a good day, Harold," she ribbed. Laughs scattered through the group as Harold stammered.

"Sh-shut up! Man, freakin…madame fortress mommy…" he muttered under his breath, ignoring mop-head as he mouthed back the words slowly, as if committing them to memory with a kind of fascination.

"Look …" Stinky interrupted their scene with a drawl as slow as ever, his eyelids not quite closing at the same time whenever he blinked. "Thuh only riddle I wanna solve, is a' learning what they gun' serve for breakfast, and we're already runnin' late," he swallowed, his long hit from earlier hitting him particularly hard. "So, I reckon we better hurry, or that food's gonna be gone reaal faasst. "

Helga huffed a short, breathless laugh. She'd never heard anyone speak as slowly as Stinky to begin with, but when he got toked, it was something else. The slowest speaker at school for sure—and probably at camp, too. Maybe ever.

This truth must have also been appreciated by purple-hair, who's eyes widened, mindblown. Seemingly drifting unconsciously towards Stinky, he nodded, vibing and mesmerized.

"Talk to me more about fast things…"

… … …

Tomorrow was Penacook Fest, and their last day at camp. Most of the kids, at least from Hillwood, weren't particularly enthused, as it required a bunch of free labor on their part. And of course, Mr. Simmons' obnoxious soapboxing about 'supporting local' even when he was a tourist hadn't helped. And it especially hadn't helped when he announced, presumably as an alert for 'teen safety,' that it was going to be a dry event.

"Oh", said Iggy after, his grin wide and reassuring his peers, "they never are."

Not to mention, apparently the lineup would also include a few jazz numbers, a detail that made her scoff. He wouldn't hate that.

Though that day, she had to admit, he didn't seem to like much.

Arnold was cold to Helga when their group re-met for their setup tasks after breakfast.

Just as expected.

And she went along with their teamwork; unassuming, compliant and casual, keeping her small smile hidden whenever his back was turned, and her eyes on the prize.

… … …

The edges of the lighthouse blurred in the fog that night, an eerie specter casting its beam of light from the Fresnel lens as it rotated on its axis. The moon was missing its full face by a mere quarter, softly illuminating what could only, dimly, be seen a few feet ahead of her as they wandered the mist. They didn't fear meeting the edge of the rocks by mistake—the location of the flashing lens served as well as a beacon as it did a warning. They approached the museum from the side of the weird, salt-strapped pines, the crashing of waves covering the sounds of their footsteps.

Not that they were properly hidden, anyway.

"Knew you'd be here."

Helga and the twins whipped around, seeking the source of the voice through the fog. And, there he was, visible as he approached from the grassy knoll, flanked by none other than the Idiot Trio. They were close enough to make out their clothes and faces—especially Arnold's, being the closest, his features marked with clear irritation, even in the low light.

No one said anything for a moment.

"Well," Helga said sarcastically, hand on her hip, "that's a weird way to greet someone. Hello, by the way."

"Sup," said the twins. Sid and Stinky nodded back, though Harold held back his niceties, eyeing them with a suspicious confusion that nearly made Helga snort. Probably still flummoxed from earlier.

"So," Helga followed up, conversationally, "what're you guys doing here?"

Arnold made no effort to hide his umbrage.

"I'm here to show these guys, once and for all," he declared, "that all these 'hauntings' are nothing more than pranks. Pranks made in, quite honestly, very poor taste," he added scathingly. "And to get you to stop terrorizing camp."

Helga matched his stare, the corner of her lip curling in a sneer, and said nothing.

"Uhh…y-you think, Helga did all this? An' was the lady in the fog?" Sid asked, sounding dumber than usual, and, whoa—was he loaded? Still? He must have gotten some more. And considering how Stinky and Harold wavered slightly on the spot, eyes half-lidded, she figured the whole trio were blazed. Figures.

"Y'mean, like the time she freaked us all out as the Ghost Bride?" Stinky recollected, his drawl slower than yawning sloth. She swore his eyes were bloodshot, even in the dark.

"Oh, yeah," Harold joined in, his head nodded—or rather, wobbled, in agreement. "I remember that!" Helga snorted, the thought of him remembering anything a treat at the moment. "Yeah, I bet you're right, Arnold! I bet it was Helga!"

She threw her hands out.

"Do I look dressed for the part?"

"And you two," Arnold jutted his chin at the twins rudely, ignoring Helga. "You're in on it too, aren't you? The fountain, the noises, the noose," his eyes thinned at that, "the red fog over the pond—"

"Ok, and exactly how do you presume we could've done that one?" mop-head shot back, gesturing dubiously.

"So then, like, what are you guys doing out here, huh?" Sid asked, all his usual, interrogating energy zapped. It gave Helga some pause—was he really so toked stupid he wasn't even afraid anymore? Had he reached a breaking point? What was wrong with him?

Questions for another time.

"What do you think?" purple-hair answered. "We're ghost hunting."

"Gonna see if we can catch some dead chick in a slip," mop-head added, with a wink.

Helga didn't even know if his answer was fully processed in their thick skulls, but when the high-ass trio saw the twin nod, they nodded, too. Although Sid started breathing deeply, his eyes widening, like a realization was catching up to him.

Ah, yeah, there it is.

"A slip?" said Stinky. "Why, where I come from, that's like a lady wearin'... nothin' at all…" he trailed off.

There was an awkward silence, and in it, Sid seemed to calm back down again, or… yeah, maybe not calm down. His panic was going down, at least, but the look on his face was even more stupid when he grinned slowly, and nodded.

"... Nice."

Harold, seemingly floating in the same reverie, snapped out of it with a start, pointing a lazy finger from one twin to the other.

"But wait, how do I know which one of you is lying, though…?"

Arnold did not look impressed.

"They're all lying, Harold," he answered, enunciating each word with a kind of borrowed patience.

Helga crossed her arms and scoffed.

"Y'know, personally," mop-head took a step toward Arnold, palms out, "I just think it's sad that you feel you have to come out here just to pin this on whoever beat you to a good ol' Ghost Hunt first."

"Always gotta look for a 'rational explanation,' some people," purple-head shoved his hands in his pockets, taking another step as well and meeting Arnold's gaze head on. "Even if it means inventing their own."

"And we're starting to think that you're just like, one of those people, man," mop-head shrugged.

"Well, maybe, what your real problem is," purple-hair pointed, "is that you just can't handle the unknown, buddy."

"Look," Arnold put his hands up, but his glare didn't abate. "This morning went a bit too far, you know what I'm saying? The guys hardly got any work done today because of it, and we've got a lot to do tomorrow with the festival, and we don't want anything getting messed up. And honestly, I'm sick of these stupid pranks sending these guys into a tailspin all the time. Who do you think gets to deal with it when it happens?"

"...Willikers."

"Man, Arnold."

"You say that like you're, like, our babysitter, or something."

The trio flinched when Arnold snapped his eyes over his shoulder at them with a look that practically yelled, 'I AM your babysitter.'

"I don't know, Arnold. Not sure what that has to do with us," Helga jerked her thumbs at the twins ahead, on either side of her. "And honestly, if all you have to go on is us just being here as much as you are, then your accusation's as half-baked as your friends."

"Oh, we are—fully baked."

"Not that Arnold approved."

"I know! He's like, the fun police."

"He even tried to take away our weed! "

"I know! And he doesn't even like smoking!"

Arnold closed his eyes as they conversed like he wasn't right in front of them, summoning patience. He spoke without looking back at them.

"Because you're practically asking for another panic attack."

"... So?"

"Yeah, you're not my dad."

Arnold opened his eyes and blocked everyone but Helga out, settling his glower back to her, holding her gaze as she stared right back at him. He shook his head.

"You don't believe in ghosts, Helga, so you wouldn't be 'ghost hunting.'"

She arched her brow.

"Well, we do," mop-head pointed to himself and his twin.

Arnold ignored them.

The moment stretched.

"What?" his eyes narrowed. "Not going to speak in your own defense?"

"And what would I have to defend, Football Head?" she retorted, taking a defiant step forward as he took one toward her as well.

"Hey, man," mop-head scoffed, his barbell tongue piercing clicking against his teeth as he took a side-step around Arnold and gave him an appraising look. "You bein' a Frida creeper?"

"Yeah," purple-hair sniffed. "Just seems like you're bein' a real ol' Frida creeper right here."

Harold, who'd turned to sidebar with Stinky and Sid a little ways away, but still visible in the fog, called out, 'Her name's not Frida, it's Helga!' to which purple-hair snorted and returned, 'Thanks man!' as he blasted him back with a finger gun. 'No problem,' Harold called back.

Arnold ignored them all, his stare boring back into hers as time seemed to slow down around them, the revolving beam of the lighthouse lens lighting up the fog in intervals and catching the verdant tones of his eyes.

And sure enough, she could feel it—they were subtly, incrementally, drawing closer together as neither backed down.

"Oh," his voice lowered, "I know it was you."

"Oh, yeah? And what proof you got, Arnoldo? "

"I," Arnold let out the word like a laugh, a disbelieving smirk twisting his lips as he shook his head. "I know you."

Helga's jaw clenched.

Oh. You know me, huh? She thought.

Like how you knew me when you talked to Wyatt?

His smirk fell, his accusation coming out in a husky hiss.

"I know you did this."

"H-hey, Arnold!" Sid cried out, "You done arguing with your ex or whatever? T-this shit is starting to h-hit bad, and this place gives me the c-creeps, man."

Their eyes widened and their jaws dropped, the two of them rendered speechless.

Just as Arnold whipped his body back toward the trio in an outraged, combative stance, Harold pointed above them and called out.

"Hey, someone's up there!"

Helga, Arnold—all of them, all looked up to the very top of the lighthouse tower.

And sure enough… a figure had appeared.

Of a woman.

The revolving beam was too bright, and the night too dark and foggy to make out more than her stark, shifting silhouette behind the railing.

But, there was no doubt about it. She was there.

Helga's jaw dropped, transfixed.

"You're…" Arnold breathed, sounding just as spellbound.

"Kidding me…" the twins finished in a rush, quietly, in unison.

The wind picked up the waves, their roaring surf crashing a cacophony around the peninsula, and the woman's hair floated like tendrils on smokey currents.

"Uh—" Sid's voice picked up. "Guys —"

As a thick wave of fog washed across the tower, she saw it—they all saw it. The woman's silhouette had moved, her body drawing over the railing…

Arnold shouted.

"DON'T!"

He broke into a run, but he was too far away. They all were.

When they caught up to Arnold, they all stopped.

A horrified, collective gasp leapt to their throats, stealing all their voices at once, as the body fell.

Through the fog. Past the horizon line of the outcropping that the tower stood on.

And all the way down to the rocks below.

The silence of the seconds that followed swallowed the sound of their shaken breaths, before they all jumped in shock at the deafening noise that pierced the air before surrounding them all around with its chilling echo.

POP!

Their breaths all came quick, but none as quick as Sid's.

Who went ballistic.

"Just—just—" he hyperventilated, fingers digging into his face, "like in the story, my God, guys—fuck—"

"Fuck—" said the trio, in unison.

"E-even the...gunshot..."

"But—what if it's—" purple-hair rasped.

"—Not a haunting ?" his twin breathed back.

"What if…" Helga's voice came out in a gust.

"...Oh GOD, you're right, man—" Sid anguished, his voice cracking, "what if we just saw …"

Helga looked to Arnold's back as he leaned onto his knees ahead of her.

He started panting.

"We—" he rasped between breaths, "we have to check."

Their bodies moved on auto pilot, joining Arnold as he braved the rock shelves. They turned on the flashlights on their phones, and went down, speaking only when necessary.

Their visibility was limited, with the night and the fog, but they could still make out a dozen feet clearly at a time before the haze started to blur. The revolving light from the lens above, rather than a beacon of hope or clarity, disoriented them slightly as it spun around. Traversing the rocks was difficult enough in the daytime, so they had to be careful, and slow.

And they were.

After twenty, painstaking minutes, they'd covered the rock expanse below the tower as low as they could go before they risked the waves.

But no body.

And no blood.

"...There's nothing." Arnold said under his breath at last, in disbelief. "But, we checked, every—everywhere, that she… could have…"

No one said anything.

"I-I'm—" Sid spoke at last, his voice shaken apart. "I c-can't do this anymore, guys."

"Y-yeah, I…" Stinky wavered, leaning back against a slate wall. Sobered.

"Yeah, I… I'm… glad, we l-looked," Harold added, his tone unnerved. Quiet. "I-in case s-somebody…needed our help, or…"

"Yeah…" Stinky trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

"But," Harold's voice tightened, resolute. Hard.

Whatever he was going to say, he couldn't finish.

"I—I'm going up, going—back," Sid stuttered and sniffed, starting his hike back up.

His best friends nodded wordlessly before casting the rest of them a shifting, shameful glance, and hiked back to the crest, too.

"No." Arnold refused, softly, finally. To himself, but Helga heard. "There has to be…"

The twins finally broke their uncharacteristic silence, shaking their heads at each other.

"Bro… it…"

"Had to have been…"

"Yeah," mop-head nodded, his face dropped and serious. "Just like they said."

"Criminy," Helga breathed. And meant it. This, was…

Wow.

The twins made their careful ascent toward the crest as well, leaving Arnold with Helga on the rock slope, alone, with nothing but their phones, the fog, the waves, and the revolving light.

Even with her phone's flashlight pointed away and the dim visibility that night, she could see the profile of his gaze tracking across options in his mind as he steadied his breath. Shaken, but gathering himself. Determined. Resolute.

And undeterred.

"...There has to be a rational explanation for this."

… … …

Day broke, and it was here.

Their last day of camp.

Still in their subgroups, they worked with a few hours of setup before noon, when Penacook Fest officially started. They'd be taking a late bus home that night, arriving back in Hillwood after midnight.

But, to no one's surprise, there were a few hang ups that morning that made setup hectic, and side conversations took up much of the campers attention as they hustled.

"Are you serious? All the porta-potties got knocked over last night?"

"Well, all but one… but, yeah."

"Wow. That's…"

"Shitty, yeah."

"Ha! Well, they hadn't been used yet—they were just for the festival, but. Yeah."

"And of course all the extension cords went 'mysteriously missing,' so now nothing works on stage."

"Dude, right? The counselors are so pissed."

"Seriously."

"Oh, and the girls from Dorchester are shook as fuck, dude. Said they heard 'creepy noises' outside their cabin last night, too."

"Swear to God, man."

"Freakin' ghosts."

"Really? You think it was ghosts? The porta-potties, the extension cords…?"

"Hey, I'm telling you, man. They're screwing with us."

Their subgroup was quiet as they eavesdropped, and wrapped up their final tasks early. When Wyatt had taken off, Helga didn't know, but the rest of them all joined together in a wordless circle.

"I wanna find them," Arnold said finally, his voice low and tight as he looked out at the vendors setting up with a grim, thousand yard stare. "I don't care if it's the last day."

"Nope," Sid shook his head, his face ashen. "Not helping you look for ghosts. Or… pranksters. Or bodies. I don't give a fuck." He sniffed, shifting his gaze between them. "Not anymore, man."

He paused.

"Good luck."

And with that, he turned and walked away.

A moment passed. One of the twins, Ivan, or Isaac, Helga figured she'd never know, nodded at Arnold to get his attention, who returned his look, pensively.

"You really want to?" mop-head said, his eyes tight, "try and…catch—confront them? If they really were all just pranks?"

"Yeah," Arnold responded, without hesitation.

The twins nodded at each other, pursing their lips.

"...We're thinking, you know. Since the counselors already searched everybody's bunks a couple days ago" mop-head gestured lightly, arms crossed, "that if it was someone—they'd need a place to stash their stuff, right?"

"...Yeah," Arnold nodded. "That adds up."

"Well… we were thinking, y'know. There are… a couple of spots we think they could be keeping their stuff—and that they might, be there, or. I don't know. Catch them coming back, or something."

"Especially since the counselors sweep the grounds pretty often, you know. And, people, just…" he gestured vaguely, "coming and going about."

His twin nodded, sighing. "We're thinking they'd either be stashing stuff behind the gym office—there's still a nook you can kinda access back there, from when the wall got… broken in, a couple years ago."

Arnold's brow arched.

"...Broken in?"

The twins shrugged.

"We broke it."

Arnold's eyes widened, and pursed his lips, nodding as he paused.

"...Alright then," he replied at last, amenably. "...Or?"

"Well…" mop-head shook his head from ear to ear with a considering air. "Shot in the dark, but… We were thinking, maybe…" he gestured dubiously. "The lighthouse." Purple-hair jerked his thumb back over his shoulder, in its general direction.

Arnold blinked, his brow furrowed.

"The lighthouse?"

"Yeah."

"But, I thought—wasn't it—"

"Well, yeah," mop-head shrugged, beating him to it, "it was closed for repairs, but. No, they're just about to wrap up, and… I mean, contractors? They don't give a shit."

"Yeah, they're not like, employed by the park, or anything. They just come and go."

"So…yeah. I can definitely see someone setting up some kinda base camp in there. I mean—who'd suspect?"

Arnold crossed his arms, nodding slowly, as his gaze tracked thoughtfully to the top of the tower, just visible above the tree line.

His eyes narrowed.

"So, you want to go in?"

The twins threw their hands up, shaking their heads.

"Oh no, we're not going in. Are you kidding? It's June 17th. Bad day, dude."

"Yeah, fuck no."

"That shit's haunted."

Arnold deadpanned.

Helga sucked at her cheek and made a show of crossing her arms with annoyance before tuning them out.

"But," purple-hair upturned his palm, "we got some time to kill, and I think I heard one of the counselors say that the work crew was gonna take off early, because of the festival, so. Maybe split up, we can check the gym…"

"...Yeah, sure," Arnold nodded back. "I'll go check the lighthouse myself."

There was an awkward beat.

"Unless, of course," he added, his face turning toward her on her periphery, "you want to come, too."

Helga looked absently toward the stage a ways ahead, before cocking her head back at him with tired disinterest. She kept her gaze set when she beheld his offer—and, honestly.

An olive branch.

Prickles washed all up her front and down her back. She kept her expression in check as she leveled him back with a thinned, considering stare.

Here we go.

"I mean," she tossed her hands out, giving Arnold an incredulous, half-committed look. "We're gonna be leaving this dump in a bit anyway, but…" she trailed off.

He looked away and shook his head, the corner of his mouth quirked, but not in a smile.

She shrugged at last, heaving a sigh. "What the hell. I guess it'd be cool if we actually got to see the goddamn thing, anyway."

… … …

And so, they parted ways.

Sure enough, the contractors were just about to leave, and they took Arnold's bribe to turn a blind eye—the cash he had stashed away for the festival. She was almost proud of him. They were warned the door would lock from the inside after they left, to stay clear of any taped-off areas that remained, and not to wreck the place.

And at last, they were alone.

Sticking a stone in the doorway to the lighthouse, Arnold insisted they check out the attached Keeper House, first.

Despite the museum quality and display plaques, Helga couldn't help but feel like she'd stepped out of her own body and into the Tolmen's story when she walked in.

Phoebe was right. Some of the wood carvings left behind from Heath Tolmen's stay with his fake wife were, indeed, sensitively, romantically done. Far more than any other period pieces still left in the house—and there were quite a bit. All those scattered talismans of his love for her, their company one that Ada Gardner had lived in, all in plain sight.

It sprung to mind all the keepsakes Arnold and her kept in their respective rooms.

Spaces they'd only seen inside of (as far as he knew, anyway—but that was ancient history) in the company of Gerald and Phoebe. The tells weren't obvious, she figured, despite how trained her eyes were for such details, but she knew them.

Movie tickets. Notes. The rare photo—of the quartet, of course, but she noticed he never posted a picture of him and Gerald that didn't also include Phoebe, and her.

A piece of poetry she'd written, had allowed him to read, when he said he'd been curious. Most were of him, but not all, so she could keep her guard up while casting him crumbs.

And of course, her pink book, from all those years ago.

Whether he knew it had been hers, she didn't know, but she doubted it. He'd stashed so many of his other books from those days either in the attic or given them away, but not that one. Sure, it had the look of being covered in a thin layer of dust, that you might not notice unless you'd reached out and touched the thing, leaving your fingerprints… so it wasn't like he read it anymore. Or hadn't, for a while, but. Nevertheless.

He'd never moved it.

"I don't see anything suspicious in here," she heard his voice at last. "Why don't we just check the tower?"

Helga blinked, her mind back in the old Keeper House with her body, in the present.

"Hey," he called by the door, waiting for her. "You coming?"

How could she feel so unattached to where her own feet were planted?

"Y-yeah."

Her body moved on its own, following him through the tower door before he kicked out the rock and let it shut, a sense of panic that couldn't brim to the surface, close enough for her to properly calm or examine, building inside of her.

The tower interior was so old. Filled with details she couldn't do more than glaze over, despite how much it distracted Arnold as he poured over them, particularly the hidden machinations of the rotating lens below the lantern room, set at the very top of the spiral stairs that hugged the wall.

She didn't know how much time had passed before he finally concluded that, too bad, there was nothing to find there. But, since they were there…

"Why don't we go to the top of the tower; check out the lantern room?"

Of course he'd said that.

She'd seen how much he'd stared at it.

How could he resist?

She followed behind, letting him lead her right where she wanted him.

The thuds of his footsteps as he started up the spiral staircase were dull, but how they rang in her ears as he scaled above her.

She took her first steps after him, though it felt like the beginning of her last.

Of course, as she'd intuited on the rocks all those days and schemes ago, there was no way she could expose him without exposing herself. Those raw, vulnerable, fragile parts of herself that could only breathe with her shields up, knowing to take them down was akin to risking some kind of death.

And not one she could choose.

Whatever type of death that'd be, would be at his mercy. Not hers.

But if she dropped her shields, how could she attack, plot—defend herself?

Where was her weapon of choice?

Where was her fire?

Where was the heat that scorched the ground between them after she read Brainy's note the day before graduation, and stormed the empty, dim-lit library stacks to find him?

When she cornered him, confronted him?

'So, what? I told a guy off who's up to no good? Friends look out for each other, right?'

'Friends?' she'd repeated, barking out the word like a joke. 'Oh, you know I'm not a shit judge of character, at least most of the time,' she'd said, looking him up and down with a seething disdain. 'And we both know he's harmless.'

'Now that—that's bullshit. He is not—'

'I bet you tell yourself you were protecting me, huh? From what, some sap I'm not even interested in?'

'That's—'

How many words had she thrown at him, before she knew things could never go back? All the things she couldn't backpedal, no matter how much he'd want her to.

She couldn't even remember them all.

'You think I can fucking keep doing this? Keep my fucking, goddamn mouth shut while you're yanking my chain, and playing pretend? For fucking YEARS, Arnold—'

'The Hell are you—'

'I don't know why for once you can't just be fucking honest—'

When had she grabbed his wrists?

What had he even said?

'Stop lying! You're OBVIOUS!' She'd grit her teeth to the floor, eyes hot and screwed shut before she dragged them back up to him from under her brow, as she choked out the rest. 'I'm obvious.'

When had she broken the restraints on every reservation she'd had, to flay his false virtue with the truth?

And, underhanded, yanked his wrists back to cinch her waist, jolting his body closer to hers. Fueling and mocking his anger and denial with aroused contempt.

"So, whaddya wanna do, huh? Take me to the dance instead? Take control like before, throw me around again? Show everyone how you REALLY feel?"

It was a blur.

A fast, furious movement when he'd finally snapped, and freed his wrists by wrapping his hands around her own, and shackled them on either side of her head, pressing her against the bookshelf. And holding her there.

The look on his face—heated and indescribable, before he'd realized he'd done something he couldn't take back, either.

And for that moment, while their breath ran ragged and his leg stepped between hers, she knew she saw it.

She knew it.

The moment his mask fell, a mask she was sure he wore to ward against her and himself.

When he'd forgotten himself and revealed a raw, heartfelt want, their lips parted as his hovered achingly over hers. Almost brushing.

So closely, she could have kissed him herself, and with the smallest movement. But she didn't.

She wouldn't cheat herself.

He'd have to fucking do it.

But he didn't. His eyes flashed, aghast at himself, his indignation and anger returning and—other emotions, she was sure, before he sealed them back up again behind that mask.

Like a disguise he could believe in, as long as he didn't meet her eyes.

And he didn't. Not until camp.

In a tight, quiet voice she could hardly hear over the pounding of her own heartbeat, he'd said, 'I'm sorry,' recoiled from her, and stalked out.

And, oh.

Did that make her break.

And rage.

And yet, she thought with a small, rueful smile, just as he'd cleared the last step ahead of her, and into the lantern room… where were those feelings now?

In her time of need?

Helga hesitated, examining another truth as she paused, right before the final threshold.

Even without her fire, it wasn't like she lacked all will, or faculty of her machinations.

She was a poet, after all. And her other elemental forces weren't lost on her.

Without fire, she clamped down her nerves, and panic, into hard, cold stone.

If she couldn't burn her way through that barrier, she would smash it.

And so, she ascended the last step, a hidden key in her pocket, and closed the latch behind them.

Disguised and unreal.

Arnold.

My captor

And captive.

No matter what heights

I might fall

I will survive you.

Yet the one thing

I can't survive

Is taking us to this edge

And running before we crest it

Hearts, or swords, crossed.

… … …

Author's Note: Disguise, continued.