"Your mother has informed me that you were quite… busy … this week."
This warranted no response from the teenager across from her. Barely a muscle twitched out of place. Wes wasn't withdrawn and surly like a typical hormonal, sweaty, acne-covered adolescent. He wasn't advertising anything. He was deliberate and careful; everything he said, everything he didn't say, right down to the place he sat every time in her office, was calculated. Wesley was acutely aware that every little action stemmed from his choice. He knew if he spoke, it would be used against him. So, he was right to remain silent.
The therapist cleared her throat again. Idly twiddling her pen in between the webbing of her fingers.
How many sessions did they spend like this? In seats parallel to each other with nothing to say. It wasn't like the witch was going hungry. She had plenty of wayward children that come through this office to siphon from. She seemed awfully comfortable in this silence. Unlike when she first set up the practice, she would have been a lot more demanding. Ms. Penelope would have dug her candy-apple-colored nails into any insecurity and pulled with all of her strength.
No, not now. Now she has been fattening up on emotional discord needlessly. The witch sat back, more than willing to let her prey ignore her.
Now, she brought her coffee mug to her overly made-up face. The crimson print of her lips had the hairline creases of the skin that didn't belong to her. Weston often stared at her and wondered who that vessel belonged to. She was mid-to-late thirties with a figure that seemed unnaturally… thin. Just a bit too tall for her proportions too. It was like someone blew up a Barbie doll to life-size. There was a manicured, artificial beauty to her. If she wasn't trying to distract you with her provocative, highly unprofessional attire, you would wonder how exactly she fit all her blood and organs inside that unbelievable figure.
It was an objective fact that Penelope was beautiful. She was an attractive woman with slicked-back red hair and stunning green eyes— sharp features. She was the kind of beauty that was unfair and mean. Did she body pick it out for its aesthetic perfection? Or had she sought out the right tool to manipulate others with? Wes could care less.
She was getting complacent.
She was getting sloppy.
She was bound to make a mistake.
She was due for it.
Wes knew despite her insincere disinterest, even a shrike such as herself couldn't resist the chase. The witch thrived exclusively on the shadows of the mind. The little things we couldn't stand about ourselves. Wes had plenty of shadows.
"Do you even recall that you promised Kyle you'd pick him up from school?" The therapist rolled her ankle counterclockwise with her thoughts.
Wes almost scoffed, briefly animating his otherwise completely neutral face.
Penelope shifted in her seat, drawing into the hint of his micro expression. She brought to mind the stiff and rehearsed motions of insects. There was something mantis-like in her movements. At any moment, her jaw would slack wide enough to pluck his head clean off in one fluid and fatal finish.
"You don't seem particularly bothered that your brother reported you missing, Wesley. Police showing up and scaring your mother half to death…? Doesn't that mean something to you?"
The plastic, dead-eyed, garishly-colored bird sipping water on her desk didn't seem so cheery. It bobbed out of the glass again before inevitably falling back in with the weight of the water. That's all this was to her, wasn't it? It was a ceaseless cycle of drinking when she wasn't thirsty. Could it be that human emotion tasted that good?
"Then, of course, how can we forget how lucky you are that the Fentons are so broke that they couldn't press charges on you for throwing their son in front of Vlad Master's Rolls Royce?" She tapped her pen a few more times, trying to goad some kind of response, "You could have killed him, y'know."
Drip.
Drip.
"... Looking at the clock won't make time move faster, champ." Penelope was keenly aware that he was avoiding eye contact.
He had an hour to kill.
He sighed. Let's give her a feast.
Sweeping his hair from his eyes, Wes pulled himself from the black hole that was this shrink's couch. Hunching over his knees, his voice was dry and creaky, "Can I tell you something a little… crazy , Ms. Penelope?"
"I suppose that's why we're here." She motioned for him to continue, doing poorly to mask her wolfish grin.
Taking another deep breath in, Wes rubbed his thumbs along the edges of his pointer fingers, gradually increasing the pressure until the friction slowed him down. Everything slowed. His heart against his eardrums, he could hear the blood in his veins telling him to get out of the lion's den. Every nerve in his body was telling him to leave. To sprint through that door and never come back. Leaving nothing but a Wes-shaped cloud behind.
That would be ignoring the parts of his brother that were still here. The parts Wes had inherited, the parts that were taught. Fear was only a feeling. What we choose to do in the face of that fear makes us who we are. This was something he had to do.
Drip.
Drip.
He expelled the air from his lungs until they burned. They burned and ached like a crumpled gas station receipt used for kindling. With a snicker, Wes candidly admitted, "There are no rats in my basement."
"And that is not the first time I've tried to hurt him."
Brow pinching in the middle, his steward folded in on herself as if she misheard. Penelope's painted lips parted to say something—
"Danny Fenton, I mean," Wes clarified, "I've tried to kill him before."
Unflinching in his honesty, the teen scanned the stack of board games the therapist kept under the center table. His eyes landed on Mousetrap . Pulling it from the middle, he stared at the packaging in amusement, "I used to love this one. Could never keep the pieces in the box, though…"
It was evident by the stark and pallid look on her face that she wasn't expecting that curve ball. Doctor Spectra, who once was so confident that she had the upper hand, was now off-kilter. She had no earthly idea who she was speaking to.
"Don't look so shocked, doc—" the young man shrugged, "—I mean, obviously I failed."
Mutedly she affirmed, still staggering through a reaction, "...obviously."
Drip.
Drip.
Rifling through the games, Weston laid out a few options on the table. He looked down at the boxes as if he were choosing colleges. After a few moments of mock contemplation, the patient put a hand on his chin and noted, "Actually, I don't think I've played any of these games since kindergarten..."
He looked up at his therapist, "You got, like, colored pencils in this bitch or just crayons?"
"There's a bucket of tools beside the couch…"
"Sweet." The boy dove around the arm of the chair to bring out a large white bucket filled with broken art supplies. The white of the bucket had faded and yellowed with years of use. Not to mention the scratches of color that adorned the surface. It was indistinguishable from purposeful or accidental marks.
He sat it between his legs, holding it in place with his eroding high-top sneakers. The aglets were fraying from the binding, and they would soon unravel, leaving nothing but the thread. Wes had his pick of naked, flat, wax crayons and wooden pencils with jagged, coarse edges. Like the board games, Wes only seemed interested in rummaging through his options. The sounds of the crayons and pencils hitting each other and the inner walls of the container filled the void where the conversation should be.
Spectra swallowed dryly, "So, this is something you've given a lot of thought?"
"Nine months, four weeks, and two days worth of thought," Wes smiled, not with his eyes, of course. From the outside, he looked quite proud of himself. Almost like he wanted to get caught.
"You believe Danny has something to do with your brother's disappearance?"
"I don't believe it, doc." Wes finally landed on a 'screamin' green' Crayola pencil. "I know it."
His eyes flitted to the pointed end and then to her. The implication was not lost on either of them. Spectra thought he was simply lashing out in violence because he was merely confused. Wes wouldn't be written off like that. He refused to engage with that narrative.
The way he said 'believe' suggested a level of contempt for the word unlike the witch had known in this life or any life previous. Like he had been hurt by it and would no longer stay the victim of it.
The derisive divisive line struck between the two words was unfathomably vast and dark like the Marianas trench.
The young man then scanned the room, the pencil now loose in his grip and hitting the table. The resulting bounce would send the pencil back into his hand. The tap was idle. Like he was choreographing his next move.
It took Penelope a moment to realize he was silently asked for drawing paper. She had plenty of paper in the grand and intricately carved mahogany desk at her side, though the therapist was reluctant to turn around. She was hesitant to move at all. She didn't want to take her eyes off her patient. Instead, she offered only her curiosity, "You seem confident—"
"I am." He narrowed his eyes. The wide grin on his features only deepened. Scratching the back of his head and running his palm against his choppy, textureless hair. He chucked anxiously, expecting a hook to pull him off the stage.
Wes repeated, "I am…"
Drip.
Drip.
His knee began to bounce, a tick. A tick he had all his life. He was on the clock and it was a tied game, "I don't know if Fenton did something to Clay or was even involved— but he knows something the police don't— knows something the rest of us don't."
He had to run out the clock.
He had to keep her busy.
Weston shut his eyes tight as images of flames curtained his vision. With feet planted firmly on the ground, he only dug his heels further in. The most he could remember from that night was the smoke that made his eyes ache so bad. Wes wasn't sure if they were bloodshot from crying until he emptied his stomach contents or because of the fire.
While her patient was twisting in his hushed rage, a rage that tinted every misplaced breath— Penelope Spectra could only smell the chemicals his brain secreted. The cortisol coursing through his body caused her to squirm in her seat. The witch, who was so practiced in this art, could almost hear how the electricity bridged the synapses in his brain.
Fear was delicious, but anger? True anger like this was so hard to come by. It took years to cultivate it right. It had to simmer for so long—this amount of raw, unfettered emotion needed to be preserved and bottled. The high hit immediately and hard. The hand that normally kept a stalwart grasp on her pen was digging into the arm of her red leather chair. The material squeaked under the pressure.
Spectra knew just what to say to push him over the edge. She would make sure there was nothing left when she was through here.
"Aren't you afraid of confusing your guilt with reality? Making it into some grand conspiracy against you… doesn't that feel the least bit satisfying? Isn't it awfully convenient how it's everyone else's fault except yours?" Penelope adjusted her glasses, giving him a glance-over, leering at him as though he was a curiosity rather than a person.
"You're so hellbent on adding meaning to where there isn't." Ms. Spectra had no warmth to her voice, but it was sweet. Insultingly sweet. Like antifreeze, she was nearly indistinguishable from genuine empathy, but she oversaturated it.
You're wrong… Wes bit his cheek until he drew blood.
"It's sad but true, Wesley. People die every day; that's an undeniable part of life. Yes, even people we care about…" She shrugged, her head lulling into her shoulder in a mockery of a sympathetic gesture. Her stare shifted back to her patient, "And, indeed, Mr. Fenton was there the day your brother died… but you know who else was there too?"
The young man balled the fabric of his shorts into his fist. His protest was quiet but firm, " Shut up. "
"You were there, Wes—" She leaned forward, easing to the edge of her chair, "You should know better than anyone that your brother couldn't—"
"I SAID SHUT UP!"
And like a stroke of lightning, Wes jolted. His head whipped up from the crayon bucket. His pupils shrank. Nostrils flared. Every muscle flexed at once, making his body all bones and edges. His posture had more in common with an animal in captivity than a child. The air itself constricted around him. If the kid kept making that face, it was sure to freeze that way. And what a wicked stare it was. The way his mouth fell into a hard line, but his eyes— his eyes remained wide and devoid of anything other than hate. Hate. Hate . Hate.
In shock at how loud he could be, he immediately shrunk in on himself again.
"Fenton knows how the fire started…" Wesley hissed.
Defeatedly, the ex-jock put his face into his hand. His eyes stung again with intrusive tears. He just wanted everything to stop hurting. It wasn't fair for a single person to hurt this much. Weston shuddered, "Fenton knows exactly what happened. He just won't tell anyone."
The therapist rested a hand on her lap, getting closer—she didn't even seem to notice that her notebook fell to the floor as collateral damage, "And why is that?"
Like the juvenile he was, his thumb skirted the edge of his mouth. He bit his nail, peeling layers of keratin down to the cuticle. The pain was an anchor. "'Cuz he's dead."
"He's already dead…"
Drip.
Drip.
Penelope nearly guffawed at the utter anguish painted on the boy's face. He was making this so hard to remain professional.
"Y'think it's funny, don't you?" He accused, cocking his head.
Though just as quickly, he softened, "... I wouldn't blame you." Wes' back flattened against the cushions, "If this were happening to anyone else, it'd be hilarious."
"I've seen him do things, y'know? Things that no normal person can do. Walk through walls, disappear, fly—He—he's possessed people before. He makes 'em do things, say things they wouldn't normally. He's possessed one of my friends before… beat his head into the wall until he broke his nose. I don't even think Fenton came back to check if he was still breathing." Wes continued with increasing bitterness and disdain worming its way into his physicality. Shoulders scrunched around his freckled ears; he was protecting himself with his anger.
"—Threw the freshman linebacker down the stairs… He almost killed this girl and her dad. He's brainwashed my friends against me," Ominously, he concluded, his chest heaving, " Awful things… awful stuff."
"No one alive should have that power. It's… it's not natural ." The way Wes spoke, you'd be convinced that the dead did walk among the living. He was biblically solemn. He's the last thing you would picture when you hear the phrase 'stark-raving lunatic.'
"So…" Wes composed himself, running his hand through his hair again, pulling it taut to reveal the roots, "I asked myself one day— 'If he gets to cheat, why shouldn't I even the playing field?' "
He retrieved his backpack.
Spectra only observed him. Confident that the only person Wesley was a danger to was himself.
It wasn't in an obvious pouch, it was entombed within his belongings, but Wes pulled out a deteriorating purple notebook. Like any belonging of a child, it was adorned with stickers half peeling off or dangling on the destroyed cover. Flakes of cardboard now littered the floor. He opened it somewhere in the middle of the book, "I noticed he kept a thing of aspirin in his bag… Fenton always complained about migraines."
The notes looked like complete gibberish. But more than likely, they were encoded in some shorthand only Wes knew how to translate. It seemed he thought of every contingency if he was ever caught. So that begged the question— why? Why was he doing any of this?
Wes chewed his thumb, walking his steward through it. Speaking against clenched teeth, he scavenged through the paper, "I-I don't really remember how it started… I think he was bragging about— about bragging about sneaking into the girl's locker room taking photos and— and I just…"
The therapist filled in the blank for him, "You snapped?"
"... No." He said. It wasn't in denial, just a disagreement over that phrase. 'Snapping' gave the connotation that it was a sudden and rash decision that happened in the spur of a moment. Wes had thought about killing Fenton so much that it plagued him like a sickness. Angry, violent intrusive thoughts that controlled his body like cordyceps fungus. Thoughts of death infected every nerve and cell. It made him tremble from his chin to his feet like a fever. It was the last lick a dam takes before the flood— This was an act of defiance. Weston was putting his foot down. He couldn't take it anymore.
Defeatedly he shrugged, "Maybe…" He shook his head, "Sorta…"
"Y'know how Sidney Poindexter got away with killing so many? Just using household cleaning supplies."
From the notebook, the basketball player pulled out a black and white photo of an unfortunate-looking boy with a face covered in blemishes and scars. The boy was giving an awkward smile while overseeing an ancient-looking chemistry set. It looked like the peers in the photo's background were smiling too… sneering almost. Wes folded the picture back into the notebook and continued past dozens of notes, "I read about it online."
There was a moment, and Spectra said nothing. She was simply too enthralled with the yarn being spun.
"I split open the capsules and replaced the insides with cleaning solution." Wes glanced up at her, "And I waited. I knew he took at least two of those things a day, so it'd be a matter of time."
"I waited." He repeated, the look of disgust wasn't directed at anyone except for himself, "I waited so long that I started to doubt if I actually went through with it or if I just chickened out. So… I tried it again. I swapped water bottles with him—filled mine with that shit you use to snake drains with." Clicking his tongue, Wes' eyebrows drew up, "Imagine my stupid face when he downs the whole thing in front of me— complainin' it's too 'sweet.' "
Fanning through his sketches of building layouts, pictures, print clippings, schedules, means, motive, alibis, opportunities, Weston dumped it all out on the table. "For months, I have been taking notes, trying to figure out a weakness. I've been studying this— this THING like it's my goddamn midterms. For anything—any sort of Achilles heel— and he comes out every time without a scratch on him!"
He was near howling with exasperated laughter. His tense, near-feral grin revealed how deep his eyebags were— the kid was practically wobbling in his seat with exhaustion, "So, yeah. I guess it's a little funny. I'm not sure what's funnier, the fact that I've tried to kill him seventeen times, or this is the first time anyone's even noticed."
Doctor Spectra said nothing. She was as emotive as a statue. Any excessive emotion would cause her to wrinkle, and she couldn't have that. The air around her was ethereal and still. Her expression was impossible to gauge, whether or not she was deliberating or if she was hungry, "Doesn't the saying go, 'The first step on the path of revenge is to dig two graves' ?"
He cocked his head as he drew something in his note book, " Who the hell said that—? "
"Say, Danny dies. You get your happily ever after." Penelope was trying to goad him again, "Do you think you could live with that? Do you think that wouldn't eat away at you? Could you carry that weight…?"
The only response was Wes's pencil scratching the tooth of the paper.
Sure, Wes may have entered this strange predicament with the hopes of getting revenge or… closure. The bastardization of closure. But it seemed so woefully trivial now. It shrunk in the rearview mirror a long time ago. He was so numb to his own suffering that he was practically weightless. Somewhere along the road, this became an act of solidarity for Amity Park. For anyone who's ever had to check under their beds for this monster.
"Fenton is gonna keep getting away with whatever he wants, and he doesn't seem interested in stopping." He was so assured, and he smiled to himself, "Someone told me, 'the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.'"
"I'm done with waiting, Ms. Penelope." Wes resigned to his solution.
Drip.
Drip.
"I believe… our time is up." Finally, the therapist stopped her repetitious desk toy. Holding its body upright so all the liquid fell to the bottom where it stayed. She kept it there with her pen. Engaging with the sharpest eye contact Wes had seen from her in quite a while. And right now, he didn't fear holding her gaze. He didn't fear anything at all. He'd hate to admit it, but talking through his issues? It seemed to help. It seemed to remove a shackle around his neck, and he stood just a hair taller than before.
"I've got to say, Mr. Weston; you're by far the most interesting patient I've had in my long career."
"What a coincidence!" He beamed sarcastically, "I was thinking you're the most convincing ghost I've run into thus far."
She stammered, "E-excuse me?"
Feigning an apology, Wes bowed his head, "Oh, I'm sorry—was I-I mumbling again?"
He asked coyly, "Or would you prefer to be called any of your other aliases?"
"Gweneth Toothaker, Heather Osbourne, Morgan Scabbard…" Pressing hard on his pencil, Wes wanted to get the most out of his pigment, "Then again, why mess with the original?"
The boy sang flatly, with no hurry,
"Penny Saint can make you faint,
Throw your body in a river, boy, she can you make you shiver—
Fevers feed her; you can't appease her,
With your daily bread, by next morning, you'll be dead.
If you see this nurse, your final stop is the hearse."
Spectra's eyelid twitched—an acute stress response. It was barely noticeable. But it was a hairline fracture in her picture-perfect facade. She didn't seem to like this side of the table.
"What you are, Spectra, is something called an 'Angel of Mercy.' What you specialize in is feeling needed. You get off on pretending to be some kind of hero. You make people sick so you can 'save' them. You'd rather kill twelve of your patients than be out of a job because you need to be needed . That's why you're still floating around this dump, aren't you? It's because you can't take rejection."
Wes didn't know why he picked rats. He had no negative experiences he could recall with the creatures. Wes didn't have any particular attachment. He could have said any pest. Ants, roaches, worms, slugs, termites. He could have picked any creature that required extermination. That's all he was at the end of the day. Wes was an exterminator. He would get rid of the biggest blight in this town. He was going to get rid of the ghosts or die trying.
But when Weston's gaze fell on the eerie green eyes across from him— the ones that looked too similar to his own— it became clear why rats entered his mind. Wes had stumbled across an article while going through Clay's things. It was a shoddy, low-toner research piece devoid of color. The Olds and Milner experiment. It described the effect of pleasure on the human brain. It went on to talk about rats put into a device to stimulate the pleasure centers in their brain using an electric current. The rats would keep pushing the pleasure button, ignoring their bodies. Ignoring how their surroundings turned against them. Spectra kept pushing the button. She would keep pushing that button even in the afterlife. She never learned when to quit. That's all ghosts are. They were doomed to repeat patterns. To chase fleeting happiness wherever it could be stolen.
Armed with his own diagnosis, Weston laced his hands together in his own clinical judgment, "You can dress it up all you want, Spectra, but a parasite is still a parasite. And a parasite needs the host."
"Now, I hate to play this card, Wesley." Quickly losing her ground, Spectra kept her rapidly crumbling facade up, "But who do you think the authorities will believe with a confessional like that you just laid in my lap."
"... What makes you think you'll get the chance to stop me? " He was actually smiling. A real one. One that wrinkled the corners of his eyes. Wes tapped his drawing with the colored pencil. It was an illustration of Spectra on the ground, devil horns sprouting from her forehead. Wes had rendered himself stepping on her crumpled form in triumph.
"Hmph." She uncrossed her leg, planting her heeled shoes firmly between her shoulders. Her leveled stare pierced him. Adjusting her glasses as she stood, Penelope took wide steps to the window. Twisting a rod in between her fingers the blinds became shuttered. The grey light that once bathed the room was now snuffed out.
Turning, Doctor Spectra offered him one last out, "Now if I didn't know any better… that sounded like a threat."
"I'll give you three seconds to reconsider." She held up her manicure. Nails so shiny Wes could nearly see his reflection in the gloss.
Penelope put her ring finger down.
…Then the next.
Wes didn't object.
With a sigh, she halted and lingered with one finger left up. Giving him a pause— an opportunity— She really did like the kid. His death would be a shame.
Weston only steeled his resolve, his smile uncurling into a determined purse.
Penelope closed her fist.
Her posture now erect and patience thoroughly expired.
Her immaculate flawless skin started to grey, bubble, and bead like wax off of a candle. It rolled off in layers exposing the ribbons of muscle and the black bones underneath. The joints cracked audibly as she began to sever from the body like the placenta from its mother.
She molted.
Penelope's real face suited her. Hideous green glowing orbs that escaped the boundary of their sockets, and a mouth full of twisted, horrid teeth. They reminded him of the uneven stairs that led into his decrepit basement. Her nose had become just a rotted notch at the center of her ghastly visage. A thick discharge gushed from her empty cavities, and it dribbled around the curves of her hollow jaw. Her forked tongue laved against her cheeks out of instinct.
She cast no shadow because she became shadow. Penelope Spectra, or what remained of Penelope Saint was nothing but a husk. A black void where no light could escape.
Spectra slithered from her skin casing, discarding it casually as if it were any other piece of trash. What once was her torso hit the floor with a soft thud. This was her true form. The truth was an incomprehensible inky black mass. Like a banshee of myth that would call wanderers to their untimely death, she had no legs. She floated there off the ground. She obeyed a nonexistent breeze, her tail flicked and coiled absentmindedly. The edges of her branch-like silhouette blurred like a bloom of flame. What she needed to kill someone were her hands. Those arms that split from her chest and ended in long— long fingers sharpened to bramble points. They would be the tools of his undoing.
With a shuddery breath, the witch traced the contours of her skull, "You captured my essence so well."
She snickered at his visible revulsion— "I would've been so bold as to call this our best session yet, Wesley. I think you would agree that we're a lot alike, don't you think ?"
He didn't run. Despite desperately wanting to. Wes couldn't run from this. He swallowed. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not—
Within a blink of an eye, she sprung open like a wind-up toy, snapping him up by the front of his shirt. It was explosive, yet controlled. Spectra's conducted herself like a predatory insect. She simply operated on a level someone like Wesley could never hope to achieve. Her breath washed over him in a sour wave, "But youjust had to ruin it ."
"Did you think this was an accident? Do you know what you're throwing away? You couldn't imagine how long I've waited for a tragic thing like you to come along—" Her jaw began to expand, drawing over Wes' frontal lobe. Globs of drool landed in his nest of hair.
Weston thrashed against her— kicking and clawing— It was a play-by-play of every stranger danger pamphlet they hand out at every grade school assembly. Wrenching his neck as far away from her maw as possible. He wanted any leverage he would afford.
"You're so pathetic! So lost! I don't think I'll leave your bones behind, because they'll still have your scent of self-loathing all over! I"m going to use all of you. Down to the marrow!"
Pressing the tread of his sneaker into her chest, just in the empty space where her lungs should have been. Though it was only his leg caught, he still sank to the liquid of his former therapist. He was becoming submerged in the substance. It had the consistency and stopping power of tree sap. With each haphazard movement, Wesley only became further entombed in the decay. The blackness crept up his leg, pulling him into her in a hellish embrace. It was so… cold. Cold how the emptiness of space felt like. Cold like a body left stiff on a shelf in a mortuary.
"YOU'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!" Penelope cried, "STAY! STAY WITH ME!"
"FOREVER! FOREVER AND EVER!"
The dog tags around the young man's neck began to jingle as they violently clattered against each other under the surface of his jersey.
Summoning all the strength he had, and praying for even more, Wes broke his hand free from her shoulder. He was stained— just like Spectra said. He was undeniably stained. The black slime trailed down his arm, crawling in viscous trails and veins.
A few seconds left on the clock— the buzzer was about to sound.
Seventy-three to eighty-one.
In so many words they were getting slaughtered. They had kept up the defense as best as they could. But Elmerton was faster, they were meaner— they struck with no mercy and blistering confidence. There was no way Crows could turn this around. The odds were against them, just like they always were. Casper high hadn't won anything since the forties. They couldn't dig themselves out of their grave. Wes was always self-aware that he was with the lame dogs and losing horses. Some people were born lucky, some were lucky to get out of bed every morning and just not end it all.
Coach called a time-out.
Wes was the first to hit the bench— pulling his towel over his hair, and rehearsing for their inevitable defeat. Dash followed, leaning back, his head making a dull thunk noise against the wall. Baxter was also contemplating how they were completely screwed. They were breathing hard— They were too exhausted. They didn't have the mental resources to entertain the idea that they weren't anything different than losers. They were resigned to their fate.
A hand clapped on Wesley's shoulder.
Sluggishly the shooting guard followed that broad hand to see the shit-eating grin plastered on his older brother's face.
"You here to gloat, Clay?" The younger groaned, hunching over his knees.
Giving Wes a reassuring squeeze, Clay didn't say anything at first. Instead, he took a seat next to his brother on the bench. He had cracked the top of a soda can.
Wes remembered the smell of carbonation and cola, just as vividly as the red scoreboard searing into his brain. He remembered that he could feel his pulse in his heels. He ached everywhere from getting knocked down over and over again.
He remembered Clay had the camera around his neck. Back when he still could yell at Wes for touching his stuff without permission.
"C'mon." Clay nudged his brother's leg with his, "Bounce your knee; think your way out of this."
"Asshole, there's nothing to think out—!" Wes grumbled, "We're being killed out here."
"Wake up. We lost. Boo hoo." The shooting guard snapped.
Not even offended by his outburst, Clay only sipped his drink.
"I get it, okay?" Wes balled the fabric of his shorts into his fists, "I'm never gonna be as good as you."
"No. You're not." Clay agreed.
Brows raised in confusion— Wes was certain this isn't how pep talks are supposed to go.
"You're gonna be better than me. You want to win more than anyone I know. If you want this bad enough, you're going to pick yourself up— tie your shoes and get back in there and punch that kid who knocked you over in the mouth."
Dash piped up from his side of the bench, "I don't think you know how this sport works."
Clay picked up a discarded towel from the floor and threw it at the starting forward, "Put a cork in it Baxter!"
"Wes." The elder continued, finding that same comforting grip on his brother's shoulder, "If you want this. You're gonna have to prove it. Not to me, not to coach, not to those Elmerton snobs— You have to prove to yourself what you're made of. You're responsible for your own success."
Softly, Clay asked, his deep voice cracking with his sincerity, "So, do you want this?"
Before Wes had the chance to respond, the referee blew the whistle. On the clock; no time to think. Just action.
Dash rose, offering his hand to his superior. They got back on the court.
The pieces of stainless steel kept clicking together. Faintly at the edge of his ears, he could hear his dog tags beating.
Ripped from a better bittersweet memory that felt like a lifetime ago, Wes knew what he had to do.
Wes tore off his necklace, taking the dog tags into his fist as well as his weapon.
He placed the whistle to his lips and took a deep breath.
No sound came from the device.
The only sound was of the tendrils of Spectra's form undulating and squelching wetly like rotted fruit. Followed by her screaming—
Wes kept at it—
"YOU LITTLE BRAT! AGH!"
The silver whistle hit a frequency only ghosts could hear. And it made them suffer—
Until he was turning blue in the face, Wes kept playing that tone. Rendering the witch to her knees. Separating from her host, she slid away from the horrid sound. The cattle met the brand. Penelope was on the floor, beating her fists into the ground, "STOP! STOP! STOP THAT— AGNH ! STOP THAT NOISE!"
Covered in the remnants of the witch's decay, unbelievably light-headed, Wes paused only to catch his breath—a breath that he needed because—God forgive him for being human. Forgive him for being infinitesimal and just an irrelevant piece of matter flung to the farthest throes of the universe. Forgive him for being prone to make mistakes and all the mistakes he will continue to make. Forgive him for needing to breathe, because it might just be his last. Mercy wasn't something Wes deserved but still, he asked.
BAM!
The door to the office nearly burst off its hinges when it slammed against the wall. The room was then filled to bursting with burly men dressed to the nines in white three-piece suits like they were a mourning party. Their eyes hidden by thick sunglasses.
Like sand exiting a puncture wound the men moved swiftly, covering all vantages and exit points. Their maneuvers were brutally efficient and allowed for no error. Out of the corner of his eye, Wes spotted a black-gloved fist thrust into the air. In its clutches was a device which Weston could only guess the purpose for—
"GET DOWN!" One of the faceless men directed.
Taking his cue, Wes held up his hands and got to his knees.
Writhing along the ground, Spectra pounced—hands first ready to stake her claim on Wes's windpipe, prepared to tear his larynx straight from his spine. She made one more fruitless attempt on the teen's life before one of the men in white snatched her up by her nape.
The man threw her against the wall before his colleague stabbed a two-pronged grabber— effectively trapping the ghoul there. It sparked up with buzzing electricity—causing Penelope to wail in dogged agony.
Wes would have nightmares about her face being inches from his. Those teeth would be the things he sees when he tries to drift off to sleep. That flayed face snapping shut like the jaws of an iron trap just skirting his skin would haunt him. The what-ifs were too much to ponder. Weston sat on his knees in a slump. He couldn't tell you when but eventually his hands dropped into his lap because, honestly? He was fourteen and he was exhausted. Exhausted and happy to put this behind him.
For once, Wesley was happy to be alive because he knew he wasn't wasting it.
Somewhere the young man found the strength to stand. Wobbly like a newborn deer— just as wet as one too—
The agent leading the mission came over after doing some preliminary scans of the room with his watch that projected a calming blue light.
"We spoke on the phone; I am agent One-Hundred-Thirty-Five." The man robotically introduced himself, "Thank you for the tip, civilian. The world at large thanks you for your aid."
His voice wouldn't be the one you associate with praise or general human warmth. He was a white— nearly albino, nearly hairless bald man. What little could be made of his complexion, the agent seemed to suffer from an aggravated case of eczema. The agent was built for strength, and nothing else it seemed. He was wide. Wide enough that Wes could hardly see around him.
The agent shook the teen's hand not even phased by the ghost viscera coating half of Wes's body. The black slime matched the man's gloves in a way that deeply unsettled the whistleblower.
"Wh-what happens now?" Shirking away—Wes could care less about the Gentlemen in White's bedside manner. Answers were far more necessary.
Flatly Hundred-Thirty-Five stated, "The change should be immediate. The suicide rate in this neighborhood should plateau to a containable number. John Doe and missing persons should effectively be halved in the next three months—"
"No." The sophomore pointed to the ghoul now being subdued for storage in a black metal box with a caution symbol on the front, "I-I mean, what's gonna happen to her?"
The agent's blank resting face was interrupted with a brief moment of confusion. He glanced at the sight. His sunglasses reflected Spectra's wild struggle to break free against several agents. The box in their hands flashed a harsh obnoxious light— and in the next moment, the ghoul had vanished. It was like a magic trick, Penelope Spectra was gone. The black box produced steam as one of the agents now handled it by a cord that hung off the back.
"What are you— what're you gonna do to her?" Wes hoped to clarify, but his voice had all but left him now.
Adjusting his tie, the agent's chapped ruddy lips twitched coyly, "Our plans for the specimen at this moment in time are… classified ."
Weston liked the ominous air about the word. Classified was good. If what Wes had read was true Penny Saint was on her way to several hundred life sentences. If this was a just world Spectra should be burning in hell.
"Look." Wesley muttered, "I'm sure you've got your protocols to follow, man— but—" the sophomore sighed, "You'd be better off eradicating these… things off the face of the planet."
The agent didn't respond to this, only lost in the readings on his watch. Like most adults, the agent didn't think he had to listen to a child. It wasn't like Wes had the experience to back up his claims. He was old enough to die for this town but not enough to break through to it.
"You better promise that she'll never hurt anyone," Wes's nose wrinkled in prejudice, "Ever. Again."
Several agents had looked over their shoulders as if still deciding what to do about their live bait. Some of them made a cautious approach to grab samples of the rapidly hardening fluid encasing the young man's body.
"Do you think you have time to come to the compound upstate to give us a formal statement, Mr. Weston?" The gentleman in white asked. The question was more of a thinly veiled command.
The man's colleagues repeated the query on their unconvincing lips in a hushed cult-like unison and drew ever closer.
Taking a moment to read the room, Wes's glare landed on the identical pale faces of the agents that surrounded him.
"... I'll have to ask my mom first."