Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize from the 13 Ghosts movie nor am I making any profit from the writing of this fanfic.

A/N: Woohoo, kids! Yet another story of Dennis Rafkin's life! I know this is a pretty tired subject, but I thought I had to express my thoughts on it. Mine starts when Dennis gets the job offer from Cyrus and will, hopefully, go all the way until Dennis' death. It's a story that needs to be told…even if it has been dozens of times already in many different ways, but there we are. So here's my version, and if you aren't already tired of reading these, then by all means enjoy!

-Hekasha

Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End

Dennis Rafkin was not a happy camper.

"What do you mean, fired?" he said, trying to remain calm. This couldn't be happening. This latest job at the library was really working for him. He barely had to touch or come in contact with anybody, he made a decent wage, and, best of all, there were no ghosts in the library.

Gina Davis, the library's director, looked across her pine desk at him, her graying blonde hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head and her caked eye makeup making her face look like a death mask. The wide window behind her looked out over a small park across the street, where rain was falling; had been falling all day. Water oozed down the glass, casting strange shadows over the room and making everything dark and dreary looking.

"Mr. Rafkin," Gina said, not unkindly, "I believe that you're aware of how much of a disturbance you caused the other day. That's the third time in as many months that you've broken down like that. I'm sorry, but we have a very strict standard here, and we can't have our employees going into fits every few weeks for no apparent reason. I understand that you're sick, Mr. Rafkin, but I'm afraid we no longer have a place for you here. If I may make a suggestion, perhaps it would be wise for you to seek some professional help about this…"

Dennis fought the urge to close his eyes and groan. See, that was the thing. In order to avoid the stares and eye-rolls of people around him, he never told anyone that he was psychic. It sounded too melodramatic; nobody would believe him. Instead, he simply told his employers and coworkers that he had a mild case of epilepsy, explaining that the migraine medication he carried around with him helped him treat it. That was, of course, a far cry from the truth. He wasn't epileptic, he wasn't sick. He went into fits only when he touched another person, felt their life's pain pouring into him in one giant, migraine-inducing head rush. Or, of course, whenever a ghost was present. He had figured this one out only a few years ago, when he had seen a show on the Discovery Channel about so-called psychics and how they claim to see ghosts around them in visions. He had known that was the answer to his 'condition', as people had always called it, the reason he sometimes went into seizures even when he hadn't touched anyone. And his 'condition' was about to lose him his fifth job in three years. Realizing he was supposed to be politely listening to Gina's 'advice', Dennis tuned back into reality; something he was starting to have a harder and harder time discerning from his visions.

"…are many places that can help you to take control of your life if you really work hard at it…"

Never mind, she was still going. Dennis stared past her out the window, watching blurry shapes zip by on the street. It was getting worse. His gift, his curse, whatever it was. It was getting worse, more intense. As soon as he stepped out of his apartment in the morning, he was assaulted by ghosts, by visions of another person's pain and suffering. He had started to think of the library as his safe place, where nothing could touch him. Except for a few very nosy customers. Just the other day, a teenage girl had wandered into the library, presumably doing research for a school project. Upon sighting him, she had apparently forgotten her studies and had followed him around, pestering him. The kid had been a first-rate slut, and Dennis had politely yet firmly ignored her advances. But when she had finally gotten impatient and reached out to grab his arm…all Hell had broken lose.

He had been treated to a life history of a complete stranger, had seen her childhood, her abusive parents, her many boyfriends that had led to her lack of self-respect. He would have felt sorry for her, and had afterwards. But at the time he had been busy having a mental breakdown. He had screamed, falling to the floor, causing customers and coworkers to stare at him in alarm. Some approached him, trying to help, but he had screamed at them to stay away. The whole time, the girl had stood there with wide eyes, wondering what she had done wrong. He had yelled at her, called her a dumb slut, to get out of his sight. He did that sometimes, when the pain was so intense he had to blame it on the sender, even though they had no idea what they had done or why he was like he was. Needless to say that was why he was in Gina's office right now, getting fired.

"…think you can get better, if you really try."

Finally, she was done. Gina really was a nice lady, but Dennis didn't have the patience for this right now. He was thinking about leaving the building, dreading going out on the street where he was vulnerable, where so many people and spirits were waiting to pounce on him, Dennis the psychic. Dennis the freak.

He forced a smile. "Thanks," he said. It didn't even seem genuine to him, no matter how he tried. So without another word, he left the office and gathered his things from downstairs in the employees' lounge. He slouched into his coat, thankful that the place was vacant of any sickly sweet, sympathetic coworkers. He wasn't really friends with any of them, mostly because he couldn't let them touch him in any way, and keeping up the act of being 'sick' for more than the required time around people was grating. And there was no way he could tell anybody what was really wrong with him. They wouldn't believe him. Nobody believed him. And why would they? They didn't get head-splitting headaches whenever they touched someone, didn't get seizures for no apparent reason from ghosts. They didn't even believe in ghosts. Because they were normal. He wasn't. And because of that, Dennis couldn't stand them.

Checking to make sure his meds were still in his pocket, he grabbed his umbrella and left the library, left the safety that he had gained for a few months.

The bus ride home was, thankfully, free of encounters. He managed to procure a seat at the back of the bus that remained unoccupied the whole trip, saving him from the embarrassment of having to edge away from anyone who might touch him.

He walked the block from the bus stop to his building in five minutes, avoiding the deeper puddles. This wasn't exactly the ritzy part of town. His apartment was a plain red brick building with bronze lettering proclaiming "Oakwood Apartments – No Vacancy". Not fancy, but it was clean and comfortable.

Dennis trudged through the doors and took the stairs to his third-floor apartment, which was safer than taking the elevator. The landlord hadn't gotten around to getting the repair guy in, and the elevator was prone to getting stuck or letting people off at the wrong floors.

Unlocking his apartment, Dennis stepped inside, soaking wet despite his black umbrella. He surveyed his home with his usual mixture of relief and resentment. It was clean enough, with soft carpeting and earth-tone paint, and small but fully functional kitchen and bathroom units. He had minimal furniture, which didn't really matter because he lived alone – and never had guests. His home wasn't the most luxurious, but it wasn't a shithole like some of the other places he had lived before moving here a few months ago. Kicking off his shoes, Dennis shook out and folded his umbrella and hung up his coat. He was, thankfully, ahead on his rent and bills. By the time the next payments needed to be made, he would have another job – hopefully.

Dennis realized he was shivering. It was bloody cold out for November, and he was soaked. Deciding to save money by not bothering to turn the heat up, Dennis strode to the bathroom and inserted the plug in the tub. He turned on the hot water tap full blast, filling the tub with scalding water. Turning, he caught sight of himself in the mirror that hung over the sink. He blinked slightly as he studied his bony face, short brown hair and blue-green eyes, his tall, gangly form dressed in jeans and a dark sweater as usual. Making a face, he undressed quickly and sunk into the bath, yelping slightly as the hot water stung his chilled skin.

He lied back, resting his head on the back of the tub and closing his eyes. His life wasn't as bad as some, he guessed, but it was no field of roses, either. Ever since he was born, he had been unable to touch anyone because of his gift. Oh, he had endured the necessity with gritted teeth as a child, whenever his parents or family hugged him or whenever a kid came in contact with him at school. As he grew he started to understand more and more about what was really wrong with him, what the visions and pain were really about.

When he told his parents he was psychic, they put him into therapy. Like that would help. It only made things worse. The shrinks put him on medication, diagnosing him with first traumatic stress, then epilepsy, then depression, and a score of other 'conditions', each one coming with a different prescription. By the time he graduated high school, he was up to seven pills a day. He could barely think straight let alone function, and the visions and headaches got worse instead of better. He struggled his way through a few years of college; enough to guarantee him a job above minimum wage but no more. Sure that his life was over, he even tried committing suicide; he still had the scars on his wrists from where he had slit them.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, he couldn't decide which), his roommate at the time had found him before he could bleed out. After his trip to the hospital, the doctors took Dennis off the drugs. He had stayed with his parents while he was going through withdrawal. That was perhaps the greatest low in his life. His dreams had been haunted by painful visions until he didn't know if he was sleeping or awake anymore.

He had moved out of his parents' place after a few months and for the next three years had moved around all over the country, running from the ghosts, both emotional and spiritual, that had chased him, finally coming to rest here.

 And here he was, out of a job again.

Dennis heaved a tremendous sigh and shifted in the rapidly cooling water. Here in his apartment, he was safe from human contact. He didn't have to go near anyone, didn't have to face the awkward questions and stares that accompanied his refusal to shake hands or even brush against anyone.

But the ghosts…the ghosts were another story. They didn't care about walls or locked doors. They followed him everywhere, whether he liked it or not. Ghosts were like everyone, Dennis supposed. They had stayed on earth for some particular reason or strong emotion, and then realized that nobody could see them, hear them. Except for Dennis.

Ghosts seemed to know that he could see them, hear them, share their pain. And they were all too eager to share that pain. They didn't seem to care that it caused him physical harm; they just wanted to be heard. He shouldn't have blamed them for that. But he did. All his life, he had shared in other peoples' memories, their pain, until he couldn't focus on his own pain, his own problems. He felt empty. He felt…used.

Finally rising from the now lukewarm water, Dennis dried off and wrapped the towel around his waist. Padding into the bedroom, he dressed in dry clothes and slumped into the main room, plunking down on the couch. Grabbing the newspaper, he flipped to the job adds, quickly scanning the page and circling the more promising-looking openings. There weren't many. All of them involved human contact, and that wasn't exactly one of Dennis's strengths.

Frustrated, Dennis refolded the paper and gazed around the room, wondering what he was going to do for the rest of the day. Without a job, he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nobody to see.

"You are one lonely sonabitch, Rafkin," he mumbled drearily. What would a normal person do at a time like this? They would probably sit and watch TV, or read, or even go for a drive. Dennis didn't drive. He had learned quickly that automobiles and the possibility of blinding seizures don't mix very well. In his state, driving was as good as suicide – or worse, homicide. The first time he had nearly hit a pedestrian, Dennis had traded in his car. No way in hell he was going through that again.

And so it was that Dennis Rafkin spent the rest of the day in a stupor of binge drinking and blaming the world for everything wrong in his life. Hey, everyone's gotta do it sometime, he reasoned as he cracked open his third vodka. Toasting to his own fucked-up life, he put the bottle to his lips and kept gulping the stuff until he passed out.

The next day, Dennis awoke to the phone ringing. His head was pounding, not from a spiritual encounter this time but just a simple hangover. As much as it hurt, Dennis couldn't help but feel almost proud that he could even have something as delightfully normal as a hangover.

The phone rang again, its shrill chime piercing his ears. Cringing, Dennis realized her was still on the couch. His clothes were rumpled and liquor bottles were stacked next to the couch on the floor. He checked the time: 8:30! Who the hell would be calling at Eight-thirty?!

The phone rang again, making Dennis feel as if his head would explode. But for once the headache wasn't riddled with insane visions, so he couldn't really complain. He launched himself forward and grabbed the phone off the end table.

"'Llo?" he said groggily.

"Hello," said a curt voice on the other end, "Is this a Mr. Dennis Rafkin?"

Oh, great, Dennis thought. This guy must be a telemarketer. He hated telemarketers. If he had the money he would go buy a call display, just to avoid the telemarketers.

"Whadda you want?" he said, attempting to express to them his displeasure that they were calling at 8:30 in the morning to try selling him something he couldn't afford anyway. Especially when he was hung over.

There was a pause on the other end, as if the speaker was debating whether to rebuke Dennis for his less than polite greeting. Then it continued, unfazed.

"Mr. Rafkin, I understand you're out of a job."

Dennis bolted upright, no longer drowsy. How did this guy know that? Dennis sat stiffly on his couch, his eyes narrowed. He was tempted just to hang up on this guy. He didn't respond.

"Mr. Rafkin?" the voice on the other line repeated, not impatiently.

Dennis took a deep breath. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, cringing as his paranoia came through in his tone, "What do you want?"

Another pause. "I'd like to offer you a job, Mr. Rafkin."

Dennis made a face, thankful that the guy on the other end couldn't see him. A job? This guy called at this ungodly hour of the morning to offer him a job?

"And what job is this, exactly?" Dennis asked, "And you still haven't told me who you are."

"Terribly sorry," said the voice, seeming to belong to a man in his mid-fifties or so, "How rude. My name is Cyrus Kriticos. I am an – er – adventurer, one could say, that's doing some…research in this area of the country at the moment. I would very much like it if you were to oblige me by assisting with this…project."

Dennis's eyes narrowed again. This sounded a little – off. The guy quite obviously wasn't saying everything; probably wasn't saying much of anything concerning his real plans. So why would he…

"It would, of course, pay very well," the guy, Kriticos, promised, "And though it may be a…challenge…for you I'm sure you'll find it entirely rewarding."

Dennis wasn't liking this. He was starting to wish he hadn't answered the phone.

"Cut the shit already, man," he growled, "Just tell me what you want me to do."

Kriticos wasn't fazed by Dennis less-than-courteous reply. In fact, he seemed amused.

"Ah, you see, that is the question, Mr. Rafkin, and I'm afraid I'm loath to tell you about it over the phone. I was wondering if perhaps you could meet me at a more convenient time and place and we can talk face to face."

Dennis took a minute to think it over. He did need the money, and even though the guy was starting to creep him out he sounded like he would be able to pay what he promised. Why not just hear him out?

So Dennis took a deep breath and said the words that would alter his life irreparably: "Sure, why the hell not?"