Author's note: IT'S OCTOBER! THIS IS HALLOWEEN THIS IS HALLOWEEN
Chapter 45
Scythe
00000
James' Room
Jillian stared at James' ceiling at the disjointed memories. Images. Feelings. That's all she had. Something had happened. Something important.
Something significant.
She closed her eyes.
Jillian didn't know what to do or where she was. Nothing was familiar.
So many details twisted and missing, fading even as she thought about them.
Running.
Eyes following her.
Teeth.
Claws.
A calm voice. A familiar voice.
Anger.
They were talking. Jillian was talking. Who was she talking with? She knew that voice.
The words were getting harder to speak.
Pain in her chest.
Jillian was angry, then sobbing. Begging. She was hitting whoever was holding her.
Anna's voice.
Jillian's eyes snapped open, but the images didn't leave. The ceiling turned into a canvas for her mind.
A skeleton soaked in blood. Blood staining her hands. But the black sockets were…soft…
A warmth, like a hug, hard and stiff but still warm.
She knew that feeling. It was different, but the same.
Fingers going through her hair.
Jillian's thoughts that she couldn't entirely understand were snapped away as James came into his room.
He didn't seem angry, just really confused.
"Uh. Jilly?"
"What?" she muttered.
"What are you doing in my room?"
"Thinking."
"…Couldn't you…you know….do that in your room?"
"No."
James rolled his eyes.
Jillian was silent for a moment. Her eyes shifted to her twin. "Does your stomach still hurt?"
"A little," James admitted with a grimace and a shrug. "Mom complained about wasting money on a flu shot."
"It's the flu? Keep away."
"Get off my bed then!
"Don't wanna."
James groaned but didn't fight with her. They went back to school tomorrow and he wanted to actually have a peaceful day before he went back to pitying looks and awkward conversations. So he left.
She frowned and listened to the noises of the house for a few hours.
She overheard her uncle complain about some vandals getting to his car on Thanksgiving night.
"It's a rental!" his voice streaked up the stairs, followed by her father's tired retort.
"I'm looking into it. The whole street had toilet paper strewn in the trees. Your car was red and flashy, and I guess the delinquents just…"
"Do not blame me."
"I'm not."
"You're a police officer. How could you…"
"I'm not going to be sitting outside my house Thanksgiving night waiting for a bunch of idiot kids to vandalize the neighborhood and stick candy to your car. I'm looking into it. Your car is insured. Don't leave on a bad note. For me, please."
The argument stopped after that, and Jillian figured Uncle Reggie calmed down.
The relatives were staying a few days before going home.
Reggie shut up, but Aunt Jean was every so often complaining of the cat hair.
Eventually, Jillian got sick of it.
00000
At Yomen Cemetery, Evening
"Hey, Charmer," Mark said, managing a small smile. He looked on as a leaf flew by, brushing across the top of the grave-marker.
Mark stood alone in the graveyard. He listened to the wind, straining to hear her voice. Her laugh. He didn't feel the cold or notice November bring frost through the air, stinging his skin.
His fingers pressed against the top of the stone, feeling the texture. He pressed harder, bruising his skin between the grave marker and his finger bones. He tried to picture her hair, soft black strands slipping through his fingers as she leaned on his arm and told him a story. He shoved his other hand into his pocket, feeling the cold metal of the ring he gave her. It warmed to his touch.
They had fished it out of the burned wreckage. It still bore the scorch marks on the outside but was silver and polished on the inside, a horrible reminder that she had been wearing it while she died.
He couldn't even look at it. Every morning he snatched it off his nightstand and slipped it in his pocket without a glance. His parents hadn't asked for it back, though they knew he had it.
Hey, Roman. He imagined Anna saying as if she was standing next to him. She would look at the tombstone with a critical eye. He wondered if she liked it. Knowing her, if she could get away with it, the marker would be as grand and macabre as possible. That wouldn't have gone over well with Mr. and Mrs. Grisholme if he or Sarah suggested it.
"Things have been kind of crazy lately…The lawsuit is still going through, you know. There's talk about the guys being tried in criminal court."
Not for murder I hope…He could almost picture her smirking at him with a tilt in her head, hair falling in front of her eyes.
"Manslaughter…all the evidence so far says this was an accident."
But you don't believe that?
"I just…I can't stop thinking about it. Why… why didn't the sprinklers turn on? I…went to talk to your dad at the station, and I overheard someone mentioning that the water main was turned off for maintenance or something…" he trailed off and shook his head. She wouldn't want him talking about this, would she? She'd want to know how his day went. Wouldn't she?
He lowered himself into the dirt to sit in front of "her". He was silent. What could he say?
"I miss you," he said, his voice hollow and strained. It was the truth, but it hurt so much to even breathe out the words. "I wish you were here." His heart hurt and his voice cracked, tears welled up in his eyes and he didn't care enough to wipe them away.
"I try…I try to remind myself you're happy," he said. "That you're watching me, wishing me well. I keep telling myself you're in heaven. T-that you're fine and at p-peace and don't give a damn about me." He hung his head. "I hate to think you're feeling the same thing as me. I want you to miss me, but at the same time, I don't. Not if it means you're feeling anything like I am. You deserve to be happy."
Mark frowned and looked up at the sky. "What am I doing…" he mumbled after a moment but got no response.
"Mark?"
Mark stifled a yelp and looking up at the intruder in a panic, tensing to jump to his feet.
He swallowed as he got up. "Jillian. I didn't hear you."
The little girl didn't respond. She glanced down at the crackling leaves that should have given her away with their noise. In her hand, she clasped a small cluster of flowers more leaves and grass than color. Dead violets and roses that hadn't turned to dust in the winter winds sprouted through her loosely held fist.
"How did you get here?" Mark asked, kneeling to look up at her. He rested an arm on his knee and studied Jillian in concern. He didn't mention how she finally was speaking to him after so long.
"I walked."
Mark panicked. It was an hour's walk. "It's freezing! Next time ask someone for a ride…I would've come to get…"
"You were already here," she interrupted with an odd coldness in her voice.
Mark blinked. It was so unlike her. Jillian was loud. She knew how to make her presence known. When she was upset, she made sure everyone knew. At least, she used to. The twins had changed, and it broke everyone's heart. Jillian's anger started to look like Anna's. Quiet, seething. She didn't cry. She didn't speak.
Meanwhile, Mark saw how James buried his pain under functionality. The boy did what needed to be done. He smiled when people wanted him too. He didn't cry either, but it was a brave face for others, not himself. They both denied their pain in different ways.
In a way, Mark was jealous. He was hurting so much that he couldn't hide it if he tried. He cried, beating himself up when his dad held him like a child and told him to be strong and push through. He didn't want to be strong. He wanted to hurt. He didn't care about the crueler people at school who judged him.
"Jilly, what are you doing here?"
She was so quiet. She didn't look at him, her eyes fixating on the tombstone etched with her sister's name and marking an empty grave. That's all it was. An empty grave that was just a place for people to visit. Anna wasn't here. She was at home, sitting on the fireplace mantel like one of James' soccer awards.
"Do you hear her?" she asked, still not looking at him. She rubbed her arms and sniffed at a running nose that fought against the cold.
Mark peeled off his jacket and wrapped it around the girl.
She didn't protest as he zipped it up then put her hands in the polyester pockets, along with the dirt and flowers she didn't release.
"Sometimes," he said. "But…it's in my head." He squeezed his eyes tightly for a moment. "My mom mentioned how she saw her mom everywhere after she died. How some days, my mom felt like Grandma was standing right next to her."
"Do you feel Anna with you?"
Mark cracked a small pained smile. "Of course."
"No, you don't," Jillian said, her eyes drilling into his. "You're pretending. She hasn't come to visit us."
Mark felt his heart drop a few feet, but he wasn't sure how to answer. "You don't know that," he said eventually.
"She's not here," Jillian said.
"That doesn't mean she's not watching."
Jillian didn't argue that. Her glower broke for a moment, confusion and fear flashing across her eyes.
"What's wrong?" Mark asked.
The girl's voice came out, small and hesitant.
"I had a dream," Jillian said. The unsureness in her voice made it shake, blending into the shivering she had from the chill.
Mark's expression fell a bit. "Jilly…" He could guess what her dream was about.
"Anna was there. She…she was afraid."
Mark's eyes widened while his throat felt dry. His tongue stuck to the top of his mouth as he tried to search Jillian's face for answers.
She was clearly as disturbed by her own words.
Anna "afraid" of anything was…terrifying.
He shook his head. "It was a dream, Jillian.
"It didn't feel like a dream. It was…" she paused to think, her eyes squinted at the painful reminders. "It was like when I was in the hospital. The doctors made me sleep all the time with those drugs, but sometimes I was awake and five minutes later didn't remember being awake before. I felt like I was skipping through a movie without remembering that I pressed the forward button. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think so…"
"Anna was there. She was talking to me. She was scared. It didn't sound like her, but it was definitely her voice. I remember fire, but it wasn't hot. And there were these monsters…s-she telling me that I'll have to wait for her when I die because she…" Jillian stopped and hitched her breath.
"What?"
"She said that she wasn't in heaven," Jillian said.
Mark stiffened. Was he supposed to be confused or frightened?
Jillian buried her face in his shirt, collapsing into him to hide her eyes.
He instinctively caught her and wrapped his arms around the little girl as she tried to control her voice.
"S-she said she wasn't allowed in heaven yet. There were all these monsters. I was scared. I think she was scared."
"I-it was a bad dream, Jillian."
"But what if it wasn't!" she pulled back to scream at his face.
"Jillian…"
"What if she's trapped s-somewhere!? What if she's hurt? And alone?! And afraid. What if she's afraid! She doesn't know how to be afraid. What if those things are hurting her?"
She started babbling, words pouring out as the images flashed behind her eyes without any say of hers. She still didn't understand anything and the pieces were images with no sound or words to them.
"There was a fight a-and blood. Mrs. Northrop was there and she…" she cried harder. "Had this—this black stuff coming out of her mouth. She stabbed James. O-or…" her brow furrowed in confusion. "I t-think she stabbed him. Maybe he stabbed himself. I don't...I don't know... He was dying, and I couldn't do anything. There was a fire. One of the things took James. Then the-the monsters took us somewhere and…and…I don't know. I remember falling... and teeth. Someone was watching me. Someone laughing. It was horrible. Anna's voice. She yelled at someone they stopped and…we talked… I think we talked." Jillian suddenly took her hands to her head and screamed. "I DON'T KNOW! I can't remember! Why can't I remember!?"
She pitched forward as her knees buckled, almost falling out of Mark's hold as he scrambled to support her.
Her eyes were a glassy far off stare, and her forehead was scrunched in pain as she held the sides of her head and screamed in frustration and from a nasty headache.
"Jillian! Jillian, look at me."
She moaned and rocked, her small frame looking pathetic as she curled into a fetal position, crying and further worrying Mark as she dug her fingers into the dirt above Anna's grave.
Mark's hairs stood on end in what he assumed to be shock, his hands seemed to lose feeling where they touched Jillian. It reminded him of when he accidentally touched an electric fence but he ignored his strange reactions to make sure Jilly was okay.
Mark picked her up and ran to his car, ignoring when she threw-up. The stupid car wouldn't start at first and the radio station blasted static before settling. Just one more thing to stress him out.
The bad luck followed them at the hospital.
The payphone Mark tried in the waiting room cut out while a crying Jillian struggled to stay standing, clutching his shirt. He had to beg the receptionist for permission to use her phone. Even then, the damn thing kept a busy tone for so long that Mark had to ask someone to set Jillian down in the waiting room. It finally connected a few moments later. He called the police department asking for Detective Grisholme.
Meanwhile, a nurse was talking with Jillian. She wasn't impressed with Jillian's description of the pain. One more overreacting child in the ER.
Jillian didn't really say anything. She more cried and screamed about a headache and didn't even notice biting her tongue.
It took the blood in Jillian's mouth and her passing out again before they finally paid attention to Mark's concern and put her in a room.
Mark couldn't help glaring at the waiting room nurse as he ran after the gurney.
Twenty minutes later, Harold was in a panic state when he showed up, which was far more functional than most people. He gave Mark a glance while asking the doctor about his daughter.
Mark listened, grateful when Harold nodded to the doctor that the boy could stay and hear what was said.
Jillian was severely dehydrated and suffering from mild hypothermia. It didn't explain the seizure-like reaction Mark described, but the dehydration could have contributed to a migraine and that coupled with hypothermia and the trauma she was going through "could have caused a psychotic episode."
Mark didn't think "psychotic episode" was the right set of words. He was tempted to say the doctor didn't want to admit to not knowing what happened but held his tongue.
He did interrupt to say Jillian was describing a nightmare she had, not hallucinations or something like that.
The doctor gave Mark a short look and continued speaking to Harold, who didn't react any way to Mark's opinion except for a listening nod.
"I would suggest we keep her here overnight. She's stable, and we can prescribe some stronger pain killers to help with the headache and keep her warm. An IV drip will replenish her fluids. She should be fine to go home in the morning."
"Thank you." Harold shook the doctor's hand and went to see Jillian before he called his wife.
Mark hung back in the doorway.
Jillian looked fine, if pale, though she moaned with an ice pack on her forehead. Tear streaks ran down her cheeks, but they were dry, and she only nodded to her father when he talked to her. She met Mark's eyes and he saw that same worry in her eyes as when she was talking to him. But there was shame. She was ashamed to have told him about her dream.
She didn't know why exactly she chose to tell him and no one else.
She couldn't predict what James would do anymore. Her parents would send her to the shrink. Mark at the time seemed like the only one who would listen, but even he dismissed her.
And put her in the hospital.
Jillian squeezed her eyes shut and told her dad she wanted to sleep. Her head was pounding and nausea got to her.
Harold gave her a kiss, knowing he wasn't going to get anymore conversation out of his youngest.
"I'll be back later after I get off work," he said.
Mark followed Harold to the desk where he used the phone to call Thim. He heard James ask "what's wrong" and heard Thim's angry knee-jerk reaction that came from a place of fear. He didn't say anything as the man explained, but he flinched when Harold mentioned how Jillian was with Mark at the time.
Mark felt his heart sink as a tirade was nearly started.
Harold hung up the phone on his wife.
Mark winced.
"I'm sorry…" the teen started.
"Where were you?"
"Jillian found me at the graveyard, sir," Mark said.
Harold nodded. He gestured at the nearby elevator and flashed the boy a small smile. "Let's go get some coffee."
"What?" It was pretty late for coffee.
"You pulled me off a fourteen-hour shift," Harold said with a tired huff.
"Oh. Is everything okay?" It felt like an empty question.
Harold seemed to consider answering. "You're not going to talk to the press, are you?"
Mark frowned.
"Don't talk about this with anyone, understand?" Harold said as they stepped on an empty elevator. "Homicide pulled narcotics in for a case that's going to hit the papers tomorrow. We found some bodies in the park."
"What?" Mark said.
Yoman was a tiny town. Everyone knew everyone. There was a small drug problem with those who lived outside of town by the lakes. But it was never serious.
Anna was the most traumatic death to happen in decades. Maybe forever.
"It's a mess," Harold pressed his lips together, and the lines in his face sharpened. Stress coiled his whole body.
He was quiet for a minute, and Mark waited patiently, knowing Harold was about to ask a question.
The elevator opened, and the two went to the cafeteria. There were only a few people there. It was suffocatingly quiet and smelled of ammonia and burnt coffee.
Mark wrapped his hands around the cup of coffee Harold handed him a few minutes later and sat down. He lifted it to his lips, pausing just before the hot liquid touched him.
"How are you doing in school?"
Mark frowned and took a sip at the safe question. "Good…I mean…" He shrugged lamely.
Harold nodded, leaning on his elbows. "You close with any of your teachers?"
"Um... Mr. Kahers is pretty cool."
"What class is that?"
Mark searched the man's face for any clue what this conversation was about.
"Uh. Shop. He's also a mechanic for Samson's Auto Shop."
"He must know what he's doing. They do good work. They service the department's cruisers, you know."
"They kind of have to don't they? Unless you want to go to the next town over."
Harold chuckled, but it was strained. He sobered and looked at Mark in concern.
"Did you know Christine Northrop?"
Mark stilled. "Yeah. Everyone loves her. She's a history teacher. The twins have class with her I think. I do too."
Harold swallowed. "We found her body this morning."
Mark's eyes widened. "What?!" he said. He lowered his voice, shocked. "What…happened?"
"We don't know yet," Harold said. "She and several other people were found near Souling Park. The scene is…strange. I can't tell you much. I don't want you to speak to anyone about this. I'm not going to ask you to keep this a secret from your parents. I just want to give you a heads up when some officers come by to talk to the students and tell them what happened. It's still an open investigation."
"You… want me to keep an eye on the twins."
"…Yes…but," Harold sighed. "You're well-liked, son."
"I don't follow, sir."
"Some of the…bodies…there were two students who graduated earlier this year. And a teacher well…Just…just keep an eye out if someone is acting strange. You're likely to hear something…if there is anything to hear."
"You think a student was involved?" Mark asked, clearly confused. This was horrible. And weird.
"I'm not saying anyone's a suspect. But this is a small town. Like I said, the crime scene is...strange." Harold had the face of a man who knew he had already said too much. "I need you to be careful."
Mark blinked and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms before he noticed himself doing so. "Me? Have I done something?"
Harold glared at him. "Sit up straight, Mark. I'm concerned. For this to happen so soon after the fire. I think there's something going on."
"It was an accident…"
"I know," Harold interrupted with a short crack in his voice. "I…know." He gritted his teeth. "I can't tell you any more. Just keep an eye on James, and Jillian if she feels well enough to go to school tomorrow. That's all I'm asking." He sighed and got up to leave. "Get some sleep, Mark."
He took a step away from the table.
"Why?"
Harold paused and looked back, shocked to see tears in the teenager's eyes despite the careful stare he struggled to hold.
"Mark…"
"Why do you trust me?" Mark said, anger dipping into his voice. He angrily blinked away tears and growled in embarrassment. "Why even speak to me, sir?"
Harold came beside Mark and put his hand on the sixteen-year-old's shoulder near his tensed neck. "Mark, listen to me." He waited until Mark lifted his eyes. "We're all hurting. Annalise loved you. And you loved her. That's enough for me. It wasn't your fault."
Mark lowered his head, tears trailing down his cheeks. He tried to wipe them away.
Harold let the boy cry.
"I have to get back to work," Harold said sympathetically, wishing he could stay. "But do you need a ride? No one's going to mind you staying in the station overnight."
Mark shook his head.
"Alright, son. Go home. Get some sleep."
Harold left, refusing to cry until he got to his car.
Alone again, Mark waited until he could breathe before he left, stopping by to glance in Jillian's room before he left.
She was either asleep or pretending to be.
He didn't go home.
He parked a good distance away from the park, leaving his car in the empty carport of one of his friends who he knew wouldn't mind. It was a good ten minutes walking before he came across the yellow police tape.
Do not cross.
He swallowed. He didn't cross but skirted around the edge and ducking into the bushes, keeping an eye out for security.
His eyes widened when he saw what disturbed Harold. It was impossible to miss.
The scene was in a clearing he knew. He had played football with some of the other guys and a few of the girls in that same clearing many times.
He smelled it before he actually saw the burnt circle and broken lamp lights.
A perfectly round circle that seemed to have sucked the life out of the grass and surrounding bushes adorned the ground. Dirt and grass was torn up in different places. Not even frost seemed to want to touch the damage though it dusted everything else.
Mark leaned on a tree to get a better look and immediately yanked his hand away from the slimy material he touched. He stepped back into a bush on accident.
Blood? Sap. No, it was black.
"The fuck?" he muttered. The smell made him want to gag. It was like rotten eggs, except burnt and boiled. He grimaced at the sappy moldy tree he apparently shoved his hand in.
He stopped himself from wiping it on his pants and held his hand away from himself as he noticed something else.
"What the…" he said as he broke off a few leaves from the bush he ran into.
The leaves turned to grey dust in his fingers. He looked closer at the bush. He wasn't standing too close to the circle but the shrubbery was brittle where they faced it, turning to dust at the slightest movement. Already a few were reduced to skeletal branches due to stronger winds.
He continued to walk along the edge of the clearing, the whole area smelling weird. He felt the slime on his fingers and desperately wished he could wipe it off without leaving a trace of himself at the crime scene. There was a ringing in his ears that got annoying the longer he had to listen to it. It sounded like power lines, but he never remembered the nearby power lines buzzing loud enough to hear. He chalked it up to his anxiety of snooping around a crime scene.
It wasn't long before he found blood. It was by luck and nothing else. He tripped on a rock where there was a splattering of brown that he confused for paint. He wasn't sure, but if Annalise's weird interest in disturbing crime scenes told him anything, there was a definite possibility it was blood.
There was a trail. Blood splatter on rocks, leaves, clear spaces of dirt. It was dark and a miracle he even saw it. The flashlight he kept on his key chain and a day old layer of frost helped, the white ice making the reddish-brown stand out against the leaves. He had to be walking for five minutes before the trail stopped at two trees that shared a base, grew apart, and twisted around each other again to form a sideways eye-shaped opening big enough that he could step through.
Mark looked all around the trees but couldn't find any more blood.
I need to tell someone.He cringed. He was going to get in trouble coming here. Better he didn't say anything. The police would find the blood too. What was he supposed to get out of this?
He kicked the tree and turned to go back to his car when a glint of metal reflected his light.
He froze, slowly going toward it. He hesitantly brushed away the leaves with a stick to reveal a knife stained with dried blood.
It was a fillet knife with a curved, serrated blade and a blue handle. Symbols he didn't recognize were carved into the plastic composite handle and scratched on the blade, blood settled into the crevices.
He stepped back quickly and gasped, running away.
Back at the car, his hands gripped the wheel and he banged his head on it.
"No," he hissed. "It was just a dream. Jilly just had a bad dream." He turned her words over in his head.
Ms. Northrop was dead. There was a fire. James had been stabbed. The knife. The black stuff…
Mark looked at the slime on his hand and rubbed it between his fingers.
But he was fine! James was fine and safe at home. Wasn't he?
Mark's stomach dropped in fear. Had Jillian seen something? Did she even know what she saw? She said nonsense about monsters and stuff but maybe something had actually happened and she saw.
The mind is a strange thing. Her perception of things could have been messed up.
00000
The next morning
James stared into the mirror with a blank expression that flickered to one of confusion every couple of seconds.
Where did he get this scar?
It was thin and white and stretched from his sternum down halfway to his belly button. It curved slightly. Was it something from surgery after the fire? He only got his bandages off a few days ago, and while his skin was a bit wrinkly and discolored from a few burns, he hadn't noticed a scar. Not like this.
He heard Mom knock on his bedroom door and yanked the shirt down.
"James! Are you ready to go?" Thim called through the door.
"Y-yeah! Just a minute." James quickly yanked on his backpack, open the door, and darted past his mom, who stared at him as he ran down the stairs.
"Are you sure you don't need a ride?" she called as he paused at the door.
"I'm good," he said, putting his shoes on. "Is Dad picking up Jilly?"
Thim's carefully neutral expression twitched to one of distaste mixed with worry. "What that girl did to get back in the hospital—"
"She had a migraine."
"If you have a migraine, you come home and sit in a dark room with a trashcan and icepack. You don't go walking through town in freezing weather. Mark should have brought her straight home. Now we have another hospital bill that…"
James ignored his mom. "I gotta go. See you later, mom."
"Maybe I should drive you…" Thim said.
"You're going to be late to work," James said, a whine in his voice. "I'll be fine."
"I just…" Thim trailed off and looked at her son as he ran out the door. She didn't call out to him and just quietly watched from the doorway as he met up with a few boys from down the street and started their walk to the library where the school was temporarily holding classes. She took a deep breath and sat down on the porch steps.
She couldn't stand the twins out of her sight. She told herself she wasn't going to walk back inside and call her boss and say she wasn't coming in today. She told herself she wasn't going to drive to the library and park out of sight down the street. She told herself she wasn't going to sit there, pretending to read a book and trying not to think of Annalise.
Thim rested her head in her hands and let out a shuddering breath she didn't know she was holding. Her eyes drifted to a bowl of cat food, untouched, and a bowl of water that was turning a brown color from the dirt and leaves getting thrown in by the weather.
Wordlessly, she dumped out the dirty water and filled Lily's bowl from a pitcher she brought out with her.
00000
Halloween, far past midnight
"Light."
The word was soft, but it snapped Anna out of her slumber. She screamed and fell back out of the chair she had dozed off in. The chair back hit a shelf, thankfully a small one, and a pile of scrolls and books fell down on Annalise.
She sneezed from under the pile of dusty old paper and skin.
Chakis stared at the skeleton in what Anna could only assume was amusement. Or something close enough.
"Light…" Chakis said, this time in greeting. "What are you doing down here?"
"Why do you keep calling me that?" Anna snapped as she got up and carefully put the scrolls back in their place. "And I fell asleep here." She looked around the empty library chamber.
Halloween Town's library was massive, the building aboveground sitting atop chambers in the catacombs below. These chambers were dry, salty caverns great for preserving delicate artifacts with a few ceilings that stretched over a hundred feet and quite a few shelves to match.
Annalise was actually sleeping atop of these tall shelves that sported a platform close to the ceiling. The platform was as wide as a reasonably small room with enough space for a couple desks and smaller bookshelves.
It took a great deal of wandering and climbing a rickety ladder to find that spot.
Annalise figured it might take her about ten whole minutes to walk back to the surface, but it was secluded enough that no one suspected she was haunting there. She wasn't even sure if anyone knew the witches had kicked her out yet. The secrecy wasn't going to last much longer.
"Why are you here?" Annalise said, sitting on the edge of the shelf and looking down a dizzying hundred feet drop. She shuddered and pulled her gaze up.
"There's something I must show you."
"Crap. Is it another past-Jack thing? Because I might attack him if I see him again."
"No." Chakis stretched out one hand, keeping the other hidden.
Annalise took it, thinking the angel was helping her up. She yelped as the world shifted around her. However, unlike Fading, or that teleporting the witches did to kick her out of the house, the transition was gentle. It literally felt like breathing, as if letting one breath and taking in another that smelled and tasted like an entirely new place.
Chakis let go, and Annalise stumbled into a bell tower chamber she'd never seen before.
"Frick! Warn me! Where are we?" Annalise asked, looking around the small room. She shakily walked around the large bell hanging in the middle.
It was very old, black, and probably iron but without a tinge of rust anywhere. The surface didn't look like cast iron, though. It was shiny and smooth, like a river stone.
Anna studied the gloss finish, something about it bothering her as she twisted a shirt thread around a finger. It took a minute to realize what.
"I don't have a reflection," she said, tapping the bell. It didn't make a sound.
"No, you don't." The Reaper didn't offer an explanation.
"Where are we?"
"Still in Halloween," Chakis assured, moving to one of the shuttered windows of the bell tower. She held a blind apart and gestured for Annalise to look.
They could see the whole town square from their vantage point.
"Are we on top of Town Hall? Why?"
"This is the Requiem Bell," Chakis said, nodding behind them. "It rings to alert the monsters of a newcomer."
"I remember hearing it. Sally mentioned it rings the age of the monster when they died. Sixteen for me."
Chakis nodded at the skeleton patiently. "I rarely let souls keep their memories. However, I found that many find it useful to know how old they were when I took their life."
"You ring it?" Annalise tilted her head in interest. She recalled Sally, and Helga at another time, speaking of the Requiem Bell with a bit of resignation when Anna had asked how it rang.
Helgamine had said that Halloween rang it on its own, but also said she didn't truly know.
It was an odd feeling, realizing she suddenly knew something about the inner workings of Halloween, that monsters who had claimed the town as a home for centuries didn't.
Chakis nodded at her surprised utterance.
She held out both hands. White light, like fire, grew from the reaper's ashen palms. It twisted around her arms like soft mist and lit up the room in a brilliant glow.
Annalise stared in wonder. Some part of her mind wanted to be afraid, but she was enchanted by the fire.
"It's beautiful…" she whispered, reaching out slowly with wide sockets. Fire twisted around her fingers, curling in the air.
She dragged her fingers through the flames like water. They weren't hot, but she could feel the feathering air swirl around. It was an awful lot like her own purple flames, but these felt softer. Kinder than hers almost.
Chakis smiled at the skeleton, but it was a strange smile. Apologetic.
Anna completely missed it in her wonder. She didn't even stiffen on instinct as something appeared in Chakis' hands.
She stared at the long staff and curved blade.
"Here," Chakis held it out to Anna.
"You actually carry a scythe…" Annalise deadpanned with a thread of amusement but she didn't touch the thing.
"It's what I wish it to appear as. Symbolism is important for dealing with mortals. A sword promises justice. Though a scythe and sickle now can be symbols of death, depending on the culture, never once forget its invention. It is a tool of reaping. A promise of harvest and the transfer of grain from the field to hand."
"Ah. Souls are a consumptive product. Got it." She nodded with an exaggerated expression that said how it made perfect sense to her.
Chakis ignored Anna's sarcasm. She took the skeleton's hand, gently curling Anna's fingers around the stabilizer and the staff, but she didn't let go of her tool.
"It's heavy," Annalise said.
"Life is heavy."
Annalise's eyes fell as they traveled the blade. "This…this is what you used on me?" Her voice cracked. "When I died—is this what I saw?"
"No Light, this is just for looks, much like the forms many of souls here take, though the visual holds its purpose. With you, I simply drew the breath and soul from your body. You were suffering. Your death was not one of peace or safety. You died afraid and in pain."
"I couldn't feel fear," Annalise said, her voice low. "As a human."
"Your body couldn't, but your soul could, evident in how you do now in this physical manifestation of your soul in the form of bones and fire burning in place of marrow. I eased out your soul and held you in my arms."
"Like anti-mother," Annalise tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. She looked away and removed one hand from the scythe to wipe her sockets with her sleeve. "The holding part. I remember the pain. I remember the burning and the torture, but I don't remember that."
"I know. I'm sorry. I can only hide memories. All the souls I've ferried still hold their memories, somewhere within. It is up to them to search."
"Do I just not want to remember you?"
"Your pain was reaching a peak moments before I could truly take you away. I will not encourage you to go looking."
Annalise was quiet. She stood silently, her face turned away.
Chakis took the human soul's face in one hand, turning the strained sockets toward her. "There is something I need you to do for me, Light."
Annalise didn't respond at first. She ignored the statement. "Why do I trust you?"
"My brothers, sisters, and I are constants. Death can always be trusted. All souls know this." Chakis said softly. "You have questions. Ask. Then I will give you my request."
"I asked before, what does made in His image mean?" Annalise asked.
"Ask again later."
Annalise sneered, but Chakis raised a hand.
"I have a point of leading you around with that question."
Anna glared but asked her next question. "Does Jack know about you?"
"All the Kings of Halloween do. Whether I speak to them or not is another question. I was not fond of the last King. He abused me. Sent souls to their second meeting with me too often. Most have not been as kind as Jack, ironically," her expression shifted a bit as if she said something she wasn't supposed to. "But I kept my distance. No interfering from my part except at their ends."
Annalise frowned, filing that away to dissect later and searching the reaper's face for a clue what the answer to her next question might be. "What should I do about Jack?"
"Don't ask me if you should forgive him. I don't understand forgiveness."
"Who said anything about forgiving him," Annalise said. She sniffed harshly and stared at the staff, yet her eyes didn't light upon the blade. "But I don't want to hate him either. I couldn't help thinking if I would have done the same thing if I had the opportunity. I hate him. I hate his regret. But that means I have to know he has it."
"Jack does deeply regret the deal he bound us in. Blinded by his love and shortsightedness. Caught between demons and their pettiness. But you needn't force yourself to accept it. You have a right to anger. I never condone it, but I have no place in your choices."
"Why do you care so much to tell me this?" Annalise muttered.
Chakis didn't answer. She looked up over Anna's head as if to think.
"Take the scythe in your hands," she said, her voice barely a whisper and sending a shudder through Annalise's bones.
Anna then shifted in surprise as the full weight of the thing was rested it her hands as Chakis let go, bits of white fire curling around the weapon as Chakis hid her hands under her robes.
"What?"
"Ring the Requiem Bell for me. Don't hit with the blade. Turn it outward and hit with the staff."
"What?!" Annalise said again, turning the scythe upright to rest the end on the floor. She looked at the reaper in alarm. "It..it rings when a new monster comes! I don't want to kill anyone."
"You haven't harmed a soul," Chakis said. Her face twisted a bit, and Annalise wasn't sure if the reaper wanted to smile or roll her eyes. "There is a new arrival in Town, resting in the graveyard after a hard journey. They aren't dead yet, but she needs her presence known. Ring the bell four times."
"Four!?" Annalise hissed, gripping the angel's tool tighter. Her voice cracked. "A child? Y-you've taken a child." The skeleton stared at the angel of death in saddened horror, her fingers gripping the scythe tight enough to break it if it was real wood.
"No. But death does not discriminate, my dear," Chakis frowned. "Didn't you hear me say they aren't dead yet?"
"Yet."
"Yet," Chakis said, and Annalise wondered if the angel of death could even see her glare. "Ring it, please."
"Why me?" Annalise said though she tried to shout. "Why have you brought me here and handed me your scythe?"
If Chakis was deciding whether to lie or not, Annalise couldn't tell.
"I want to see if a monster's soul can even ring the bell. Only I have ever struck it. This opportunity will not likely happen again for me as it's only specific circumstances that allow us to speak."
"This is just curiosity, then?" Annalise said, trying not to think about the apparent toddler newcomer sitting alone and afraid in the graveyard.
"Yes."
"No."
"What?"
"No!" She pushed the weapon toward the reaper's hands. "This is insane. I don't understand what's going on, and I see no reason why'd you'd just hand me this. You ring it!"
Chakis didn't take it back.
Annalise let the long-bladed staff drop to the floor. It cracked the floorboards when it landed, kicked up dust, and vibrated cobwebs hanging in the window, weighing extraordinarily more than Annalise even realized.
She looked at the damage in alarm and stepped back, tripping on an uneven board but not completely falling.
"Light…"
"Shut up!" the teen cut her hand through the air.
The Reaper didn't respond to the tone, but she moved as if stifling a sigh and raised her hand.
The scythe didn't move to her hand but stood upright by itself in the middle of the room, like a macabre flag burning with white flames.
Annalise switched between glaring between a Death and Death's scythe. "I'm not going to just…do what you say. I'm not going to sit down in Purgatory waiting for people to tell me what to do…or…or waiting for demons to get me."
"They can't reach you here."
"That's not the point." Annalise was along for this ride. She figured that out a while ago. Every time she tried to do something of her own agency, things seemed to go wrong. But sitting around waiting for someone to tell her what to do was irritating.
"Jack traded my soul," she said, putting her fingers out to count. "You reaped it. Helgamine and Zeldabourne took me in. Little Braid brought us home. Dr. Finklestein saved my brother. My sister kicked Dracula in the face. What have I done?! I died!" She raised her hands. "That's it!"
She banged her fist on the Requiem Bell, but there was no sound. Her hair swung into her face, and she sneered at Death as she brushed it away. "Look at me! Things keep happening to me, even in those 'dreams' you kept putting me in. I could have stopped Jack, and I didn't. I shouldn't have left Halloween. And for what?! My brother and sister wouldn't have gotten hurt."
She abruptly sat down on the dusty floor, well aware of how childish she sounded. "This is all.." She let out a frustrated growl. "I'm dead." She looked up and the ceiling and opened her hands. "I'm dead and gone, and what do I have to show for it but no choices, no future, no family, and a freaking reaper who wants me to hit a stupid bell!"
Annalise looked up at a strange sound.
"Are you…laughing?" she said, appalled Chakis wasn't picking up on her stress about the circumstances.
Chakis continued to chuckle despite Anna's highly insulted tone.
"Light," she said, still chuckling. "You're so shortsighted. I thought that was one trait of your grandfather's that passed you over." She ignored Annalise's mildly disgusted look. "Your ability to choose leads to others, and you have all those things and more waiting for you. If you choose."
Annalise stared at her in confusion.
"You have what every soul has. Time and choice and nothing more. Nothing less. You stand here, with hundreds of futures in front of you. All you have to do is make a choice, exist through what happens next, then make another choice. That's the beauty of your kind."
"My kind."
"Beings with choice. With forgiveness. With limited time. Every choice you make is gold. Every word you speak is a sonnet. Don't squander your seconds on what you've lost, but speak and do that you think may lead to your own best fate. The real question you should ask is, 'What do you want'?"
Annalise glanced away.
Chakis seemed to take some kind of pity on her amid that confusing discussion. "Speak to Jack. Ask him what kind of monster you are to Halloween. Take that and decide what you want of this afterlife."
Annalise didn't look happy with that advice but met Chakis' eyes. She came back toward Chakis. She reached out, wrapping her hand around the scythe.
"What sort of choice is this?" she lifted the tool off the cracked floor slightly.
"Whether or not you'll let the other monsters know there is someone in the graveyard."
"That simple." She squinted distrustfully.
"At the moment, yes."
Annalise frowned and turned to the bell. She lifted the scythe, turning the blade away like Chakis said. "Then-" she paused, pulling the scythe back. "..I supposed I should own this choice."
"Hard as you can."
Annalise struck. She grit her teeth as the vibrations traveled up her arms painfully, the bone not absorbing the shock well. The white fire followed, tracing through the air like a brightened mist.
The tolling echoed around the small room, blasting into Annalise's hearing. She winced but struck, again and again, trying to keep the pauses between the tolls regular.
Once more.
Everything was ringing, and the vibrations numbed her whole body. She felt like she was about to come apart by the molecules.
She looked around, her eyes landing on Chakis and half surprised Death was still there.
Chakis took back the scythe, and it disappeared, evaporating into the flames. She held the young skeleton by one arm as Anna steadied herself and worked the buzzing out of her system.
"Thank you," Chakis said softly and suddenly wasn't there.
Annalise groaned through a splitting headache. "Wait! How do I get down?"
No answer.
Annalise rolled her sockets in the empty room.
"Half expecting this to be a dream," she muttered in a singing voice while looking for a trapdoor.
It took a bit of thinking and peeking out the blinds to make sure no one could see her before she carefully Faded and slipped out the thin spaces to the roof outside. She didn't reform until she was well down the street in a secluded alley with no windows in sight or anything that resembled an eyeball-spell graffitied on the walls.
She ran out toward the square to see who the new arrival was, noting the sounds of an already gathering crowd. Maybe everyone would stop calling her "newcomer" now.