Chapter Thirty-One: Soul Cakes and Silver Dollars
"Matthew! Get on out here!" Eugene hollers from the porch as several news vans come rolling to a screeching halt outside of Hell House.
"Fucking shit." Is the occultist's reply as reporters and cameramen swarm from the vehicles. Doors slamming, voices loud.
"Back inside, children, now. The rest of you kids clear on out, too." Eugene orders, and the children are quick to comply, Milo and Otto disappearing inside, the kids and teens lined up to the porch of Hell House, vibrant in their costumes, scatter like leaves.
The vultures descend in seconds, cameras inches from Matthew's face, immediately capturing his indignant, hunted glare.
"Matthew Campbell! Is it true that Hell House is re-opening its doors for visitors?"
"No, it's a closed party—"
"Is it true—"
Heated, desperate voices overlap.
"Is it true—"
"Is it true Hell House is still haunted?"
"Is it true you persuaded the owner to sell you the house, though it wasn't for sale?"
"Is it true your practise satanism—"
"-black magic—"
"-the occult—"
"-necromancy—"
"Is it true that the missing murder suspect, Jonah Aickman, is somehow alive again in Hell House—"
Matt emits a sound like a snarl, baring his teeth. Before he can respond, Eugene cuts in, the cameras quickly pivoting to frame the hunched, elderly black man, a bowl of candy and wrapped cookies between his weathered, shaking hands.
"Really now, Dr. Campbell here has a few guests over on Halloween, and the press just goes fucking, nuts, huh? Y'all look like damn fools, asking about ghosts and people long fuckin' dead. Clear on out of here before we call the police, hear? This is private property, and a private gathering."
The reporters all freeze at the threat of law enforcement, several of them emitting weak excuses.
"Go on, no, get back in your vans, fruitflies." Eugene states, smiling. He fishes a wrapped cookie from the bowl, and offers it to the nearest reporter. "Clear on out, take some soul cakes with you if you want—"
"Soul cakes?" Someone asks, and the activist's smile widens.
"Yes sir, soul cakes. It's tradition, you know? In paganism, which is what Dr. Campbell here practices. Makes 'em every year for Samhain. They act as offerings to loved ones passed on, and as reminders of the sweet embrace of humanity as we all go to meet our maker. So take some, and think on that a bit."
A soul cake, wrapped in cellophane, its powder coating shimmering underneath clear plastic, is pressed into the palm of a reporter, her painted face slack in confusion.
"Go on now. Take some candy and go home to your kids. Happy Halloween."
Eugene's tone is laced with finality. One by one, the cameramen and reporters leave. Some of them do actually take soul cakes with them, others palming little fun-sized Kit Kats, Snickers, Hershey Bars.
Matt stares in elated disbelief as the vans squeal out of the yard, rutting up mud as they go. He laughs suddenly, turning to Eugene with a beaming smile.
"Well I'll be fucking damned, Eugene. That was certainly effective."
Eugene just smiles and unwraps a soul cake of his own. He traces the cross pressed into its surface before taking a bite, powdered sugar raining down to cling like snow in his white goatee.
"Hate the fucking press. A bunch of God-damned parasites."
"You did a beautiful job dismissing them. Your brief history of soul cakes was just as disarming as it was informative."
"Why, thank you. The Aickman's made 'em every year, you know. Jonah and his momma, and then me, too, would sit and press all the little crosses. Jonah'd sit out here on this porch and hand 'em out to anyone brave enough to accept food from the local funeral home…and, word on the street corners was, that they're pretty damn good little cakes."
Matt can't help but agree, as he unwraps one of his own, the first of many he'll eat this evening. They're soft, and faintly sweet, tasting of elderflower, melting buttery on his tongue.
The real party starts around eight. All of the rooms of the ground floor of Hell House have been decorated, festooned in black, orange, and purple wreaths and swathes of crepe paper, little black and white paper bats and ghosts, fake little rubbery spiders and rats. A huge table has been set up in the otherwise empty dining room, laden with an immense amount of food—including lots of candy and soul cakes, of course—cooked with love by Jonah, Sarah, and Wendy. Beside that is a bar cart, stocked well with all kinds of alcohol, mixers, and garnishes.
"I'd be positively damned if anyone ever accuses me of hosting a dry party." Jonah had stated with a sniff, in reply to Eugene's compliments on his drink selection.
"Damn right. And keep them drinks coming, boy—"
"Of course, you ungrateful old fag."
The victrola plays at its loudest volume, booming some obscure album—Dead Man's Bones, Matthew informs anyone who asks—filling the house with spooky music that the children dance to, running in circles together in the middle of the living room floor. Matthew has also kept a steady rotation of kid-friendly Halloween movies on the TV—Hocus Pocus, Scooby-Doo and the Witch's Ghost, Casper the Friendly Ghost, and the like.
Couples, groups, and lone folk are scattered throughout the first floor, gathering even in the kitchen. The group in the kitchen seems to be mostly adults, save Otto, who sits with Eugene, having a rather serious discussion about World War II as the ex-bootlegger shares another spliff with little Mary Reynolds, of all people, Not so little anymore, flushed with wine and beaming from the lap of her girlfriend, Dahlia, the couple dressed as an angel and a demon, respectfully.
Hell House has never been this full of people, outside of a funeral, Jonah assures Peter Campbell, who is sipping gratefully on a rather tasty virgin Bloody Mary. His son, Billy, lingers at his father's side, a tallboy of Busch Lite held awkwardly to his chest, his gaze fixed on Angie Duvall, who is dancing with Eric, the two of them dramatically performing the Monster Mash to scattered applause.
Shannon Duvall sits by the victrola, smiling quietly to herself and crocheting as she watches Jonah and Matthew. She is the only person besides Eugene who knows that this isn't just a Halloween party, having spied the ring on Jonah's finger the second she walked in, her emerald eyes piercing in their observation.
Jonah sits on the couch, slowly weaning his who-knows-what-number French 75, absolutely engrossed in the Witch's Ghost. Milo is cradled in his lap, giggling happily at the movie, her little fists bunched in Jonah's sheet-ghost costume. Beside him is Sarah Campbell, smiling fondly as Rusty purrs and presses his squashed face to hers. Matthew sits on the floor in front of Jonah, talking along with the movie here and there. One of Jonah's hands is nestled in his hair, petting his devotee absentmindedly between the twin red devil's horns emerging from Matt's glossy brown necromancer's head tips back occasionally, the back of his head resting along Jonah's thigh as he stares up at his love, as he gazes up at the ethereal aqua eyes vibrant through the eye-holes of Jonah's costume.
Jonah stills, his hand halting in its ministrations as the grandfather clock in the hallway strikes eleven. Matthew turns to him, an excited smile crinkling his eyes as he takes Jonah's hand in his, their sigils a gentle pulse between them. He studies those eyes—the ones that have haunted him for seventeen years—and presses a kiss to the back of Jonah's hand.
"Nervous?" He asks, already aware of the answer in the tremble of the medium's hand, the sharp edge of nerves in that timeless gaze.
"Yes. You?"
"No. Just excited."
Matthew stands and tugs Jonah up along with him, holding his love close to his side, an arm slung around the reincarnation's hips. Jonah suddenly seems quite content with studying the floor, as Matt gets everyone's attention. Shannon helpfully removes the needle from the record, and Peter pauses the film.
"Dearest family friends! I wanted to thank you all again, so much, for coming to mine and Jonah's little Samhain celebration. Some of you—most of you, really—traveled a long way to be here, and I'm so grateful to you all. I'm also grateful to those of you who may have been afraid, or nervous, of coming into Hell House, especially on this All Hallows Eve. I will assure you once again, that the only ghost in the house is our dear Jonah."
Jonah, in an awkward fit of nerves, twirls, the sheet belling around him, giving the appearance of a disembodied spirit. The crowd, who have filed into the living room from all corners of the house, cheer and clap.
"That being said, we—that is, Jonah and I—are about to perform a little ceremony, in which we offer thoughts, and food, and prayers, to our dearly departed, who may linger on the property for the next hour or so. You shouldn't even see them, so no worries—though, if any of you are so spiritually inclined, please take advantage of our altar to say your own prayers."
"Regardless of your intent, or lack thereof, to participate in the Samhain ceremony, Jonah and I humbly ask you to stick around for an even more interesting ceremony taking place around eleven thirty, out in the backyard. It shouldn't take too long, so those of you with kids or rides home, please consider staying. And wear your coats!"
"If it's a seance, I'm leaving!" Wendy calls out, to varying degrees of nervous laughter.
"Nothing of the sort, dear cousin. It's a lot more simple undertaking, actually. It's just, well, a wedding—as I said, shouldn't take too long. The vows are pretty short, considering."
A shocked moment of stillness passes, as Matthew's words sink in, some getting it quicker than others. The first is Sarah Campbell, of course, who immediately jumps to her feet at the word wedding, staring in open-mouthed shock at her grinning, blushing son. She approaches the couple, a hand to her chest, her expression one of hopeful disbelief.
"My God, really?" she breathes.
Matthew's grin widens. In response, he raises Jonah's hand in his, extending it for his mother's consideration, gently splaying Jonah's delicate fingers to further emphasize the ring—some green stone, and a diamond—
"Holy shit." Sarah Campbell utters, her husband Peter choking on a sudden laugh.
The room is suddenly in an uproar, everyone on their feet (except Eugene and Shannon, of course) and crowding around the couple. Matthew's face, blushed red, beams with happiness. Jonah's eyes, peering out at them all, dance with mirth as he laughs, his smile hidden behind his costume.
"But—but—when did you even get engaged?" Sarah demands, swiping her steadily flowing tears away, looking almost angry.
"Just a few days ago, Aunt Sarah." Jonah replies, his soft voice further muffled by the sheet. "I'm sorry we didn't tell you in advance, but…well, we already had the party planned. And Matthew and I…we like our surprises."
The little ghost looks up at his devil, a look passing between them, Matthew's smile morphing into a smirk.
"And we've known for like, forever, Mom, that we were going to marry. Samhain—Halloween—just felt like a fine time to do it."
Sarah laughs, and nods, still crying. Her expression crumples, however, for a moment. She reaches for Jonah, taking the teen's face in her hands, looking deep into his eerie, effervescent gaze.
"You're sure of this, Jonah? You don't have to marry Matthew, honey—"
"I know, Aunt Sarah" He replies, moving in to hug her, Sarah immediately pulling him close, her arms enveloping him. "I thought about it a good long while, and there's no way else, with no one else, I want to spend this life with. I want to spend the rest of my existence at this man's side."
"I'm just so grateful that man is your son, Sarah Campbell. I love you, and Peter, and Wendy—everyone, too. I'm so grateful to be a part of your family."
The ghost suddenly goes quiet, his gaze meeting the eyes of every Campbell and Reynold in the room, a haze of fear suddenly filming them in tears.
"That is, of course, if you'll—if you'll have me—"
The reincarnation suddenly finds himself swamped, pressed in at all sides by bodies, as all of the Campbells and Reynolds descend upon him at once. Each of them—Sarah, Peter, Billy, Mary, Wendy, Otto, and of course, little Milo—voice their assurances that yes they'd be happy to have him. Soon, there isn't a single dry eye in the room, the rest of the partygoers witnessing the mass group hug.
The mass adoption.
Everyone who attended the initial party decided to stay, all of them shrugging on coats and outerwear and filing out of Hell House's back door in a rather orderly swarm, all things considered. Various exclamations of surprise and amusement ring out across the quiet neighborhood as each of them see the backyard, one by one.
In the middle of the yard is a small round platform of glossy wood, the salvaged top of a dining table Matt found at the thrift store just yesterday. The platform is ringed in flowers and baskets of fruit, and carved pumpkins, each of them grinning and lit from within. Smaller jack-o-lanterns light the path to the dias, in the form of the long hallway runner carpet usually in Hell House. Little white-blinking ghost lamps, like fairy lights, have been strung up all around, everywhere. Streams of fabric in orange, purple, green and red ribbon out from Hell House's weather vane and all the way out to a tall wooden pole driven into the ground just behind the dias.
An altar has been set up on the back porch, a low table surrounded with cushions, rather humbly adorned with two black chime candles in silver holders, silently presiding over twin offering plates, copper, and currently empty. A milk crate under the table contains more candles for anyone who wishes to take part.
Jonah and Matthew are the last to emerge from the house, holding hands, still dressed in their Halloween costumes.
"Alright everyone! Jonah and I are going to perform a quick ritual, if you guys don't mind hanging out. Go refresh your drinks, if you want, or have a smoke. We don't care. Join us, if you'd like. We would love it, if you did."
Vaguely dismissed, the guests mill about, though most of them watch in morbid curiosity as Matthew and Jonah approach the altar. The medium is the first to kneel, gathering his floor-length sheet up in his hands to delicately settle on his knees, gratefully accepting the hand Matthew extends for him, strong and silent. Matthew kneels beside his soulmate, one of Jonah's hands a steadying presence on his shoulder. The occultist produces a lighter, which he offers to his love. He helps Jonah lift his sheet, revealing his face for the first time in the night, the fabric draping across the crown of his head like a veil. Jonah lights the candle in front of him, before passing it to Matthew, who does the same.
The two living dead boys bow their heads in tandem, hands clasped together between them. In the dark of night, the soft orange glow emitted from between their pressed palms is obvious, and elicits several hushed whispers between witnesses.
Sarah Campbell, her chest tight, wraps her rosary around her hand and presses the beads to her lips, her fist clenched, her eyes—the same doe-brown as her son's—filmed with an unfathomable emotion as she watches her son, and his creation, pray together for several silent, still minutes. She startles as someone—Eugene—passes beside her, slowly but surely making his way to the altar, Billy rushing up to help the centenarian up the stairs. With Billy at his side, helping and supporting him the whole way, Eugene Booker kneels at Jonah's other side, groaning quietly as he arranges himself.
Jonah's eyes open, and he turns to his dearest friend, his smile beautiful and devastating. They're talking quietly to one another as they fish around in the crate for another chime candle, a holder, and a plate. Sarah can't make out what they are saying, but Jonah's eyes glimmer with unshed tears. Next to them, Matthew remains motionless, still locked deeply in prayer.
She grits her teeth at the ache in her heart, warring emotions battling for dominance.
Watching Matty pray, especially with such devotion, is such a beautiful thing to see. Matt had never displayed such faith in childhood, usually the kid who tried to raise as much Hell as possible during a church service. To see her full-grown son, whole and hale and about to be married, of all things, kneeling in subjugation, his scarred hands clasped tightly in prayer, head bowed so low his nose brushes his knuckles…it's absolutely surreal.
And bittersweet, a little painful, knowing that Matt most likely isn't praying to God, the Son, or the Holy Spirit. No, her son is probably praying to some entity she's never heard of, and probably wouldn't approve of. Best case scenario, he's praying to all of them. She hopes this is the case, that Jesus is at least somewhere in there, as she watches his lips move soundlessly.
Jonah is back to praying now, too, though his hands are arranged into loose fists resting on his thighs. Sarah, ironically, has more faith that Jonah is praying to God than she does in Matt. The old man—Eugene Booker, he'd introduced himself as—has lit his candle and has also bent his head, his palms pressed flat together. Who he is praying too, Sarah can't even guess.
Several more quiet moments pass before Eric, Matt's actual TA, jogs up to the altar, quite quickly setting himself up to pray at Matt's left. And then Dahlia of all people joins, and Sarah feels horror, sharp and sudden, as Mary follows behind, kneeling beside her girlfriend. Heart in her throat, Sarah Campbell starts forward, a hand outstretched as if to say stop.
That hand is taken, however, by Wendy, who gently but firmly tugs, leading her hesitant and afraid foster mother to the altar. Milo runs ahead of them, and is already making herself comfortable in Jonah's lap, the witch brushing the hair from her forehead with a gentle hand. In moments, Sarah finds herself kneeling next to Wendy, across from Matthew, a candle and an empty plate already in front of her.
Jonah smiles at her, and she can't seem to bring herself to smile back, the worry on her face written clearly.
Matthew still has not stirred, not from the moment he'd bowed his head, and clasped his hands. Those who have started praying already seem to be pretty deep into it, eyes closed. Some of their faces are slack, empty. Some move their lips soundlessly. Others mutter audibly to themselves.
"Hilly baby, how I miss you."
"You would be proud, gran, I swear—
"Can you hear me, dad? It's me…Dahlia…"
"We are about to close the prayer circle. Anyone who wants to join should do so now." Jonah calls out, his voice soft and respectful.
Beside her, Wendy lights her candle, sighs, folds her hands, and bows her head.
"Mom?" She mutters, her voice small, and suddenly Sarah is crying, her breath hitching.
"Aunt Sarah?"
Sarah looks up, meeting Jonah's eyes, the teen's face etched with concern. He extends a hand, and Sarah takes it instantly, squeezing, the tremble in her fingers obvious.
"I don't know what to do." She whispers, the look in her eyes lost.
"Yes you do." He whispers back, his tone soft and encouraging.
"No, I—"
"Yes, Mrs. Campbell. All due respect ma'am, I would say your prayers are probably the most effective I've ever witnessed. If anyone knows how to pray, it's you."
Sarah looks around at everyone else in the circle, watching them, observing how they do it. Each of them are different, and each technique is true.
"But to who?" She whispers
"Well, to Christ, I would assume. You're a Christian, right? A Catholic, if memory serves. If you do not feel like praying to the trinity at this moment, pray to your favorite saint, then. That would be fitting, considering the point of this meditation—this prayer—is to think about the deceased, mourn your loved ones. Talk to them, if you can."
She still looks unsure. Jonah glances around the circle, at everyone deep in their own meditation, and looks slightly unsure.
"Can you demonstrate, Jo?" Wendy whispers, and Jonah's eyes widen, his gaze flitting down to her, then Sarah, and then to Matthew, before hiding in his lap, his lower lip between teeth, seemingly thinking.
"Get on with it, boy." Eugene's gruff voice startles several in the circle, the large, old chainsmoker incapable of whispering.
Some of the younger ones stifle giggles, Mary and Dahlia, though Milo flat out laughs, a bright, pure bell that brings smiles to the faces of every worshiper, regardless of if their prayer has been 'disturbed' or not. The giggle-fit, and Eugene, have irreparably broken the seriousness of the whole ritual, lightening the mood immensely.
"Dear God." Jonah sighs, exasperated. Sarah's nerves, already soothed by the smile on her daughter Mary's face, at the way one of her eyes peeks open to look at Eugene, are further assuaged by the smirk spreading across Matthew's face, his eyes opening briefly for the first time in several minutes to look at Jonah, who immediately catches his gaze, turning at the same exact moment, their gazes instantly locking.
Like magnets, Sarah thinks distantly. Like soulmates.
Jonah folds his hands again, and bows his head, closing his eyes, Matthew also resuming prayer. They sigh in unison, the tension leaking from their shoulders at a similar pace.
"In the name of the four elements, the One, old Ones and the Ones to come, and in the name of God, the Father, Christ, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
Jonah's voice, a soft whisper, carries across the lawn in the still silence of the ritual. All heads are bowed—even little Milo, who had looked to her mother and mimicked the way she was holding her hands.
"I ask you all to lend me your energy—and thank you in advance—if you can, to help me contact my Mother, Regina Herrell. I intend to have her here, as a witness. I'm getting married this evening, you see. In just a few minutes, in fact."
Several people laugh quietly, though Sarah can't be sure, with her eyes closed. The sound of paper crinkling, however, has her blinking into the candlelight—when the candle in front of her was lit, and by whom, she has no idea.
Everyone else's eyes are open, too, watching as Jonah carefully unwraps a soul cake and places it on the little copper plate in front of him. The expression on his face is odd, a mixture of loss, excitement, and love. His eyes close again, and he reaches for Matt, taking his partner's hand again, the glow stronger, now that Sarah is sitting so close.
"Mama? Can you hear me?" Jonah's hopeful whisper carries on the breeze, seemingly echoes in the rustling of dead, red-and-yellow leaves.
The medium suddenly smiles.
"I'm so happy you're here. I'm so grateful you're here. I love you so much, Mama. I miss you so much. I made this soul cake for you. Please accept it as payment for your time and energy here in this plane. I hope it's satisfactory…I just can't seem to make them exactly like you used to."
The medium's voice wavers, breaking quietly on a few words, a pained expression flitting across his face. Matthew watches Jonah's face intently, openly staring at his unaware love.
Several witnesses at the table gasp, or exclaim, as the soul cake on Jonah's plate rises, slowly but surely, to hover several feet in the air.
"Yummy!" Milo shrieks, as a bite disappears out of the cookie.
"Thank you for being here, Mama. If you can hold on for a while, please do—I'd really like for you to be here when I get rid of this awful last name."
Matt laughs suddenly, loudly, quickly and unsuccessfully trying to stifle himself with a fist. Jonah's answering smile, his eyes slowly opening, make it clear that he knew that'd get his soon-to-be-husband to laugh.
Jonah's hands unclasp, his expression brightening into contented happiness, his grief seemingly forgotten. He is looking upward, watching as the soul cake disappears, simply blipping out of existence, a few stray crumbs falling to the altar.
"I'm glad." He states with a smile, talking to someone Sarah knows is there, that she can't see—his Mother, long dead.
Staring at the crumbs on the table, Sarah Campbell suddenly realizes that this will work.
"Alright, everyone. Finish up your prayers, and don't forget to offer your loved one a soul cake as an offering. They may not come, if you don't."
All heads at the table bow in almost perfect unison. Soul cakes are offered, one by one, disappearing into the ether in a few bites, one after another. Some of those praying laugh, or cry, as the blameless little pastry disappears. Sarah hopes her father likes it, as she offers it up—she laughs in sheer, unadulterated joy as it disappears in one bite.
Eugene Booker reaches out his broad, warm hand, his jaw clenched as he holds back tears, as the soul cake he offered is offered back to him. His hazel eyes stare and move, clearly watching something. Jonah stares too, next to him, his gaze traveling from Eugene to whoever the man has summoned. The medium looks forlorn, and sad, as he gazes at the elderly man.
He must be in the valley.
"She's beautiful, Genie. Really, even still."
The last soul cake to disappear is Matthew's. He looks up, watching as it's slowly but surely eaten, a fourth of it wavering in the air before dropping to the altar. Sarah's stomach squirms at the look of uncertainty on her son's face—an open, vulnerable look, the same one he wore as a child, his little voice asking, did I do it right?
"Is he here?" He whispers to Jonah, and by God, it's that same little voice.
"Of course, dearest. He is." Jonah is whispering back, rubbing soothing circles into the back of Matt's hand with his thumb. "He thanked you for the cake, and is standing by Mother. They seem to be getting along."
"Who did you invite, Matty?"
Matthew Campbell's eyes find his mother's matching ones.
"Reverend Popescu." He states, his smile almost bashful. "Who did you invite?"
The candles are blown out one by one, and the attendees gather for the ceremony. They stand in a quiet semicircle around the platform, upon which stands a shaking, terrified looking Eric.
"C'mon, Eric! You're the only one here besides me who's licensed, and, well—I can't officiate my own wedding—" Matthew had explained, his tone bright and cheerful as he'd pushed the stammering college student up onto the dias. "Besides, it'll be great practice! Your first wedding. You really can't fuck it up, kid."
As Matthew had persuaded Eric to officiate, Jonah Aickman had quietly approached Peter Campbell. He'd looked almost scared, his small hands clasped, wringing together, in front of him.
"I'm so excited for you and Matt, kiddo, you two are perfect together, really—"
"Thank you, Mr. Campbell—"
"Peter!"
"Ah, sorry—Peter. I was wondering, if…if you wouldn't mind, if it wouldn't be weird, for you…would you consider walking me down the aisle?"
Jonah is rambling.
"I don't really know who should give me away—maybe Eugene, but I think that would be way weirder, and he doesn't get around so good these days—"
"Whoa, whoa, kid, really? Jesus, I'd be honored to!"
And Peter laughs, clapping the relieved, blushing teen on the back, smiling awkwardly at his soon-to-be father-in-law.
In moments though, the professor and the medium had disappeared back inside of Hell House, leaving their guests to wait, bundled up in coats and sleepy after so many hours of revelry. Eugene Booker had lit another spliff, which is being passed around to any adult that accepts, Shannon Duvall included, Eugene holding it gently to her mouth between two fingers, considering how swaddled she is in her rocking chair. Eugene props his cane against Hell House and sits heavily into the other rocking chair.
"So…when was your prime, and what were you up to, doll?"
He likes her eyes. They're vivid, alive for her age. He can imagine them peering out of a smooth, firm version of her face—her bone structure strong, her complexion healthy.
Shannon Duvall scoffs at his attempt at flirtation. But she answers anyway, adding her own lilt to the spark in their conversation.
"Well," she sighs, "I'd say my prime was in my early thirties. I really, truly was a dish. Red headed, like my granddaughter Angie, and just as pretty. And there I was, working in a munitions factory."
"Hmm," Eugene hums in response, "I'd say that right about that same time, I was looking pretty handsome up in a fighter plane, shootin' down some soldiers."
"Riveting." Shannon replies dryly, and Eugene laughs.
"Literally for you, huh? Fucking riveting—"
Some of the men acquire some agency of their own and go inside, banding together to slowly and carefully carry the standing piano from the living room all the way out to the back porch. Wendy disappears inside the house to ask Jonah where the sheet music is, passing the kitchen, where her children are occupied by Angie Duvall. The young woman is giving clear, gentle instructions to the two children, carefully arranging and rearranging their Halloween costumes. She passes Billy as he carries a spare chair down the hallway and outside, followed closely behind by an enthusiastic Mary.
Up the stairs, and onto the landing, she makes a clicking sound of disgust and disapproval, folding her arms as she stares daggers daggers at her cousin Matthew, his hair terribly mussed, his hands wrapped around the waist of a blushing, mortified Jonah Aickman.
"You're not even supposed to see each other before the wedding, let alone fucking make out right before—"
"We're just practicing, Wendy—"
Jonah laughs breathlessly, squirming his way out of his love's arms.
"Go fucking change." She orders, Matt's hands held up in surrender.
Jonah informs her of where the sheet music is kept, as he changes, his back to Wendy. She smooths his clothes after, straightening his tie before gently and carefully arranging his ghost-shroud back over him.
Back outside, she roots through the stack of paper before producing some pretty, flowy arrangement by Beethoven. Despite Mary's insistence, she'd refused her sister's idea of selecting a fucking funeral dirge. Dahlia takes the sheet from her with trembling hands, shifting nervously in her chair, as she arranges her paper on the piano.
"You'll do great. Dahl." Mary reassures, as she bends to press a lingering kiss to the crown of her girlfriend's violet buzzcut. "You've played much harder pieces for judges, yeah?"
"Yeah," Dahlia replies shakily, her smile hesitant. "Though I've never played at a wedding. No fucking pressure, right?"
The concert pianist has only a moment to take her deep breaths, however, as the back door of Hell House opens, Sarah and Matthew Campbell beyond it, patiently waiting.
She cracks her knuckles, rolls her neck and shoulders, before beginning the piece, each strike of the keys flawless.
Reverent stillness finally settles over the crowd, everyone gathered and turning to watch as Sarah Campbell walks her eldest son down the aisle. She's radiant, as always, beaming with joy, tears already flowing steadily down her beautiful face. On the dias, Eric seems to have overcome his nerves, standing straight and tall, a religious text open in his hands. His eyes meet Matthew's, surprised to realize that the professor looks nervous, his brown eyes rather wide, his free hand rising to gently touch the horns still affixed to his head.
He looks absolutely dashing regardless of his nerves, wearing black slacks and a bow tie, and his best—and only—white dress shirt. A single sprig of yarrow, as fresh as snow, sprouts from the pocket of his silver waistcoat, nestled against a forest-green pocket square.
Eric can't help but think he looks out of place, dressed as he is as Doctor Strange, but it couldn't be helped, considering the surprise of it all. He kind of looked like a monk, or a wizard, anyway, according to Jonah.
Matt takes his place at stage right of the dias, his hands folded tightly in front of him. Sarah Campbell stands a step behind her son, at his right, a bouquet of basil flowers held in her gloved hands, a single yellow daisy at its center. She peers down at it, a soft smile of consideration on her face.
Jo and I picked them all on the property…we were kind of limited by what grew out here, but I think we did good, considering our options. We decided on daisies, for you, immediately. And then basil, after reading Shannon's book on the language of flowers—Matthew had informed her quietly, as he'd pressed the flowers into her hands moments before they walked the aisle.
The music swells, the soft sound of chatter rising up from the crowd as Peter appears in the doorway, with Jonah at his side. Sarah can't help her sigh, as the teen is wearing the ghost costume again. But as the two men approach, arm in arm, a realization washes over her.
He's been wearing his own wedding veil all night, she realizes, a lump rising in her throat.
A filmy layer of white tulle has been draped over the base costume, both layers of fabric long enough to rustle along the ground, completely hiding the reincarnation from view. The tulle has the added effect of obscuring Jonah's eyes as well—his most striking feature, rendered blank. His face, too, only a suggestion underneath the cotton sheet. The only part of Jonah visible are his hands, carrying his own bouquet of violets and edelweiss, his thin wrists scarred and peaking from the cuffs of a white dress shirt.
A sense of sobriety has settled over the wedding guests as they watch the ghost. It's a strange and haunting sight, the figure shrouded in white approaching. Candlelight, cutting brilliantly through the pitch-black night, flickers across the fabric, the carved smiles of the pumpkin casting strange moving shadows.
The sound of the evening is its own presence as well, seemingly amplified by the haunting, echoing sound of the lone piano—the soft sounds of nocturnal creatures, and the sound of leaves in the wind. So many dead and dying leaves rustling along, mirroring the rustling of Jonah's veil, more akin to a funerary shroud than anything else.
The mood lifts, thankfully, as the veil is finally lifted, Peter kneeling to gather the fabric, drawing up the shroud with careful hands to drape like a waterfall down the boy's back. Matthew is absolutely rapt, watching entranced, mouth parted, as the man underneath is slowly revealed.
He smiles breathlessly as his soulmate's smile is finally in sight, and their gazes lock the second they are able to. The devotee gets lost in the searing neon of Jonah's eyes immediately, adrift in that familiar endless, blue plane—
I can't wait to drown in those eyes every second of every day, until I die.
"You look so handsome, Matthew." Jonah whispers, the witch's appreciative gaze a tangible sensation as it considers him, up and down, head to toe.
"You look pretty fucking fine yourself—"
Eric interrupts the exchange with a loud stage cough and a pointed glare, shaking his shoulders out, ready to begin.
"Dearly beloved—and departed—we gather tonight on this most hallowed night of Samhain under the gaze of the gods, and in the light of the moon, our most beloved Goddess. Jonah Aickman, and Matthew Campbell, two souls already irrevocably intertwined, determined to become one, to be unified completely across all planes. Matthew, extend your offering."
Matthew kneels before the object of his devotion, his loosely clasped hands opening, palms up, to reveal something round, wrapped in a plain handkerchief. The betrothed are still locked in a stare, earth meeting still, clear water.
"Jonah Aickman." Matthew begins, his voice rough with emotion. "My love for you, and my devotion to you, is as depthless as the farthest reaches of Hell, as boundless as Limbo, and as vast as the loftiest rafters of Heaven. I offer you myself, body and soul, if you'll have me."
Regina Herrel watches, smiling at Sarah Campbell's side, as her son gently unfolds the linen, revealing the soul cake inside, as round and pure as the full moon watching over them, a silent witness. Reverend Nicholas Popescu's worn, gray gaze meets hers, crinkling at the edges in happiness. They watch, invisible to all but Jonah, as the reincarnation gently loosens the shining silver dollar embedded in the cake's surface.
"I humbly accept." He states, his voice a bit breathless.
He holds Matthew's gaze as he opens his smiling mouth, places the coin on his tongue, and swallows.
Matthew grins, a flush rising to his face. He folds the sugar-coated handkerchief, tucking it in his pocket before standing.
"Matthew Campbell."
Jonah kneels, extending his bouquet of flowers to Matthew. His voice, soft and confident, carries easily across the yard, reaching far and beyond. Regina watches the bright, blue waves of her child's magic flood and recede, lapping across space and time to echo in each plane, forever. A beautiful compliment to Matthew's energy, still rumbling deep and low, down within the very earth itself, as permanent, necessary and reliable, as bedrock.
"My one and only, my equal in all things. My love for you, and devotion to you, will stand unwavering and true forever, permanent in the face of all the forces of this realm—defiant, even, to death, which will never again part us. I offer you myself, body and soul. If you'll have me."
"Always," Matthew replies, his tears finally escaping to flow freely down his scarred cheeks, "and forever."
The cancer survivor leans down to retrieve the silver dollar hidden away in the depths of the violets and edelweiss. His nods, giving Jonah a somber half-smile before swallowing the coin, the metal cold and floral in his mouth.
"Both souls have accepted their offers. May they now join hands and be bound as one, for all eternity."
They press their palms together, sigil to sigil, their combined power glowing brighter than candle flame, brighter than the wash of the moon, between them. Eric binds their hands together, Jonah's left, Matthew's right, with red ribbon, wound around wrists and between fingers. When finished, Eric raises the newly wedded couple's bound hands to the sky, for the wedding party to see.
"You guys can kiss now, if you'd like."
The reincarnation stumbles, almost losing his balance as Matt dips him, the professor's free hand braced against his lower back. Jonah's laugh is lost immediately, swallowed by Matthew's impatient mouth on his, lapped away by a questing tongue. He cups his husband's face in his free hand and tilts his head to the side, allowing his creator better access.
The audience's initial cheer fades slowly, before someone—probably Eugene—wolf whistles, the kiss having gone on for quite a bit longer than propriety would usually allow. The husbands are both flushed red and breathless by the time they part. Matt does his best to mask a groan as a cough, as Jonah ducks his head, shoulders hunching, with his right hand covering his face, absolutely fucking mortified.
"Matthew and Jonah Campbell, everyone!" Eric exclaims, and the crowd gives one last cheer, clapping as Matthew and Jonah walk back down the aisle, still bound together in silky red ribbon.