A/N: So is anyone else already excited for Halloween? I know it's a month away, but the weather is already changing and it makes me want to start watching horror movies. I'm so excited. Working on this story just puts me even more in the mood for something creepy. ;)

Thank you so much to everyone who's alerted this story. A special thank you to everyone who took the time to review the last chapter. I didn't get a chance to reply to everyone, because school just started and I'm already behind, and so I thought that people would rather I get this next chapter up than work on my correspondence. I will try to do that soon, though, for those waiting for responses.

And to those wondering about the nature of Santana's existence, well I can neither confirm nor deny anything, except to say that she does in fact exist… more or less. Depending on how you define 'exist.' And 'more.' And 'less.'

Chapter Three

"Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep."
John Milton, Paradise Lost

Santana let go of her eventually, leaning back on her heels. Rachel watched her warily before mirroring her movements, sitting down across from her. The air around her felt heavy, charged with something that was probably shock, but which felt like something much thicker and more suffocating. Everything about the moment felt genuine and true, like it wasn't just something Rachel was imagining. But there was something else there, some lingering shadow clouding her periphery, and it confused her, left her mind feeling sluggish.

"Well?" Santana asked, looking at her expectantly. She had stopped crying – not that she had shed any tears anyway – and was staring at Rachel like she was waiting for her to explain the mysteries of life. And maybe she was.

But Rachel didn't have those answers, didn't have any answers. "Well, what?" she said eventually.

"Are you going to tell me what the fuck is going on?" Santana spat, her face contorting in annoyance.

Rachel knew that face well: Santana had worn it often while in her presence. Had worn? Wore? Wears? she wondered, briefly considering the proper verb tense one would use in such a situation. Santana scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Definitely 'wears,'" Rachel muttered to herself, nodding.

Santana crossed her arms, but was silent and Rachel had nothing to tell her (she didn't understand what was happening herself). "So, I'm dead?" she asked after a long moment. Her face no longer showed annoyance, but genuine curiosity. Her eyes were soft.

Rachel stared at her for a moment, her brow creasing. Santana wasn't breathing, she realized; her chest wasn't rising and falling in the familiar cadence of someone taking in oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide. Rachel nodded.

Santana glanced away from her, her arms dropping to her sides. "You're sure, Berry?" she questioned. Santana was looking her expectantly, waiting for what seemed to be all the answers to all the questions in the world.

Rachel nodded again as screams filled her ears, loud cries of pain and of deep hurt. There was blood, red like liquid rubies as it flowed. It collected in a pool beneath and beside and around her, soaking through her tights and her skirt, coating her hands in warmth as screams turned into cries, soft cries and a whispered raspy voice trying to speak, trying to say something, something that sounded like –

Fingers snapped in front of her face and she focused. There was only quiet around her and the only thing staining her tights was the dirt in which she had kneeled. "I'm sure," she whispered.

Santana nodded absently, her gaze fixed on the ground. "That explains a lot," she said.

"Does it?" Rachel wondered. She wondered a lot of things, sitting in that cemetery across from her dead classmate, but it seemed easier to go with the conversation. Santana appeared to know as little as she did.

Santana nodded again, looking up at her solemnly. She didn't say anything.

"I don't understand," Rachel said. "If this is real, a certainty of which I am still not quite assured, then why is it real? What are you doing here? How are you even here?" she asked, raising her hands in a flurry of activity. "Oh god, are you here to haunt me? Is that what's happening? Wait, are you hungry? You haven't eaten, I'm sure. Are you cold?"

"Oh, my god, shut up," Santana cried. "And no, I'm not freaking hungry. I'm not hungry and I'm not cold," she started. She ran her left hand the length of her right arm, pressing down on her pale skin. "Well, I guess I am. But I don't feel it, you know? I don't – I don't feel anything."

Rachel leaned towards her and smacked her shoulder as hard as she could bring herself to. Santana's body jostled but she otherwise didn't react. She looked like she wanted to say something, but she held her tongue and Rachel had a feeling she wanted to swear at her.

"I felt that," Santana said. "But it didn't hurt."

"Maybe I should do it harder," Rachel suggested, feeling absurd for indulging what should have been a delusion. Hallucinations can feel real, she thought, can't they?

"Don't even think about it," Santana warned. "I could feel it, but I couldn't really," she muttered, gesturing with her hands and trying to find a way to explain herself. "I could feel that it was happening, but it didn't mean anything," she tried.

Rachel nodded alowly, trying to appear as if she understood, but she didn't, not at all. "Have you been here this whole time?" she asked.

Santana shrugged. "I dunno. How long has it been?"

Rachel bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth. "About a month," she answered.

Santana breathed out, exhaling in a fit of surprise, and Rachel waited for her to inhale again. She didn't. "A freaking month. What – fuck, I mean – how did it happen?" she eventually managed to ask. Rachel watched the rise and fall of Santana's chest as she spoke, finding that she only seemed to take in air when she needed to speak.

"It," she started, "happened at night. You –" she paused, trying to gather herself. She could feel tears welling up her eyes. Rachel tried to hold them in, tried to tell herself that Santana was there; that even though she had died, she was somehow sitting across from Rachel (and even if it all was some grand delusion, she clung to it as best she could.)

"There was so much blood," she cried out, shaking her head. Her vision blurred, just as it had that night, and red swam across it.

"Jesus, don't cry," she heard Santana say. "Fucking – Berry! Berry!" she yelled. "Rachel, snap the hell out of it."

And Rachel tried, she really did, but all she could see were eyes, big and brown and staring at her in pain. They were raw and emotional and Rachel had never seen them look as lost and hopeless as when the life was slipping out of them. They were tinged with the redness swirling in her eyes, blurring together until all she could see was death.

And then those brown eyes were right in front of her, and their owner was nudging her. A hesitant hand ran down her arm, its coldness making her shiver. Rachel exhaled heavily, letting the coldness fill her and bring her back into the moment she was supposed to be in – the present.

The present was death, too, but this death was moving around, speaking and blinking and touching her, and it was so much better than the memory of death in her mind.

"Someone killed you," Rachel gasped, sniffling.

"Who?" Santana asked tensely. "I'll kick his ass."

Rachel shrugged, wiping at her cheeks. "The police don't know. They said he was just a drifter coming through town," she answered.

Santana's face contorted into a frown. She was still close and Rachel could trace the outline of the black circles beneath her dark eyes, see the lines across her face as she scowled. Her complexion was an unnatural shade of white, like someone had taken beige and mixed it with grey and painted it across her features. She looked sickly.

"Why?" Santana asked slowly.

"I don't know," Rachel answered. "No one does."

There were things she wanted to add. I came when you screamed, she wanted to say. I held you in my arms while you gasped and choked and bled, she wanted to add. I watched you die. She said nothing.

"Rachel?" a voice called out.

Rachel stood immediately, looking about in panic. Santana stood with her, crossing her arms. She didn't say anything. When Quinn reached the pair of them, she didn't appear fazed.

"She doesn't see me," she heard Santana say, standing between her and Quinn. A brisk fall breeze blew past them all, catching Quinn's short hair and tossing it about. "I thought you guys were fucking with me," Santana added, "but I guess none of them can see me."

The thought wasn't reassuring to Rachel, who was still deciding whether or not Santana was all in her head. As if she knew what the smaller brunette was thinking, Santana reached out and poked her in the side with force. Rachel had to bite her cheek to keep from jumping up and squeaking.

"Hi, Rachel," Quinn greeted, not unkindly. She adjusted the knit hat on her head, pulling it down to stop her hair from blowing wildly around her face.

"Hello, Quinn," Rachel responded, a bit too shakily. Next to her, Santana shuffled awkwardly and stared at Quinn with an unreadable expression.

When Rachel didn't say anything more, the blonde shifted her weight, adjusting the bag over her shoulder. "I didn't know you'd be here," she said. "I can leave if you want."

Rachel knew Quinn had lost someone who had been one of her best friends, even if they had drifted away from each other as the spirit of competition turned them into rivals. She remembered the night Quinn called her in tears after the funeral. Quinn was weighed down by her regrets, Rachel knew. Rachel also knew that Quinn Fabray was the only person who was able to handle the heartbroken Brittany.

Next to her, Santana looked uncomfortable with the idea. In front of her, Quinn looked tired and rundown and Rachel knew that she looked the same way. "No, you can stay, if you want," Rachel told her, smiling gently.

Quinn nodded, returning Rachel's smile, and settled down in the cool grass. Rachel sat next to her as they both faced the gravestone of the person they had each come to visit. Behind them, Santana continued to stand with her arms crossed.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, but it was comfortable. Quinn had always been somewhat of a rival to Rachel, competing with her for the affections of Finn more often than not. But somehow petty things like relationship drama and love triangles seemed less important in the face of losing someone they all cared about. That someone huffed and then sat down with them.

"How are you?" Quinn eventually asked. "You've been," she paused, thinking for a second, "less loud lately."

Rachel shrugged. "I'm still trying to find the right song."

"You don't have to sing, you know," Quinn said. "You can just talk about it."

Rachel shook her head, ignoring the curious looks Santana was sending her way. "If I can't sing about it, then I don't want to do anything. I'm Rachel Berry. If the proper song doesn't reveal itself to me, then I can only conclude that I have nothing to express on the matter," she told the blonde, nodding emphatically.

"If you say so," Quinn frowned. "But I never thought I would see the day when Rachel Berry didn't have anything to say."

Rachel didn't respond, choosing instead to tighten her jacket around her. The sun was going to go down soon; it had been setting earlier and earlier as fall came upon them. Quinn was right, she knew; Rachel always had something to say. "I just don't know how to say it," she eventually murmured.

Quinn nodded, reaching over and putting a comforting hand on hers. They really had come a long way from the girls they had been when they first met, Rachel mused. "You know that we're all here for you," Quinn told her. "All any of us have right now is the glee club."

The brunette saw movement near her and sighed. She had always forgotten that Santana was there. The less alive brunette leaned towards her. "Ask her about Brittany," Santana said, and her breathe was cold against Rachel's neck.

Rachel shivered, edging away from Santana and in turn, Quinn. "How's Brittany?" she asked.

Quinn shook her head sadly. "About as well as can be expected," she answered. "Santana's been her best friend since they were six," she said, her voice shaking. "Was," she corrected herself, "Santana was her best friend."

Rachel nodded, her face falling. Brittany had once been bubbly and cheerful and full of life, but ever since that night, she had been walking around forlornly, her face always either blank and expressionless or full of pain and sorrow. She had missed more than her share of classes, wandering around purposelessly for hours at a time.

"She really loved her," Quinn continued, a few stray tears falling down her face. She wiped at them with the sleeve of her jacket. She didn't specify who loved whom, and she didn't need to – the glee club spent enough time in the company of Brittany and Santana to know that each one of them loved the other one.

Rachel glanced back at Santana, who was frowning deeply. If she had been able to shed tears, Rachel knew that Santana would be crying. The taller brunette stood up, brushing past Quinn, who shuddered at the sudden cold that swept across her body.

"The wind is really cold," she said. The sky was slowly beginning to darken and Quinn stood up. "I didn't see your car outside."

Rachel stood up with her, trying not to look at the other person standing near them. Was she really a person anymore? Rachel wondered to herself. "I walked," Rachel told Quinn absently.

"Can I give you a ride?" the blonde asked, nodding towards the gate. "It's getting late."

"No, thank you," she answered. "I appreciate your offer, but I would prefer to walk."

Between them, Santana reached out a hand, brushing at some of Quinn's hair. "I was the one who convinced her to get this haircut," she said to no on in particular, her face soft and sad, full of regret. "It looks good. I have really good taste."

Quinn shivered again, putting her hands into her pockets. "I would feel better if you let me give you a ride," she said.

Rachel bit her lip, realizing as Quinn watched her that she was looking slightly to the blonde's left at Santana. The blonde raised an eyebrow at her and she remembered that she should be looking at the person she was speaking to. "Really, Quinn, that's not necessary."

"Please?" Quinn tried. When Rachel didn't answer immediately, she rolled her eyes, reaching towards Rachel and wrapping her hand around the small girl's arm. "I was trying to ask nicely, but I'm not taking no for an answer, okay?"

Quinn's grip on her was firm and Rachel was unable to pull away. The former cheerleader pulled her away from the place they had all been standing, and all Rachel could do was let herself be dragged along.

Her protests fell on dead ears. "We're not going to lose you, too," Quinn murmured, her voice soft but steady.

Looking back, Rachel saw Santana standing in the same place she had been, just in front of the cemetery marker with her own name on it. Her arms were at her sides and she was looking at the slab of cement like she was waiting for the letters on it to change. Santana glanced over her shoulder, staring at Rachel with dead eyes.

That night, Rachel slept fitfully, resisting the urge to sneak out of her house and back to the cemetery, if only to prove to herself that what had happened that afternoon had been real. But when Rachel did manage to sleep, she dreamt of dark dead eyes staring at her like they expected her to change the course of history. They reminded her of what had happened the last time she had been out when she wasn't supposed to be.

She had dreams of darkness and dreams of light, of something ominous floating between them. Rachel dreamt she was trapped, trapped somewhere cold and unbearable; she heard voices in the cold, thin voices that mocked her breathily. There was no light and there was no dark and she could feel movement around her. Warmth crept up on her suddenly, sliding up her back and wrapping around her. It was a feeling – warmth – but it was tangible and it held her there. Warmth, in her dreams, felt like the pressure of hundreds of small hands, pushing against her skin from all angles.

Words were whispered in her ear, words she couldn't comprehend or make sense of. She saw those eyes again, deep brown ones looking to her for answers. Why am I dying? they seemed to ask. Why am I alive? they said. The hands drifted, moving as one across her body and settling over her eyes until she could see nothing.

The next day, Rachel checked out every book the McKinley High School library had on the occult, the paranormal, and the supernatural; given recent budget cuts, that gave her a total of three books to work with. The librarian gave her an odd look, but she ignored it.

Smiling politely at the old woman behind the library desk, she vaguely recalled that she had spent all night dreaming about hands she couldn't touch and voices that she couldn't understand. She remembered feeling pressure and she remembered eyes watching her. Rachel stuffed the books into her schoolbag and frowned. No, she wasn't remembering them; she could feel the pressure still on her, though it was light, and she could feel the eyes, burning into her skin.

Rachel looked around, finding nothing and no one amiss. It did nothing to ease the fear that settled into her stomach.