She was lying on the ground. Her body was aching from phantom pains, thorns that hadn't cut her skin but were still lodged deep down. She shivered, her life coming back to her cold, achy form. That old woman had done a number on her. Who thought an incorporeal spirit could cause so much harm? Still, Miss Pauling was alive. She was grateful for having cheated death twice.
The horror that awaited her in the waking world was worse than the silly charade that old ghost had concocted for her. The darkness of the crypt and the faint moonlight coming from above could not conceal this monstrosity. What was once clearly an elderly woman was now a bizarre parody of a human form. Her arms were withered away, skeletal forms wrapped with leathery skin and tattered cotton sleeves. Her face was hollow, eyes bright yellow against sunken cheekbones. Once perfectly styled hair was falling apart, bald patches revealing rotting skin and a skull covered in splotches of mold. If she had legs, it was impossible to tell. She was hovering off the ground, propped up by the arachnid-like monstrosity spilling from her lips. It spilled out in tendrils around the team, wrapping and binding each man, forcing them into unceasing, unyielding nightmares.
"Well?" Miss Pauling asked. "You want us to fight. Let them go!"
"Oh, dearie. You are precious, you know?" A shrill cackle reverberated in her head, the pressure on Miss Pauling's ear drums building. Was this telepathy? "What makes you think I would give them up? We can still play our little game with or without them."
Miss Pauling hissed. "You said you would!"
The old woman cracked her head to the side, rotating unnaturally around the dark stalks erupting from her mouth. There was no way anyone could speak like that, and yet that old lady's condescending words still slithered into the assistant's brain. "I said that we should have one last duel. I never said I would surrender them. They are so dear to me. I think they have grown on me. Or, perhaps I've grown into them. It's hard to tell."
"I'm not leaving without them!" Miss Pauling reached for the nearest teammate—the Pyro. As she pulled against his arm, that mysterious substance wound against her wrist. She yelped, scuttling away from the material. It left a strange pain in her arm, half like that of a winter's breeze and half as hot as liquid steel. A faint dizziness wracked her brain for a moment, but it passed with her next breath.
"If you want to take these men from me, you'll have to try much harder, dearie." She folded the nine men towards her decrepit body, holding them as close as an overprotective mother would clutch her children. "Oh, their little hearts are racing. I hope they don't give out quite yet."
Miss Pauling backed away from the ghost and her collection. Her stomach was knotting up at the sight. It wasn't that she hadn't seen the men dead before. She'd seen them in any way a man could die violently. Still, their limp bodies sent shivers up her spine. Their skin had turned various shades of gray. Their eyes rolled behind closed eyelids, rapid eye movement randomly spinning in their slumber.
The Heavy blinked, almost coming out of the tormented nightmare. His eyes shined with the same horrifying luster as the old woman's. One after another, each man's eyes opened, flickering like tiny stars in the dark abyss. Jaws dropped in silent screams, saliva shining even in the faintest of lights. Miss Pauling was wracked with empathetic pains, not fearing the display but loathing what puppetry the old woman could perform.
She stumbled against the silent Material Emancipation Grill machine, standing in the brightest spot in the crypt. Even then, it was no better lit than the country roads at night. She shivered, wondering what she could do against a ghost. It wasn't something that could be stabbed to death. Or shot. Frankly, without a priest and holy water on hand, she was sunk. There had to be something else. She squirmed as the ghost's collection of men reached for her, pale hands open, fingers flexing weakly.
One hand rested against the strap winding around her torso, keeping that strange shield held against her back. It fiddled with the strap's buckle as other hands sought to grasp other parts of her body. There was a hiss, and then the hand withdrew. The rest of the hands shot back as well, the men's forms now slackly staring at the buckle. What were they seeing? She fiddled with the little metallic item, catching light from the moon off of it. It shimmered towards the ghost, drawing a low growl from the woman.
"What?" Miss Pauling hadn't been expecting that. She glanced at the Material Emancipation Grill generator. The metal was scratched, dull, rusting. Slightly reflective, but not sharp enough. The steel buckle on the crocodile shield was shiny, well-polished. She played with it again, passing the reflected light across each set of eyes. The men did not react as violently as the old woman, who foamed at the glare. Seriously? Was that it? Just light?
Well, she knew how to make more of that.
Miss Pauling yanked one of the cards out of the machine. She slammed random buttons, hoping one of them would fire the grill back online. There was a bright blue blast, sending the ghastly woman and her collection reeling away from Miss Pauling. The grill manifested once again, its luminescence shielding her. Okay. Light stunned the ghost. Good to know.
"You are only prolonging the inevitable." The old woman laughed at Miss Pauling's attempts to protect herself. "This isn't hurting just me, either. Think of your poor friends."
The ghost pulled back on the team, the winding substance sending fresh waves of pain through each man's clouded mind. They howled in unison. The chord was cacophonic, shrill, haunting. Miss Pauling could pick through the shriek, finding every man's voice. The Heavy's bellow. The Scout's whining. Every tone in between—breathy, raspy, nasal, throaty. The tone didn't send fear coursing through her nerves. She was alit with anger.
Miss Pauling sneered at the old woman. "It's hard to be afraid of someone who would run away from a light bulb."
The old woman wasn't amused with her taunting. "How charming. Unless you find a way to make yourself luminescent, I would not be so foolish as to threaten me."
That bat did have a point. Miss Pauling didn't have a flashlight on her, and reflecting light from that buckle or her knife would only get her so far. She did know who could help her, though. She withdrew her knife, charging at the ghost. The old woman snorted a derisive laugh at her, then threw the collection of men at her once more. Perfect. Miss Pauling stepped to the right, prepared for the icy-hot burns as the black substance binding them reached out for her.
That pain was just as horrible as she'd remembered. It took all of her concentration to push it aside, even for a few seconds. She'd landed in the ghastly ectoplasm next to the Pyro. Splendid! She reached for the matches in his suit, producing the damp book. It was worth a shot. She forced herself out of the ghost's gunk, her legs failing to catch her as she collapsed. Luckily, that shield made for a soft landing. She pressed her finger against the head of one match, rubbing it against the coarse surface just below it. If she could force it to have just enough friction—
Orange fire burst from the tip of the match. It burned the pads of her fingers, but it was well worth it. The ghost shrieked at the flame, ectoplasm rolling away. Fantastic! Miss Pauling slipped out of the shield on her back. She placed the match against the taut skin, setting the shield on fire. It rolled slowly across the surface, giving her both a functional weapon and a torch. Perhaps that was not how it was intended to be used, but dire situations forced inspiration.
The ghost tried rolling around her, placing the men as a rotating barricade against the decrepit woman's body. "What are you going to do with that? Burn me? All you will end up doing is incinerating your companions. I guarantee that I can get to the Lazarus machine much faster than you can. I will slay them before you can touch me."
Miss Pauling smirked. "Who said I was going to harm you?"
Then, much to the old woman's surprise, Miss Pauling turned tail and ran. She slammed the key back into the Material Emancipation Grill as she went by it, shutting it down once more. Like that old wench was going to touch it, the way she shrunk away from its light. God spare the man that she tricked into getting that machine working. Besides, she wanted to make sure that ghost was following her. She leapt into the underground passage, holding the flaming shield above her head. The old woman was quick to follow her, trying to have the men grab at her heels. There was something strange with their motions. They were slow, aimed incorrectly. Was she losing control over her captives?
Miss Pauling came to the beginning of the tunnel. Getting up to the church was going to be a pain, especially while holding the flaming shield. At this point, it was less of a shield and more of a wooden, burning frame. Still, she needed it for her plans. She looked upwards, finding one of the non-rusting rungs just out of reach. She leapt up for it, frustrated when she couldn't grab onto it. If she just had a little more—
The Heavy's hands caught Miss Pauling around her waist. She screamed, afraid that she was about to be pulled into the ghost. Rather, she was tossed upwards. She grabbed onto a much higher rung, digging her feet into the parts of the ladder below. Miss Pauling glanced back to see the Heavy's eyes glowing with less intensity. A fresh pulse warmed the Demoman's face. The Engineer was trying to talk with her, words unable to escape his throat as his jaw worked. Were they fighting that ghost, too? What was happening?
There was no time to ponder this miracle. She climbed up the stairwell, the old woman rushing to beat her to the top. The ghost slammed the trap door down in her wake. Bad move. It might have been hard to push, but it was made of wood. Miss Pauling pressed the flaming shield against it with her left arm, catching the door on fire. She held her breath, slamming the shield a few more times against it. With one sharp blow, she threw the trap door open, sending the ghost reeling from the fire.
"You would set a holy place on fire? You pagan scoundrel!" The old woman tried using guilt against Miss Pauling. That was hard to do, seeing how she was hired to occasionally off the Administrator's opponents.
Miss Pauling had no time to waste talking with the ghost. She snapped the shield in two, wielding both halves like a semaphore expert. The altar was the next portion she set alit, followed by rows of pews. Walls crackled from the flame, smoke building a thick cloud around her. She had to head outside quickly. The ghost was making it difficult for her, trying to throw flaming pews at her head. Rather, the ghost did her a favor by knocking one of the stained-glass windows out. She leapt outside, not stopping to catch her breath.
The ghost howled at her. "Stop! I will crush them!"
She forced another cry from the men in her clutches. This time, the sound was random, full of gibberish. It didn't sound like a scream. It almost sounded like cheering. Miss Pauling smiled. Either the smoke was screwing with her brain, or they were fighting back.
The barns were Miss Pauling's next target. She ran from one building to the next, touching old hay and fragile beams with the burning shield parts. They were almost extinguished, threatening to scald her arms and fingers. No matter. She had to destroy this place. She had to burn it all to the ground.
"That's the thing, isn't it?" Miss Pauling taunted the ghost. "Can't haunt a house if it's not there! Then what will you do? Have to move on, won't you? No more house, no more ghost!"
The ghost responded by tossing a rusty pitchfork at her. It scratched her arm but did no serious damage. That old lady had nasty poltergeist tendencies. Everything in the barns was a projectile. Buckets, stools, abandoned ice boxes—one after another, the ghost hurled them at Miss Pauling. That crone shrieked as the Soldier's hand shot out of the ghost's collection, catching one of the items before she could throw it. They were getting out of control, stronger now that her domain was going up in smoke.
Now for the manor. Miss Pauling smiled. Oh, the Administrator was going to fire her over this one.
She skidded towards the main house, mud and rain buffeting her. The dying shield torches held on, fighting through the last of the storm. There may have been a great deal of rain and wind, but that helped to fan the dying embers as well. She tossed her right-hand piece into the window where she had crashed through earlier that night, setting the dining room ablaze. Just one last place to burn, and—
The Medic's Kombi hurtled towards her.
Miss Pauling ducked, the metallic contraption sailing overhead. It landed with a terrific crash in the barn, knocking out support beams as it skidded on its left side. She had no time to escape the Sniper's van tumbling after the first vehicle. It smacked her with a broad sideswipe. The blow tossed her into the center of the lane, the camper van rolling to lie alongside the Medic's vehicle.
Miss Pauling must have blacked out for just a moment. She was surprised that she wasn't dead. When she opened her eyes, she saw that damned ghost hovering above her, gloating. She tried waving her last torch in the ghost's body, only to find her left arm immobile and the last piece extinguished. Inhaling and exhaling was painful, her lips and breath bloody. Well, that was it. Hard to say she could live through that.
"Really? The vans?" Miss Pauling hacked blood at the ghost. "Pretty dirty."
The old woman smiled back. "I will not let you leave me. I enjoy your company, your spirit. You will be my assistant, now. Helen will just have to understand."
Miss Pauling leaned her head back, laughing. The ghost was just as delusional as she was. The entire manor was ablaze, crumbling even in the rain. Lightning struck the clock tower, nature trying to carry out Miss Pauling's mad work. Ectoplasm spilled from the ghost, wrapping weakly around Miss Pauling's body. Neither of them was in any shape to finish the other off. Yet, it looked like the ghost was doing her damnedest to add the last of Helen's team into her fold. Couldn't just let her go, could she? That bitch had to rub it in her face.
What shocked her back to lucidity was a gloved hand wrapping around her palm.
Miss Pauling moved her head ever so slightly. It was the Medic's. He was pulling free from the ectoplasm entangling his own body. The ghost gasped as he yanked himself out, landing on his knees next to Miss Pauling. He paid the ghost no more attention, throwing his overcoat off. He bound it around her body, trying to comfort her. Heal her. Do what he was hired to do.
The Heavy was the next to pull free. No weak ghost was going to hold him back. He rushed to Miss Pauling's side, fumbling with the Medic in an attempt to keep her conscious. The Soldier followed, pulling the Demoman and the Pyro along with him. The ghost shrieked, but her cries became softer as her captives escaped her grasp and her kingdom burned away. The Engineer tumbled out next, rushing to get supplies from the Medic's overturned van. The Sniper continued the collection, grabbing anything of use from his home. The Scout tore free, fretting around the group but being unable to help outside of his chanting for Miss Pauling to keep awake. The Spy was the last to escape, stepping out of the ghost as nonchalantly as he would exit an elevator. He turned back to face the ghost, seeing nothing. It disappeared without a plea, without one noise. Between the collapsing manor and the team's concern for their injured friend, the ghost had no fear and no domain to cling to anymore.
That pleased Miss Pauling as she gave into the darkness.
Author's Note
Yes, I have an epilogue. Yes, you will have to read it. Suck it up.
Besides, I would never do anything that violates canon. Okay, nothing that would violate canon too much. You know what? Just trust me on this. I do bittersweet endings. I don't do tragedies. Maybe it's not realistic, but you know you what? I think we go through enough garbage every day not to get ourselves a little happy.
This chapter was ungodly hard to write. I thought my last one was so damn fine that there was no way I could live up to it. And I still didn't, to be honest. But this was a lot better than my other idea. I thought it would be fun to have the team fight the special infected from the Left 4 Dead series while looking for the Sniper and the Medic's car keys. Too damn zany. I think this holds tension better.
Well? Can you make it? (Also, where's Redmond?)