His father's face… he blinked once, and it was gone. Yet he could still remember it. He, surprisingly, had not looked angry or ferocious. His eyes had been open, yet motionless.

Whitley blinked a few more times in confusion, before letting out a sigh. It seemed that the pressures of operating the company had been getting to him. He resigned himself to his tiredness, and came to the conclusion that it was time to retire for the night.

He went to lie down on the couch in front of his coffee table; while most men would normally retire to their bedroom, Whitley had no desire to do so. He found sleeping in his study made him more comfortable; it was where he always worked, and it also allowed him to save time.

Whitley sat down on the couch. Despite his best efforts to maintain composure, the strange phenomenon weighed on his mind. To say that he was not startled would be untrue.

He leaned forward, pulling a lighter out of his suit's front right pocket. He flicked the lighter and gently hovered it over a candle on the coffee table, providing himself with some illumination. The pale light of the moon also filtered in through the window.

In a nervous tic, he looked towards the door, before standing up to walk towards it. It was locked. He then turned towards the window where he believed he saw his father, opening it to look outside. The bitter chill of the Atlesian night air, as well as the coldness of the snow, stung at his face. Yet, as he leaned slightly out of the window to look around, he found nothing suspicious.

Locking the window shut once more, a loud banging sound erupted. He almost jumped out of his skin at the sound. Unsure, Whitley looked up into the sky. It was not thunder; the Atlesian sky was calm, snow flurries gently pattering down.

He heard the sound again, turning towards his door in fright. It had not been a coincidence, nor had he been hearing things. He could never entirely rule out the possibility of insanity in this line of work. Yet this seemed to be real.

As he slowly approached the door, he heard the banging once more. Perhaps his imagination was playing tricks on him but Whitley believed that the sound seemed to be getting louder. The interval between the sounds decreased, becoming more frequent. The sound resounded through the manor like thunder, the very thunder he had first believed came from the night sky.

Whitley was not a man to be frightened by echoes; his line of work forced him to remain strong in the face of adversity. It was the only way to survive.

This, however, scared him. Had someone gotten into his mansion? There was no way: his security would have noticed if someone tried to break in. Even if they didn't, the camera feeds that his paranoid mother had put into the house would have alerted him. Remaining cautious, Whitley moved to confirm this. He whipped out his scroll and checked the feeds in real time, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

Whitley didn't want to take any chances but he also knew he wasn't a physically strong man. He considered attempting to put his desk or dresser in front of the door but almost immediately decided such an effort would be fruitless. After all, he still wasn't entirely sure if what he was experiencing was real, or a remarkably strange, very realistic dream.

For the time being, the banging sound seemed to cease. Whitley wasn't sure whether such a fact should comfort him or unnerve him further. He felt a shiver run through his body; perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him, but it seemed as if the room was much colder than before. He had opened the window, but such an action by itself did not seem to explain such a shift. Further, as he looked to his fireplace, he saw that the once vibrant fire had turned to little more than embers.

Whitley turned around to grab the candle from the coffee table, taking it over to his desk. He sat down on the chair uneasily, letting out an annoyed growl.

"Humbug!"

He leaned back in the chair, turning around to look up at the ceiling. His glance happened to rest on an old chandelier high above the coffee table. It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw the chandelier begin to swing. It was as if it was being blown by a wind, even though Whitley knew such a thing was impossible.

He stared at the motion with a mixture of feelings: confusion, dread, and a strange interest being some of them. As his gaze was transfixed on the ceiling, he lost track of time. Perhaps he looked for half a minute, or a minute, but to Whitley, time seemed to pass very slowly.

However, the motion ended abruptly, and as it did, another sound emerged. Much quieter than the banging… yet somehow, much more disturbing.

He heard what seemed to be a soft clanking noise, as if it were coming from far in the distance. It was as if a person was dragging heavy chains. The best comparison Whitley could think of were the sounds of the Faunus "chain gangs" his father had shown him in the dust mines during a tour when he was a child. Several men clasped together in chains, working to extract as much dust in as little time as possible, as an overseer watched their every move. While Whitley had abolished such a practice several years ago, the sound remained familiar to him.

His heart skipped a beat as he recalled something his mother told him once as a child. Ghosts in haunted houses, at least in the tales she had told him, were often described as dragging chains.

Whitley couldn't deny that Schnee Manor had its fair share of reasons to harbor demons or vengeful spirits… but ghosts? Outside of the Geists that Weiss had told him about, he had never heard of such spirits outside of works of fiction.

"No," Whitley remarked to himself, "such a tale was just like almost everything else that came from her: inane drivel of a mad woman losing her grip on reality. Ramblings of an old bat long past her sell by date."

That was what Whitley told himself, at least, to make himself feel more comfortable and alleviate the growing tension in his body. Despite this, as he continued to listen, he heard the noise grow much louder. It no longer seemed to be far away; rather, if he had to guess, it sounded like it was down the hallway from his study.

And… judging by the fact that the sound steadily increased in volume, it was approaching his location.

"It's humbug still!" said Whitley. "I won't believe it."

In spite of his words, his actions said another, as he raised his arm towards the door. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth in frustration, as he attempted to summon the power his sister had once taught him to use. A semblance, as they called it.

Years of no practice seemed to weigh on him. Despite his best efforts, and despite the fact his sister had shown him it was possible to use such a skill with only your bare hands, nothing happened.

"Damn it! Damn that woman and her natural talents! Far be it for me to replicate such a feat after years of disuse and neglect." He closed his eyes, a small line of sweat trickling down his forehead as he attempted to summon the ability once more. For a brief moment, a small, azure blue snowflake formed around the door handle, before dissipating just as fast.

He opened his eyes, and the color of his complexion quickly changed. Without a pause, an apparition emerged through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon his coming in, the dying flames of the fireplace leaped up once more, as though it cried "I know him! Jacques' Ghost!" and fell again.

Whitley looked in shock at the image of the man in front of him, stepping back in fright. His father had the same face: the very same. Jacques Schnee was in his blazer, with the handkerchief in his front pocket and his vest underneath. His slicked back hair with the mustache looked all too familiar to Whitley. Whitley noted, however, that the red of his handkerchief and the light blue of his vest were absent, for his entire essence was transparent.

Whitley could not believe it. His eyes were playing tricks on him. He looked at the phantom through and through, however, coming to the conclusion that it was indeed standing before him. He felt uncomfortable; while his father was never once the epitome of a warm man, his eyes were somehow colder and deader than he had ever seen before. It was enough to send a shiver running down his spine.

"What… what is this?" Whitley asked, a question directed equally towards himself as it was to the spirit before him. "What do you want with me?"

"Much!" His father's voice came out clearly. There could be no doubt about it; it was his father's voice. However, he spoke with a conviction that was unlike his father, who was often a sniveling coward in life.

"Who are you?"

The spirit shook his head, as if Whitley were asking the wrong question.

"It would be more accurate for you to ask who I was."

"Who were you, then?!" asked Whitley, even though he already knew the answer. He felt a mix of emotions rising up inside of him: anger, fear, sadness… and something else he couldn't quite place.

"In life… I was your father, Jacques Schnee."

Whitley scoffed. "Oh, please. I don't know what type of trick you're playing, shade, but even in death, you have no right to call yourself a Schnee. You have even less right to call yourself a father, for my father in life failed to be one. He was more of a sperm donor than a father, ghost!"

The spirit smiled… the same sickening smile his father gave him in life many times. The smile he had once admired and longed for.

"Really, now? If I seem to recall correctly, Whitley, you were my most loyal companion for several years, after your mother and your sisters abandoned you."

Whitley grit his teeth. "They did that because of you!"

Jacques put his hands up in disinterest. "Mere semantics. Regardless of the circumstances, you were so desperate for my approval and affections for years, yet you want to attempt to take a moral high ground now?" The shade laughed. "Be realistic, my son."

Whitley narrowed his eyes. "Why are you here, shade?"

The smile faded from the face of his "father," as he gave Whitley a serious look. "Believe it or not, I am here for you."

He was taken aback by this, his jaw slightly dropping before he composed himself again.

"Are… are you actually real?"

"I am."

"Can you…" he looked at the couch where he had opened the envelope earlier. "Can you sit down?"

"I can."

"Do it, then."

Whitley watched as the spirit of his father hovered towards the couch, before his "feet" touched the ground, to Whitley's surprise. Then, he sat down, crossing his legs as if this were another business meeting, as if he were quite used to it.

Jacques looked at him. "You do not believe what you see."

"How could I? Unless… you're not a geist, are you?"

Jacques rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. Do I look like a Grimm? You clearly listened to your sister's stories too much. Such a creature has not been in this place since your sister's test."

Whitley felt a surge of irritation, but resisted rising to his father's challenge. That was exactly what he wanted him to do.

"If you are not a geist, then yes, I cannot believe what I see."

"Why is it you doubt your senses?"

Whitley growled, unable to hold in his frustration any longer. "Because! Many things affect them, such as the slight disorder of my stomach. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"

Whitley was not one to crack bones often, yet it felt like his only possible defense at that very moment. The surprised reaction of his father gave him a bit more confidence, if only a little.

"Whitley, I may be dead, but words can still hurt!"

Whitley scoffed. He really was as hypocritical and pathetic as ever when someone actually mustered the courage to rise to his challenge.

Whitley pointed to an item on the coffee table. "Do you see that envelope?"

"I do."

"You're not looking at it."

Jacques shrugged. "True, but that was not your question. You asked if I can see it. I can."

Whitley shook his head, before going to sit down on the chair to the side of the coffee table, to the left of the couch where his "father" sat. He rested his head in his hands for a moment, trying to come to grips with the incredibly confusing situation.

However, he was brought out of his confusion by a loud wail. As he looked up, he saw the image of his father flailing around, as if in pain. He felt a surge of panic and… concern shooting through his body.

"What is it, sha… F-father! Are you alright?!"

The wailing continued, the frightful cry causing Whitley to grab onto the armrest without even noticing he was doing so. His horror only increased when he saw a hole appear in his father's chest.

Whitley fell out of the chair and onto his knees, clasping his hands in front of his face. The wailing continued for a few more seconds, then ceased.

"Mercy, spirit! Why is it that you trouble me?"

"Man of the worldly mind… do you believe in me or not?!"

Whitley stayed quiet for a few seconds, desperately trying to calm himself down. He took a few deep breaths, before looking up at the shade again. He saw that where his chest once had a hole, it was whole again. The spirit's fright quickly faded, as a calm expression took over his father's face once more.

"I do… I must. But, if you truly are a spirit, and spirits do walk this earth, then why have you come to me? Why am I the only one to experience something like this?"

Jacques nodded. "A fair question. The truth is: you are not the only one. Every person, whether human or Faunus, contains a spirit within them. Such spirits are what separate us from the rest of the life in this world. Yet, if one does not adequately display such spirit in life… then they are instead doomed to wander through the world in death."

His father looked down at the floor, a look of sadness on his face. It was a look that Whitley could never remember seeing from his father before, because it looked…

Human.

"You are upset," said Whitley, trembling. "Can you tell me why, Father?"

The apparition let out a shivering sigh, before nodding weakly. "Such an imprisonment is a product of the choices I made in life. Choices which I can blame on no one but myself. I made it step by step, piece by piece, and mistake by mistake. I did so of my own free will, and of my own free will did I forsake the human spirit. I have no right to complain… yet complaint is the only form of comfort I have!"

Whitley sat in silence. He had always wondered what he would say if he was given one last chance to see his father again. Perhaps he would reject him, saying that he would find his own way to lead the Schnee Dust Company. Perhaps he would boast, saying that he had found a new person to look up to in... her. Perhaps he would say goodbye, acknowledging their differences but also the admiration he once had for the man. Perhaps he would admit that he had started to understand some of the reasons why his father operated the way he did. All scenarios had been considered in Whitley's mind over the years.

Yet, when faced with the very opportunity himself, Whitley did not know what to say. He instead felt anger, confusion, sadness…

And pity. Pity for a man that he knew did not deserve it in the slightest.

Despite this, he felt a strange comfort talking to his father again. He seemed different than he was before. Perhaps the prospect of eternal purgatory would do that to someone.

He nodded to himself, before looking at his father again. "Do you wish to know what has happened to everyone else?"

The spirit shook his head. "No need. I have been dead for almost ten years, and traveling all the time."

"The whole time?"

Jacques nodded. "That is correct. As a spirit, there is no rest, no peace. There is only the constant torture of regret and sadness, of a life wasted. In my time of wandering Remnant, I have seen what has happened to your mother, to your sisters, and to you."

"Do you travel fast?"

"As quick as a gust of the wind," replied the Ghost.

"That is a great amount of land and time for you to cover, Father."

Jacques looked at him. He stared deep into Whitley's eyes, almost as if he were piercing through to view his very soul. He had seen many glares from his father before, but this was nothing he had ever seen before. It seemed like it was coming from an entirely new man.

"Whitley. I am trapped in this cycle because of my own greed and failures. I have not come here for pity. I deserve none, and finding any will not change my fate. As I said before, I came here for a very specific reason. Even if it is my first and final act of repentance that I can impart on this world, then I can rest easier in my purgatory knowing that one thing I did made the world a better place."

Whitley felt dumbfounded. His father doing something for someone besides himself? Wanting to make the world a better place? Whitley has been correct: being faced with eternal solitude could have a major effect on a person.

He let out a quiet sigh, speaking softly. "What is it, Father?"

"Do not make the same mistakes I did, Whitley. Not while you still have time to change."

He scoffed. "I am making no such mistakes, Father. Besides, you were such a good man of business. Can you not acknowledge the growth I have provided the Schnee Dust Company?"

Jacques stayed quiet for a moment. "In life… perhaps. I would have been proud of you."

Whitley's eyes widened at that statement. It was a strange feeling to feel both proud and utterly revolted by a statement at once, yet that was what Whitley felt. However, if his father noticed this paradox, he did not mention it, as he continued speaking.

"Yet, life is not where I find myself anymore, Whitley. Business? What good did business give me in the end? All it caused was pain and suffering to many, and eventually, it destroyed me. Taken out by an assassin fighting for their kind, because of the abuses I cultivated. Money and power does nothing to save you from death, son. For someone of your position, bottom lines should not be your business. Mankind should be your business: the common welfare, charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence."

He scoffed. "Okay, moving past the giant irony of you of all people saying this… is that not what I do now? I provide for thousands of employees, and run a business which benefits millions of people throughout all of Remnant."

Jacques shook his head. "Poor boy… you think that just because you say different words, things have changed? You cannot claim to be unique when the melody of the song is still the same."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You will find out in due time, my son."

Then, his father stood up from the couch, checking his wrist for a watch that wasn't there. He looked at Whitley with sadness.

"My apologies, Whitley, but I fear my time is nearly gone. Yet, before I go, I ask that you hear me one final time."

Whitley wanted to scream and yell, to question what his father meant, to ask him to stay longer, but ultimately decided that such a tantrum would do little good. One thing he could never deny about his father was that, once he made a decision, it was almost impossible to get him to change his mind.

He gave his father a small nod. "Very well. I'm listening."

Jacques looked down at the envelope, the picture of Weiss and her family peeking out, before looking back at Whitley. "I have seen how the others have progressed in their lives. How your mother met someone else, how Winter worked tirelessly with General Ironwood to rebuild the Atlesian Military, and how your sister has created a new family of her own. It is now time for you to go forth and build a future of your own."

Whitley opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, his father raised his hand up to silence him.

"I know you have many questions. I apologize but my time here draws to a close. Know this: you are the only Schnee left who has not secured a future of their own. You are simply repeating what I have done, continuing the cycle, making the same mistakes. The difference is: you are doing so accidentally. You are blind, believing in what you do behind a misplaced sense of selflessness, as well as ignorance. But I am not, boy, for I am the one who committed such acts in the first place!"

Whitley stepped back at the sound of his father's voice raising, lifting his hands up in front of his chest. It was a nervous tic, one which he shared with Weiss. The spirit noticed his reaction, its eyes widening for a moment, before it shook its head.

"My apologies. There are no words I could use to explain the future to you better than what you will come to find in the next days. Just know this: even if this is most likely the last time you and I meet, I have sat invisible beside you many a day. If I have my way, I will continue to do so."

That idea was both agreeable and disagreeable to Whitley. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of the spirit of his father remaining beside him for the rest of his life. He felt like he should hate him, yet a certain part of his heart forbade him from doing so.

"This is no light part of my penance," pursued Jacques. "I have come here tonight to warn you, my son. You are going down a path similar to my own. However, unlike myself, you still have a chance and hope of escaping my fate. Time to choose a different path, where your spirit will come forth in life instead of death. My first and final act of atonement… attempting to guide you to a future different from mine."

Whitley narrowed his eyes, his ice blue orbs flashing in anger. "I do not need your help anymore, Father. One time, I relied on you, but that is no longer. I will not become like you, because I am different. I am better. I will not make the amateur mistakes you did."

Jacques sighed, shaking his head. "You still do not understand… but I have enough faith to believe that you will in time." He walked towards the door. As he reached for the doorknob, he stopped, turning his head to look back at his son one final time.

"You will be haunted… by three spirits."

Whitley's anger fell away, replaced by confusion. "I-is this the chance and hope you mentioned?" While he attempted to maintain composure, his voice faltered.

"It is."

"I… I don't want that. How can I accept that a phenomenon such as ghosts not only exists, but also that several of them have taken an interest in me? Why? Why me, father?"

Jacques stared at his son with a pensive gaze. "Without their visits, Whitley, you will be doomed to follow down the path I tread. One day, you may even find yourself as a spirit of your own, finding yourself in a world where you simultaneously do and don't exist. This is not what your fate is meant to be. You are meant to be great, like the Schnees who came before you."

Whitley felt a surge of agitation inside of him as he grit his teeth. "I will decide what my fate is! Not you, not the Schnee bloodline, or any other damned spirits! My name is not for anyone else to define but myself."

Jacques chuckled, before turning around towards the door again.

"Such a rebellious streak. Perhaps your sister's influence remains more than I realized. That fills me with hope."

"What? You mean… Weiss?"

Not bothering to answer his question, Jacques continued. "Expect the first Spirit tomorrow, when the bell tolls one."

"Father, if there are to be three spirits, would it not be better and more efficient for me to take all three of them at once? I'd prefer to have it over and done with, if I could."

"Expect the second on the next night at the same hour," the ghost continued, ignoring Whitley once more. "Finally, the third will arrive the next night when the last stroke of twelve has ceased to vibrate. Do not expect to see me anymore; just know that heeding my words is not for my sake, but your own. Remember what has passed between us tonight."

After Jacques said these words, he beckoned for Whitley to approach him. He did so.

When Whitley was within a few paces of his father, Jacques held up his hand, telling him to come no closer. Whitley also heeded this command, stopping in his tracks.

While he had once been used to following his orders, this time, Whitley did not follow his father's requests out of obedience. Rather, he felt a sense of fear. Such fears were heightened when his father opened the door to exit his study. His ears were pierced with a cacophony of strange noises: screams of pain and regret, wails of pure sorrow and lamentation. Whitley went to cover his ears, yet the sounds continued just as loud as before.

Realizing blocking out the sounds was a fruitless effort, he tried to step towards his father, reaching out his arm towards him. However, the last thing he saw was the sight of his father stepping out into the hallway, before turning to give him a small smile.

"Father…?"

"Farewell… my son. Take care of yourself."

Then, as quickly as he had once emerged through the door, his spectral form vanished in a weak dim of light.

"F-father, wait! Don't leave me! Not again!"

His muscles suddenly feeling loose again, he sprinted out into the hallway, looking around in both directions for any signs of his father. His eyes widened in panic.

"FATHER!"

Like a cold breath on a winter night, one that was visible before one's very eyes, Whitley saw the hallway air filled with phantoms similar to his father. They flew through the air slowly, moaning and wailing. Their pain and eternal torment was on display, in front of Whitley's eyes and audible in his ears. Whitley fell on his backside in pure terror as he looked at them. His heart rate skyrocketed as he felt short of breath.

Then, just like his father, spirit after spirit slowly faded into mist. Their visage and their voices slowly faded, from loud walls, to quiet whispers, and eventually, to silence.

Whitley instantly stood up, sprinting back into his study. He slammed the door shut, locking it back into place. He felt confused, afraid, and irritated as he continued to breathe loudly and unevenly. His entire body was shaking from fear and hysteria, forcing him to take a few deep breaths in a weak attempt to calm himself down.

He walked shakily towards the mantle of his fireplace, looking upon a picture. It was the Schnee family portrait; his mother and father, his sisters, and himself. While the women in the picture looked solemn, he and his father looked at the camera with small smiles.

He scowled, reaching out to place the picture face down on the mantle. He could not bear to look at it, for it reminded him of the past. A past that he had no use in remembering, one that was dead and gone. It served no use to him any longer.

"Humbug!"

Without another word, he walked back towards his couch with an uneven step, collapsing on it face down. Burying his face into a pillow, he tried to hold back the shaky sensation in his body, and the tears which began to sting in his eyes, leaving a soft wetness on the fabric.

Fortunately for Whitley, he was only conscious for a few moments. Then, the combination of a long work day and the conversation with his father pulled him into unconsciousness, into an uncertain and uncomfortable slumber.

Author's Notes:

Thank you to everyone for the kind response to the first chapter! I was very nervous to publish it, so I'm glad to see that everyone enjoyed it so much.

Also, a special thanks to r/TheWestphalianGwent for giving me permission to use his edit of Whitley as an adult for the cover photo of this story! He was the inspiration for this fanfic idea, so as always, I am very grateful to him. Thank you, West!

This chapter was rough to write. This is really where Whitley's suffering begins, and unfortunately for him, this is only the beginning. When initially planning to write this story, I initially planned to have Jacques be very close to how he is in canon: a smug butthole who takes pride in the fact that Whitley is unintentionally continuing his legacy.

However, as I reread the first stave of A Christmas Carol, I came across an interesting line from Jacob Marley, who Jacques represents in this fic: "It is required of every man that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death."

This gave me the idea of the afterlife in this story being tied to one's actions in life. This is what happened to Jacques. He used and abused his powers in life, treated his own family as tools and objects, extensions of his own will, and died pathetically. As a result, he is fated to roam Remnant as a ghost in purgatory, and by the time he visits Whitley, this has been going on for almost a decade.

But roaming the world as a ghost for almost 10 years would affect you. You're all alone, you can see the world around you continue to move, yet you cannot interact with it. In this time, Jacques began to feel something he felt for the first time: regret. At first, it is mostly selfish regret: "why did I do this to myself, why did I let my greed ruin my future for eternity," etc. However, as time goes on, this regret becomes more selfless: "why did I do this to other people, why did I focus so much on wealth when it gave me nothing when I died, why did I do this to my family," and so on. He sees the rest of the family in Willow, Winter, and Weiss move on in their own ways. Willow with Qrow and rekindling her relationship with her daughters, Winter trying to atone for her mistakes and attempting to redeem herself as both a civilian and a military person, and Weiss with her new family.

Yet he sees one person has not done so. His son, once his closest companion, even if for selfish reasons. His son is slowly making the same mistakes he did, but unlike Jacques, Whitley does not realize this. He believes he is doing the right thing. For example: the line about Whitley banning chain gang mining. He gives the Faunus workers higher bonuses and OT pay for doing the dangerous blast mining deep in the mines. But the issue is he is not fixing the root of the problems. He is still using people. He is still operating by greed. He is still using human and Faunus workers in different ways, ways that endanger the Faunus. Things are better, yes, but nothing has truly changed. But he buries himself in his work, he justifies sacrificing his family and his social life by saying "I am providing for thousands of workers, I am trying to help millions of people with this company," but he isn't changing anything. Humans and Faunus, Atlas and Mantle, himself and everyone else are all still divided. The problems continue.

Jacques sees this. He has long since resigned himself to his own fate, but decides he can attempt to do one good thing: save his son from becoming him.

Bit of a long explanation, but one I feel is important. There's a reason I put my author's notes at the end, so those who don't want to read my rambling don't have to. Still, I think it's important to explain my thought process to those who might be interested. I loved writing the interactions between Whitley and Jacques here.

You also might briefly notice from a line of Jacques' dialogue that his death in this is different from canon... more on this later.

Next chapter out very soon. Chapter 3 is the calm before the angst storm.

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think of this chapter.