Hmmmm how much of his letter is tampered with, I wonder? Open for interpretation currently, who knows!
A small shiver pulls her out of her light sleep cycle, slowly becoming aware of the change in surroundings. The ground is cold concrete, not terribly unlike the basement's foundations. She feels layers of dust under her fingertips, and Chell wearily flutters her eyelashes, then quickly shuts them. Her body stills rapidly despite her spike in heart rate, clinging onto that unconscious facade for as long as devising an escape requires. She strains her hearing, a muffled owl in the distance, some trees swaying about, and she suppresses another shiver– not from the cold, but the rustle of clothing originating too close for comfort.
Then she feels a subtle breeze. It whistles through the trees, and softly shifts her disheveled bangs into her eyes. Not only is there no draft in the basement, the air is so stagnant it's borderline suffocating, but the little she's able to see through her squinted vision has her exhaling a breath she never realised she was holding. Caroline's perched on the stairs in front of her, her back turned on the younger woman until she heard her deep exhale. "Indubitably, you possess a rather shrewd mind, darling. Should the muses seek counsel, I daresay they would find no finer mind than yours."
The older ghost tosses a blanket back at the drowsy girl, the chill of the night air permeates through her skin clearly given the way her body quakes on the porch step. She nods her appreciation at the spirit, who continues on in a borderline impressed tone. "I concede, perhaps feigning a syncope is not the most thrilling outcome, I would have been far from impartial if you triumphed over Him in combat, but you have not a scratch and most importantly– I have the essentials."
Chell is barely in the mood to lift her head at this point, but at the mention of the ritual items she scrambles to her knees. Caroline reaches out from the folds of her cloak, and lo and behold the woman holds out the little green book. Chell snatches it with no morsel shame for her eagerness, but Caroline doesn't seek to judge her further. She just turns back around, giving her some much needed privacy with this book.
This book– which had been their ticket out of here, her supernatural translator, a safe medium in which to speak in the house, and it was their best weapon against a false deity. It sits shriveled in her hands, the edges of the front cover charred, presumably from the frenzy He threw after they retreated from the house on the day of his imprisonment. He seems to struggle to control his temper, his rage and malice causing drastic shifts in temperature, unbearably hot following an uncomfortable chill.
The first few pages were charred beyond legibility, leaving nothing but ashes to discolour the pages nestled further within. She begs and prays that whatever page Caroline mentioned previously was left untouched.
She frantically leaves back and forth through the pages, until his familiar and neat handwriting blesses her vacant eyes. Her tired hands shake from relief and exhaustion, she just needs to read it before she goes back to sleep. A bit of closure could never hurt, after all.
'Hello love,
Maybe you're reading this with me right beside you—unless, of course, I forgot to mention I wrote you a little message. Typical Wheatley, that. Wouldn't that be just my luck? I could be long gone by the time you read this and I'd have no idea. Well, I suppose I would, technically, but present-day Wheatley wouldn't have a clue. That's what I'm getting at.
Anyway, there's not a chance I got that so wrong, I've been thinking about this letter for days now– so onto the message anyway. Now, I've never particularly had a way with words, I'm positive you could humiliate me with a laundry list of moronic things I've said, but I'll give this a shot anyway, I'll have to one day. I'll get to the point now, I really have just spent the past two sentences prefacing this letter, so I hope I at least get points for self awareness.
I just wanted to say thank you– sounds a bit daft when I write it out just like that, but you may have a few questions (or none, that's fine too), mainly probably why I wouldn't just say something like that to your face. Truth is, well I do plan on doing that too, but I guess why not give you a little memento for while I'm gone? You know, our paths divide in the short term and you can live your (hopefully not short or sad) life to its fullest, put perhaps if it sticks with you, and we do meet again in whatever 'great beyond' there is beyond this mess I'm trapped in, then maybe we could give it another shot? I mean this whole 'love' thing—the real deal, not just me calling you that like I always do.
If that does sound good to you, then why not, let's give it a shot! Of course it's in the distant future for you, and probably some nebulous time I might not experience when I'm no longer haunting this house, but it's nice to just have it officially noted down, isn't it? Oh, if it doesn't sound like a plan, then that kind of hurts since I did put all the effort into writing this letter for you, but I guess we can't change the past.
I didn't really have a previous homeowner quite like you– reserved but sweet, that's how I'd describe you, love. I was a bit over enthusiastic at first, especially when you properly actually spoke to me, but you were very gracious about it. I'd say I cooled off on that eventually, but we both know that's a bit of a fib.
So, if you're now busy living through your life, maybe looking back over this message (I'd hope fondly), then know that it's okay if you move on. Honestly, it is. Probably more normal, too, than pining over some poor chap who's got 65 years on you, really. And if goodbye's never quite enough just look to the moon, whisper my name, and know in your heart I'd do the same for you. I know I've never said those three words around you, honestly they sound a bit daunting to even just think in your presence, it's as if you can read my mind, but do know my affection towards you never wanes. No matter the distance, no matter when, know I'll love you still—until we meet again, love.
So yeah, hope this reaches you even if I'm no longer there. Or maybe I am beside you and peeking over your shoulder, in which case: Hello future me, I'm sure you remember writing this like it was yesterday. Probably because it was, but man it took some real brain power to hash out.
You made me feel real again in a world that had long forgotten me. I always thought of this house as a prison or a personal hell, but now come to think of it, my heaven will always be here, with you.
Oh, and while you're at it, do go back inside—I left you a little something in the living room, love.'
She lied to herself. A little bit of closure, in fact, can hurt like hell. She wipes off the few tear drops that fell onto the page towards the end of his letter, worried that dampening the page might smear the ink any more than his left hand already did when writing. He has surprisingly neat handwriting for such a clumsy spirit, and with that thought she closes the book with a thud, using the palm of her hand to muffle her staggered breathing. When she gets to borderline whining, Caroline tosses a glance over her shoulder, her gaze even and calculating, but not cruel or heartless towards the sulking girl.
She shuffles back and Chell's sniffles grow quieter, suddenly aware she isn't technically alone, and does her best to compose herself. Caroline sits up straight against the wall, and Chell unfolds herself to a similar position, refusing to be outdone by a ghost, even in the midst of her grieving. "I think he would approve of our plans, to my eye it seemed he was ready to let you go anyway. For the last sentence, however–" and she picks the small leatherbound book from her hands, "–that I do not approve of. Whether he wrote that, or Moloch, I wish for us not to find out. We will keep out of the house as much as possible, lest He has some new trick up his sleeve."
Chell picked the book back from her, quickly navigating to the page again. It certainly looked like Wheatley's writing, seemingly no more forged than the rest of the letter. Sure, it may not put her in the most ideal situation when following his past instructions, but then again it seems like the flowers have been working, He's not even so much as shove her so far, despite the ample opportunities he's had. She turns her head to the ghost whose gaze stays fixed on the distant gate. Chell pokes her shoulder insistently. "You have a bad idea planned, don't you?"
He peers like a hawk through the front curtains, watching the two on the porch with needy blue eyes. Chell's half raised up by her arms, and the voice in his head pipes up yet again at the sight. "Oh, sod off, mate. Do us a favour, go haunt someone else for a bit, yeah?" But they both know that's not how this works. It's a symbiotic relationship, that much Wheatley knows, or at least that's what he thought at the beginning. When He started talking to him, well he wasn't even aware of how far he'd already strayed from their strategic plan. He wishes he could hear them better, even see them better than this hazy view, the soft muffling of Caroline's voice is filtered by both the window and the limitations of this form.
Being bound to the house was as lonely as expected, except now he has to listen to Him periodically too. No third party to deliver a message this time, it's just him, his thoughts, and the demon squatting in the back of his mind. He paces up and down the front hallway, straining his ears for her voice, trying to make out anything Caroline says at least. He squints out the window yet again, it seems as though she's passing something to the young woman, and by how eager she is to snatch it away, he can probably guess what it is.
A tidal wave of guilt washes over him. It's so much worse than any guilt he's ever felt as a human or ghost, Moloch clearly has a hand in this. A throbbing emanates from his heart which he now futilely clutches at, and it reverberates through his body, settling in the pit of his stomach and the back of his skull. Not like any of those anatomical features exist anymore, at least not for any other reason other than to torture him.
It had only been since that same afternoon when clarity fully hit him about the ritual. It rendered him to stillness for the longest time, simply contemplating all that had happened, all he wholeheartedly got swept up in. In those moments he truly did hate her, and he never expected in all his life and after life he'd be just one fuck up away from his worst self. And yet here he was.
He lifts his despondent and restless eyes from their fixed point on the doorknob, only then to realise he was desperately trying to open the door subconsciously. He stepped back again, shaking his head to clear it of the throbbing that both the guilt and loud voice perpetuate. It's not the first time He's caught him doing this, and He's catching on pretty quickly that it also might not be the last. Through the window, he can just barely make out the words on the scorched pages.
It was moronic to write that letter. It was even more stupid to write that last sentence into it. It didn't matter how much He pushed him to write it, he just should have had the strength to resist, but that strength was dwindling fast in comparison to His rising fury. The clarity never lasts very long, it's almost as if he's the foreign consciousness now, the tumor in His side until they merge one again. "Bloody hell, I've really done it now, ain't I? Blimey I'm stupid, she's gonna–"
He pauses, bringing His palm away from His face. What was He thinking? Of course He wants her to come inside, that's the whole point of the letter isn't it? To stay with Him? Granted, a little bit was embellished here and there– "No matter the distance, no matter when" isn't quite right when He needs her right here, right now– but clearly it seems to have an effect on the lady. She's crying softly on the doorstep. "Now that, that I can work with," He smirks to Himself as He wanders back to the living room.
"It's truly the heart of the house, center of all activity oftentimes, gotta give it a lively atmosphere," He chuckles to himself, remembering to duck under the doorframe and making his way to switch on the warm lamp in the corner of the room. It softly illuminates the space and casts His shadow, long and fuzzy across the ceiling and floor, severing the room straight in half.
His large hands rummage quickly through the draws at the bottom of the bookcase, not caring particularly to be gentle with His papers, letters from family and friends from His own past. Hidden underneath the now scattered and torn papers is a small brass gramophone, and He gingerly places it on the table to His right. It certainly wasn't His, it's a little too dated even from his time. He spots the first vinyl he can find, slots it in, and winds up the player.
Awaiting her arrival, he takes a seat on the couch, finding some time to whip out his manuscript book and compose a little on the spot. It helps him calm down a lot nowadays, so he takes a few moments to continue on his work, essentially starting from scratch after the rest of the pages were rendered illegible. He occasionally tells him what to write, even for his own music piece, but Wheatley refuses to get bossed around about his own profession, he writes what he wants, and how he likes it.
He eventually has to go and rewind and reset the gramophone, annoyed by both the quality of the music and the length of the record, but technological limitations be damned, His plan is going to work.
The latch of the door opens, and He focuses closely on the sounds. Two sets of footsteps slowly approach from the hallway, and he once again gives a self satisfied grin. "Oh no, he's playing classical music, isn't he supposed to be a jazz pianist–" Caroline groans, then follows up after presumably some non-verbal communication, "–my apologies dear, I'll keep quiet then."
He pockets his manuscript book as they round the corner, then eye up the mess He seemed to have caused in the meantime. Chell winces at the destruction, the shredded papers hanging out of the drawer, the record itself is clearly scratched up too much to play for longer than 5 minute intervals, and the books from the night prior are still scattered across the room. He looks proud of Himself regardless, waving Chell into the room with a borderline friendly attitude, despite how much her short disapproving scan of the room irked Him. He put so much effort into welcoming her back inside, why not just appreciate at least the thought?
Caroline lingers back around the staircase like usual, watching from a distance and surveying the situation. "Come along, love, I know I said I left a surprise in here for you, but that's actually a little later on– of course, if you do still have the energy, it is very early morning– but I'm glad you've stopped by!" He stands there, awkwardly interlacing His hands together, clearly awaiting any kind of a response from her before He loses His composure again. "Right, yeah, bet you're knackered, eh? No worries, I'll keep watch, like always. You can count on me, proper lookout an' all. Do you, uh– do you like what I've done with the place? Very homely, our home."
Her expression remains unreadable for a long stretch of time to the man, almost driving Him mad on its own, until she gives a curt nod and he unravels in genuine joy. "Oh wonderful, love! You know, I put this all together and all that, all by myself wouldn't you believe it– and I was just wondering, would you, uh, like to have this dance with me? Even just a little?"
His voice increases in pitch towards the end of his ramble, and she picks up on it, a look of confusion replacing her usual tired stoicism– still desperately trying to figure this ghost out. Even he's still trying to figure it all out, he can fumble from completely in control to unrestrained emotions in a heartbeat. Nonetheless, he almost hops eagerly, then closes the gap between them, not minding the obvious flinch she makes no effort to hide. She stops withdrawing though when she realises he is indeed planning on dancing and not watching the life drain from her eyes just yet. He places his hand in the small curve of her back, and another laced through her hand.
He's never been a particularly good dancer. Despite being a musician, he has no natural inclination to moving along with a beat, so here and there he stumbles, or moves into Chell accidentally, but it barely phases him. If he can rest his head on her own and feel her warm hand without cooling her down, even just for a moment, he'll lap up that opportunity immediately.
He opens His eyes again, feeling like He's drifting a little more than the regular swaying along to the crackling music, and His arms tighten around her– perhaps protectively when He thinks about it. "Y'know, love, I said we'd wait on that surprise, but, ah, sod it—why not have it now?" She detects a slight change in His tone, and withdrawing from His warm embrace is no longer an option with the way He clings to her. It's no longer inviting or comforting, it's sickeningly hot, almost feverish, and she hears Caroline adjust her stance over near the entryway.
He guffaws in a loopy, unhinged way as the two ghosts pivot towards each other, Chell sandwiched in the middle still. She's simultaneously the ransom money and ransomed item now, wanted by both sides for entirely different reasons, and she quivers a bit from her distressing position in this standoff. "Is this the part where I kill you, love?... Or how about now? Really, what were you thinking coming into the lion's den with not even a weapon in sight?"
She pulls her head back to look up at Him. Another unreadable expression mixed with fear, it's His lucky day on that front, the terror in her eyes brings another soft smile to his face, almost admiring in nature. She then does the unexpected.
She brings her arms up to his head with force, and tugs his head down to her level, leaving him just as mute as she is even in the moments following the kiss. There's sounds and feelings swarming his mind now, desperately trying to bring control back from the young ghost, but before he can fully recover, her drawn back fist makes swift contact with his cranium.
And the ringing wins out as he stumbles backwards. The voice is drowned out, and so is the world around him– Chell's half apologetic smile as she retreats to Caroline brings him back to reality, and he stumbles out of the corner, clutching his thudding head. He storms over to the entryway where they're both positioned, but he's clearly not after them based on his unfocused eyes flickering around the room. Caroline clutches Chell closer to her, but he shoves them aside quickly, navigating straight down to the basement, slamming the door in a swift motion. "That worked far better than I had anticipated, I suppose you have your room back for the near future."
Chell awakens no more restored than the first time she succumbed to sleep. If anything, the restless hours have only served to deepen the weariness clinging to her like a second skin. The dull ache in her hands reminds her of the previous night's struggle— fortune, if it could be called such, had at least guided her uninjured hand in the blow. Now, both are left in a state of partial usefulness, her knuckles marred by bruises from striking what had felt, at least in the moment, to be bone. Of course, she knows better than to presume it was truly flesh and matter, yet the throbbing in her fingers would argue otherwise.
Opposite her, Caroline stands with the air of someone who has long since abandoned the need for rest. The ghost hovers just beyond the house's threshold, the tips of her boots resting lightly upon the grass as though she merely graces the earth rather than treads upon it. Her arms are folded delicately across her chest, her gaze resting upon Chell with quiet scrutiny.
"My dear, I wonder—have you given any thought to our visitor's message from last afternoon?" Her voice is lilting, near playful, but there is a sharpness beneath the surface, as though she has already settled upon an answer herself. "We never did come to a proper discussion of it. Though, I suppose it would be misleading to say we could have discussed it, given the circumstances. But I have yet to bring you fully into the fold, have I?"
Chell, scarcely in the mood for conversation—much less in the mood for being prodded about her silence—merely gives a tired nod, granting the ghost leave to continue.
Caroline sighs, her fingers trailing idly over the heavy fabric of her dark cloak. "That little apparition, dear one, is centuries your senior. Indeed, he predates even myself. He has spoken of the Minotaur for as long as I have known him—an endless recitation, as though it were a refrain woven into his very being. In my living days, I always believed the tale was meant for me." A slight pause. "Evidently, it was not."
Chell's face betrays nothing, though something sharp coils beneath her ribs. The ghost does not seem to require a response; she presses on, her voice light, but her words deliberate.
"It is, of course, tied intrinsically to his other phrase—the diverging of paths. If you are familiar with the tale of Theseus and Ariadne, then you will understand its weight. As our little messenger has told us, Theseus and Ariadne brave the labyrinth, slay the Minotaur, but find the path back uncertain. Ariadne, faithful and cunning, secures his escape with a single fine thread. But, as fate would have it, their journey together does not endure. The myths diverge from there—some claim Theseus abandons her upon the shores of Naxos, where she ultimately cannot bear to live without him. Others tell of the Gods' disrespect for the woman, demanding Theseus leave her there as their own to take. I pray that you may never cross paths with your own Naxos, my dear Chell."
Chell keeps her gaze fixed downward, fingers plucking at the grass beneath her. Her nails scrape at the dirt in restless contemplation, though she says nothing. The silence stretches, growing thick and uneasy, yet Caroline does not move to fill it. There is no need. The implication lingers, settling in the space between them.
At last, Caroline speaks again, softer now. "Omens do not always mirror their tales precisely. Perhaps this is not prophecy, but warning. It seems He is both the Minotaur and the warrior, after all."
Again, the quiet lingers. This time heavier.
At length, Caroline exhales, her lips curving into something faintly amused. "And now, Orpheus and Eurydice—I must say, that is a new addition, even for me."
Oh and have yourself some illustrations of this story I've been working on! More still to come though :)
https/ripplespate/771898381244219392/ghostley?source=share
https/ripplespate/775742478641987584/how-haunted-is-too-haunted-do-you-reckon?source=share
https/ripplespate/777375943452966912/me-posting-niche-stuff-again-whos-surprised?source=share