Graverobbing arc intensifies, you grave robbing believers are getting your prayers answered this chapter, also this graveyard really just reminds me of the hollow knight spirits glade, like rick really is just trying to be Revek now that I think about it
"Can't you call her?"
"Why would I call her? It's not like she can talk in the house! Jesus Christ, Fynn, just let me handle this."
They take turns driving across the city, the tension heavy in the car air between the two, dragged on through each hanging pause and abrupt sigh. They have a lot of ground left to cover, and being on the clock, desperate to make it in time, they practically speed through each light circuit and stop sign along the way. "You should do it anyway, if you can just tell her we're on our way then that's enough, we don't need a response."
Steering the car this way and that, Fynn is far from the most competent or calculated driver, and being under pressure certainly doesn't help either. He drives over the rumble strips, omitting indicators whenever it slips his mind, the rush to make it off of this freeway has him rapping his fingers along the steering wheel in anticipation. He needs to let off steam in some way, whether it be argue with Aiza, complain about Chell, or slam his hands onto the wheel– he needs some vent for his stress.
Aiza scans the contact list, Chell's being one of the first listed when sorted alphabetically, but they do not make any move to call the girl. Instead, they eye up a name just a few before their friend's, deliberating on what other decent options they have at the moment. If Chell's hiding and the buzz of her phone calling is the final nail in the coffin for her, that's all their fault. They make up their mind hastily, shooting Chell a message to let her know they're on their way and hoping her phone's on silent, then gives this second person a ring.
They pick up after six rings. "Are you in the city?"
Fynn shoots a poisonous glare over to Aiza in the passenger seat, already catching on that this is, in fact, not a call directly to Chell. The receiver responds. "Back right up, how are you confident I'm even in the state?"
"Okay, well are you in Michigan?! Actually scratch that, are you available to travel interstate today?"
A small pause follows. "Yes I'm in Michigan, but I'm sorry– I'm not going into that house."
Fynn groans, finally it clicks who exactly they've called. "Are you seriously calling him of all people? He left her almost instantly last time, who's to say he's not just going to flake out again?"
Aiza holds a hand to the side, quieting the driver once more as they respond to Doug again, though he's listed as Alistair in the phone. "Lucky for you, no one can go into that house, and funnily enough no one can leave it either. Get your ass up from wherever you are currently and help us out. Please."
The soft static over the phone drifts in and out, meshing with the background noise of tyres on asphalt and the occasional skid from taking too sharp a turn. They glance at one another, Fynn's expression carrying a simple and readable 'I knew it' type of energy, and Aiza's is just stubborn enough to make him hold his tongue. A sigh rings through the speakers, and he agrees– to both their relief and surprise. "Meet at the cemetery near the manor."
"Meet at the what now?" Aiza hisses, just as confused as Fynn is, even with Doug's voice in their ear.
"You heard me, if we can't get into the house, then that's the next best place. See you in 20."
The phone hangs up abruptly.
"Where," he just states more than asks. "The cemetery."
There's a beat of silence that doesn't go undisturbed for very long. "Ohhh my fucking god why didn't she just listen to me the first time? She–we wouldn't be in this mess if she had just sold that stupid house by now!"
He's yelling into the aether at this point, not directed at Aiza, and Chell's nowhere around to be the proper receiver, so he resorts to slamming his hand down on the wheel and tossing his head back, an exasperated "for fucks sake" escaping his lips. "If you stopped talking to yourself you could probably drive a little faster so these last five miles on the highway don't drag on."
"I'm not talking to myself, you're literally right here– goddamit I called in sick for my afternoon shift for this and rent's due in a week. I have a right to be mad."
They're quarreling like siblings, weaving in and out of the sparse traffic, closing in on the exit they need to take. "Yeah I concur, but let's focus on saving her first, then you can waterboard whatever you want out of her."
"Oh come on we don't have the TIME–"
The traffic steadily builds as they approach the exit they need to take, and out of desperation, Fynn takes the emergency lane to escape it, cutting in front of the cars starting to turn at the lights up ahead. Aiza grips the sides of the car seat in worry, clenching their teeth from his erratic driving. "God you're getting more than just a couple of fines today after that."
"I'm quite literally doing exactly what you asked from me, so just let me drive! I don't give a shit about the fines she can pay for them afterwards–"
"Yeah what, are you included in her will? That's nice to know, though I don't think I was."
The silence makes a striking comeback yet again as he navigates the suburban streets in her suburb. Driving off the main roads to avoid traffic and light circuits, he barely pauses at each intersection to check for oncoming traffic. After he floors it through every straight road, scrapes each curb they turn near, and ignores every speed limit sign they pass, he pulls in behind the other man's messed up white ute. He looks to be already waiting in the graveyard, standing beside the rusty iron gate, arms crossed in mock frustration at their late arrival. Neither Aiza nor Fynn appreciate the idea of being with this seemingly untrustworthy man in a cemetery like this, let alone as the sun recedes back to the horizon. However, with the life of their friend on the line, they suck it up and hop the fence.
Long shadows cast over the cemetery, the only light now being the soft oranges and blues from the fading sky, and the small lantern Doug holds in one hand. In the other, two shovels sit idle, the tarnished metal end resting on the uneven cobblestones of the cemetery path. "What are you doing with those, exactly," Fynn questions the older man wearily.
"I'm not going to do anything, but you two are going to dig. Not just anyone, him, I mean."
He passes them a shovel each, and a pregnant pause falls upon the three living souls in the graveyard. This felt wrong, and they knew it, but they felt no other choice but to follow Doug's lantern as he ventures deeper into the place. They feel as though the eyes of many rest upon them in this moment, under the scrutiny of many generations gone past, though they can't see their stalkers in return.
He stops beside the unremarkable gravestone, dark, worn, covered in moss and grime. He waits expectantly for the two to get to work. "Surely this is immoral in some way, isn't it, like, illegal…?"
Doug huffs a laugh at the two reluctant young adults standing before him. "Everything He's doing right now is infinitely more immoral than what you're about to partake in. Digging isn't the worst of it, that only hurts Him– it's the next part that should hopefully throw a wrench into whatever plans He has in mind."
A strong hand grips Fynn's shoulder from behind and he flinches away from it, suddenly finding himself face to face with a slightly opaque figure. He has a cigarette in his mouth, his face donning a scorn, and his grip on the living man doesn't falter. "What do you think you're doing there, kid?" he growls, trying to intimidate the three crowded around his comrade's resting place. "He's one of us, you know? Why don't you just let us rest and forget while we rot away," he chuckles grimly. ""Like you living folk always do."
The three are standing stiffer at the appearance of this ghostly apparition, the two young students having never met him prior, though Doug has grown a bit more acquainted with this spirit, like the rest. He's certainly not impartial to Rick, but he's one of the better ones to run into. "I–I–We wouldn't need to do this if he wasn't about to murder our friend to be entirely honest with you. Listen–" he plucks the moderately tall spirit's hand off his shoulder, "–you don't need to be on board with what we're doing, but we're doing it for a reason. I have nothing against him, I swear to you, but right now her life's in danger… and I have a feeling he wouldn't object if this is what it takes to save her."
He points to the modest gravestone, a wilting bouquet sitting atop the grassy patch in front of it. Doug now pipes up. "You spirits are some of the most miserable beings I've ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with," it is cruel, though he says it with a hint of sympathy. "And you would rather add one more to the collection? Tell me who's really disturbing who now, because if she becomes one of you things, the cycle only continues."
Rick tosses a dismal smile to the living man who seems about a decade his elder purely based on appearance alone, though they all should know by now how deceiving looks can be. This ghost has decades on each living being before him, and knows just how agonising every microsecond has been so far. He waits a couple moments longer, then nods his approval to the two, recognising the act of mercy they plan on undertaking. Fynn nods back, then responds. "You can pretend you never saw us, we'll do as much as necessary and then be out of your hair."
He shakes his head at this comment. "No, I can not and will not do such a thing. Remember, our eyes rest upon you three, if you all overstep your welcome then we will no longer appreciate your presence."
"Right, of course. Got it, we'll just keep to his resting spot, I promise you that."
A few more figures flicker in their peripheral vision as they turn back to the gravestone and undisturbed grass. A tall, well put together man with circular glasses peers on, as well as a young boy, hair honey blonde like the friendly ghost they're more familiar with.
"I'm not sure what you two are waiting for, but I'm hoping it's not the untimely death of your friend, now is it?"
They get to work, and strike the dirt with the curved end of the shovel.
Caroline carries her past the ghost and down the stairs as Chell gasps in sudden pain, gravity pulling at her decimated joints has her almost break her vow to silence. The pain is searing, like hot iron pressed to bone, and her foot is jerked violently this way and that with every desperate step Caroline takes—this time, not for the door. Chell reaches out to the direction of the front door they hurried right past, her fingertips grazing the wooden surface and slipping past the brass knob, rushing through her grip like a some sort of sick tease as soon as contact is made.
"No, we mustn't stall any longer," Caroline says sharply, though her voice is tinged with strain. "you'll be in no state to end this one and for all if you back off yet again. Let's settle it now as opposed to kicking the can further down the road."
Her vision waivers, things moving in and out of focus, seeing a flash of lights and colours and shapes around the personal hell she's come to know as the manor. The basement door crumbles off its hinges as Caroline shoves it back with her stout heel, and they descend into the foundations of the house. It's been a while since they had been down here, Chell's hand traces the indents in the concrete on the hallway down, slotting into the much larger handprints left from a struggle they both were absent from. Caroline lands heavily on each step, thudding softly like a distant heartbeat, praying that each step they take won't send them plunging down into the skeleton of the stairway itself to be swallowed whole by the house. The wood creaked underfoot, periodically drowning out Chell's ragged breathing, and she skips over the final caved in step, losing her balance momentarily but without missing a beat she's steady once more.
With gentle urgency, she gingerly places the woman in the only part of the room untouched by the wrath of Him, the corner near the once regal and probably beautiful organ. Caroline unfastens her cloak, unveiling a gash now scarred over across her neck once concealed by the dark velvet. She pulls it over Chell's leg, the black fabric pooling like ink around the open wound. The green Latin book falls beside her with a thud, sending up a puff of dust that stings her nose. Chell's thankful at least one of them had the foresight to keep track of all of the essential items or she would stand no chance. With the initial shock of the impact essentially faded by now… she then sees it— her ankle, her bone jutting out like a sharp dagger. Horror wells up inside her, fast and sickening. The pain rushes in again, sharper than before, like knives dancing up her nerves. Tears flood her eyes. She doesn't try to hide them now.
Caroline rips a strip of cloth and winds it tightly. It's quick. Practical. Necessary. But it hurts like hell.
"I apologise profusely," Caroline mutters, breathless but steady. "But the quicker you begin, the quicker you will get treatment. Thanks to you stalling him prior, running throughout the house, I had enough time to hide the ritual items from his reach," she explained quickly, reaching behind a collapsed support beam and retrieving the radio, cablegraph, and some more sage sticks and matches. She lays them out in front of the girl.
"You begin searching for the location," she says firmly, "and I'll open the ritual with the hymn, if He shows up, falter not– I'll deal with Him, He seems to be losing control of the spirit far more than He ever did with me."
Chell switches on the radio device and points it every which way in desperation, just begging for the right spot to be conveniently right next to her crumpled form, but no dice on that front. She wheezes, knowing right away she's going to have to at least stretch or drag herself around the basement floor before she even thinks of beginning. From the doorway is a soft melody, hummed at first, and then Caroline's confident soprano voice follows after. "Cara bella, cara mia bella–"
It sounds like a lullaby. A song for someone dear, someone longed for. The feminine form of the lyrics suggests it's not for Wheatley. Maybe for Chell? Or maybe for someone who never was.
With this tangential thought shoved to the side, she huffs and stretches towards the organ with the radio, and yet she can't quite make it with the position she's holding. She inhales sharply, then drags herself towards the ruins just a little more, leaving a trail of blood across the concrete beneath her, then it happens.
The radio goes silent, not one signal is picked up or frequency emitted from the small box in her hands, and she sighs a shaky breath of relief. The song by the doorway continues as she reaches back over for the green book and wooden board. "Mia bambina, oh ciel– Ché lástima." It's leisurely in its pacing, though she dances around the meter on occasion, emphasising syllables through her warm vibrato, and rushing through others with her voice growing softer.
She starts on her own responsibilities, opening the book to the folded page, placing her hands on the wooden device, but skips the pleasantries she started with last time. She knows how the board works, and it's no longer directly of use now that Moloch speaks aloud to her rather than through the wheel and gears themselves. She dare not omit the board all together though, worrying that it might change things for the worse. "Ego adsum bona fide," she gasps at how raspy her voice is, as well as the strain she's placed on her leg in this awkward position. She pushes onwards, and so does Caroline.
"Ché lástima–"
"Esto quod es… Fiat lux; mal–malum bono superate."
Each word spoken feels like dragging her soul across hot coals. While they push onwards, so too does their unwanted guest. He looms at the top of the staircase now, His steps slowing as He meets Caroline's gaze, yet she does not stop. He knows as well as she does the rules to a banishing ceremony, so He flashes her a dark grin– that awful, knowing smile– and enters the room so casually as if He were invited. "Oh cara mia, addio."
"Ego te expello, et noli. Me. Tangere." She punctuates the last few Latin words with pained gasps, the blood now fully soaking the black cloak around her ankle, but the worst pain yet is when she meets His gaze once more. His uncaring, unkind glare cuts through her confidence and she stutters on her next rehearsed words, despite the fact that she knows he's still in there, caring and kind just like he always has been. Though the way He looks at her is heartless and cruel at the moment, she knows she's doing this for him, doing it for them both– they'll have nothing but time when the storm has passed. If she can just survive this night.
"Non gratus hic es… Non gratus hic es," she begins to whisper, but it's not to him, despite all he's put her through, she has to look beyond the superficial and towards the demon nestled under his skin. The thing wearing him like a coat. "Time," her voice shudders on the word, not like the brash exclamation of last time.
But He doesn't strike. Doesn't move to stop her. He just watches, calm. Smug. He watches her read pre rehearsed lines. The dial of the cablegraph spins slowly, it's as if everything in that room was in no hurry for time to pass by, it was only her.
"La mia bambina cara, perché non passi lontana?"
"Ego voco Moloch," she grips the cablegraph a little harder at the sight of his blue eyes shifting ever so slightly, like he's almost seeing something before him that isn't really there. He's focused on something beyond the ritual they've started, and she furrows her brows at the stationary ghost. Then, he doubles over, his eyes screaming more pain than his strained vocal chords could choke out before his hand grasps at his face– the other holds his chest in agony.
He can hear muffled voices getting clearer with each thundering strike to his chest, voices belonging to neither of the women in the room around him, nor even of Moloch himself, but a couple of different people he just barely recognises. They aren't strangers, but he can't quite put his finger on who's doing… whatever this is to him. Is it her? He looks back up to Chell, who's still sitting confused and concerned on the ground, yet still on guard, she can't trust him yet until He's out of the picture.
Caroline shoots her a glare, one that speaks volumes about their time running out. The longer she waits, the more likely something's going to go wrong: she could bleed out, He could regain control and stop them, the house could collapse around them given the state of these support beams…
"Sì, lontana da scïenza, cara, cara mia bambina?"
What was that about science? She didn't have time to dwell on it, only hoping to push through until the end of this ceremony, getting him back is the only thing on her mind right now– well, aside from a bit of help from a medical professional with this busted leg of hers.
"Corruptus ultra reparacionem." She raises her voice a little more this time.
The disembodied voices emerge clearer, the sounds resembling the lilt and timbre of the other ghosts he'd interacted with from time to time. That firefighter who flirted with Chell, the frustrating know-it-all spirit who couldn't keep his mouth shut, the younger boy with a fixation on the cosmos, the little kid who told him something once about bulls and mazes if he recalls correctly, and–
A previous homeowner? Alistair's voice is the most prominent now, and with that epiphany, he feels a hand grasp at his skull– well, where it would be if he had a skull. He fumbles around his head with his own hands, searching for this phantom limb digging into his bones. Now though, he suddenly can't move his arms. And then his legs. He's trapped, even more than he was before. Not even Moloch could overpower this intense pain overriding his incorporeal form. Feeling again, he concludes in this moment, is far beyond overrated. Something he used to yearn for, wishing to experience anything again, has him now practically begging for the release death finally gave him to return once more.
"Ah, mia cara, ah, mia bambina–"
She's forgetting a line, she knows it– she knows he knows it, and from his trembling lips he mouths the phrase 'Mutare omnia'. Of course he knows, she was frantically whispering it to herself just thirty minutes earlier.
"Mutare omnia," she echoes him.
"Consummatum est," is the last she needed to say before the power was transferred back to Caroline. The moment the words leave her mouth, Caroline halts mid-note, frozen as she stares at the pair of them— two souls suspended: Wheatley in agony, Chell, defiance. Chell awaits something from Wheatley, anything, as he should have agency yet again. Whatever was plaguing his mind prior should have been cleared, and yet he still grasps at his head like something was burying itself deeper into his being. A few more moments pass, and the tension builds further. Chell, unable to drag herself towards him, and himself, the same. "Wheatley…?"
His eyes dart towards hers in an instant, the stress of the moment not releasing with the words she mutters on her own terms after so long. She then looks towards the woman in the corner, who gazes upon them with such pity and sorrow in her eyes. "I must ask for your forgiveness, dear."
She still has not brought the ritual to an end, the words left unsaid after everything Chell has gone through. Actually, everything the three of them have gone through. She looks back and forth between the two flickering forms, one cradling his skull meekly before her, the other standing confident yet stiff in the subtle glow of the moonlight. Had she been played like a fiddle?
"No Moloch, I'm afraid I will not be entertaining you for any longer. Iter tuum divergit."
And with the final words whispered, her form flickers and vanishes. Pages from the green book spiral through the air, the only traces left behind a cloak coiled around Chell's ankle and the sharp clatter of an organ key hitting the floor. But what troubles her most is what she sees when her gaze snaps back to Wheatley's crumpled figure—there's nothing left. Only a pair of shattered glasses.
Her breath catches. This wasn't the plan, it can't be right.
She picks up the broken glasses—staring down at the same lenses she'd cracked with her fist just days before. Her eyes shift to the distant shadows. It dawns on her now: she looked back. Of course she did. She was always meant to be Orpheus. He was the Eurydice.
The realisation hits like a gut-punch, cruel and merciless. She squeezes her eyes shut, tears forcing their way down her cheeks as her chest convulses with ragged sobs. The book lies open at her feet, its pages meaningless now. She hurls it across the basement in a blind rage. It lands with a dull thud—nothing answers. Not even the house groans anymore, she realises as she strains to listen. No shifting beams. No whispers in the walls. Just silence. Deep, hollow silence.
Once, she would have killed for this kind of peace. Not a single disturbance to the all encompassing silence. Just a few weeks prior she would have reveled in it– it's laughable now, wanting a house so haunted. This wasn't what she wanted. This wasn't the plan.
And damn it, Caroline had been right— their freedom was always to come at a terrible cost.
Well, major plotline over but I think that's not quite the happy ending I did promise huh