Best Served Cold

Isolation

Note: Hunger and anticipation of Thanksgiving dinner is mine. The characters in this story are not. They are the property of MysteryBen and Artsy. And the lyrics to Ghost are the property of Mystery Skulls.

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             Arthur walked through his front door and shut it behind him, locking it securely. Everything felt dark and numb, and he wondered vaguely if someone touched him, would he fly apart into a million pieces?

             He sank into his seat. He should have just stayed there, and this time he would. Vivi would wait until he came to apologize, so she wouldn’t be banging on his door. He should apologize… but he wasn’t going to have her anywhere near when Lewis came for him. She’d jumped in the path of the raging ghost last time, and if Lewis hadn’t pulled up short…

             He would write her a letter. He pulled a pen out of his pocket, idly scrawling on his end table. He wouldn’t be needing it much longer anyway.

             Vivi, sorry I shouted at you. I killed Lewis, now he’s coming for me. He gave me one week. I didn’t want to go any sooner than I had to. But maybe I should. I don’t know. I just know I’m sorry. Keep ghost hunting Viv, I know it makes you happy. Maybe it’ll help you. And keep Mystery, he’ll take good care of you. He’s stronger than he looks. I love---

            Arthur threw the pen across the room, furious. No. He went after it, retrieving it and scribbling out the last two words furiously, leaving a large black scribble all over the bottom of the note. How could he have let that, even for a second and even alone, slip out? He stabbed the wood viciously.

            “That’s WHY!” He shouted at the empty house, enraged at himself. “You couldn’t just LET IT BE. You had to go change things, and then feel sorry for yourself, and think things you had no business thinking, and THAT’S WHY IT GOT IN.” He flung the pen again, burying his face in his hands. He whispered between his fingers, “That’s why your best friend is dead and trying to kill you.”

             He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. Maybe, he thought, if he sat there long enough he could turn into stone. That would be preferable. Stone didn’t feel like this.

            Stone also didn’t have a headache slamming at the base of its skull over and over. He grimaced, groping for the drawer of the end table where he kept the aspirin. His neck jerked slightly, his head twitching with the pounding of the headache. The light from the windows had faded, he must have sat through most of the morning and afternoon. He grabbed the aspirin as his eyes fell on the floor in front of him.

             His pen had been sliced lengthwise neatly in half and laid at his feet. Its chamber was completely empty of ink. Said ink had been smeared all over the floor at his feet, and written in the smear were the words, “Four Days, Traitor.”

             He stared at the words blankly, frozen.

            That is, until the music started.

             He sucked in a breath, having forgotten to breathe since he’d seen the message. But he could hear the music, the song playing faintly somewhere in his house.

            Cause the world might do me in. It’s alright cause I’m with friends.

            He shot to his feet, the words searing his mind like a brand, and propelled himself toward the source of the sound. It grew louder as he neared his bedroom, but then as he flung the door open, the position of the sound changed. Now it was behind him, moving into the hall. He spun around, charging back the way he’d come.

             Cause I’m giving up again, it doesn’t matter.

             “STOP!” He shrieked, bursting back into the living room, but now it was coming from the kitchen. “LEWIS!” He dived for the kitchen, but now it was coming from the bathroom, and it was getting louder. His neck twitched again, jerking in time to the pounding in his head.

           And I’m feeling like a ghost. And it’s what I hate the most.

             Arthur sank to his knees in the middle of the kitchen, digging his fingers into his hair and rocking. He opened his mouth to scream accusations, but every last one turned around in his mind and pierced right back through him. He had no right to accuse Lewis, Lewis wasn’t the one who had killed.

             Guess I’m giving up again, and this time, this time, this time.

             The song grew louder and louder, and as he looked up, he could see a glimpse of gray plastic rolling down the hall. The traveling alarm clock pulled to a stop in front of him, blaring the chorus mockingly.

            This time I might just disappear.

             He screamed, grabbing the clock and slamming it against the floor over and over. The casing cracked, springs and gears spilling out. He continued beating it against the ground, switching to his metal hand as it burst apart, and the song died away.

             A low whine sounded, and he whirled on it, fist raised. Mystery stood there, crouched cautiously, as if approaching a dangerous animal. He barked once, softly.

             “How… how’d you get in…”

           Mystery jerked his head at something out of Arthur’s view. He scooted forward til he got a view of the living room, where one of his windows was broken, glass scattered all over the ground. How had he not heard that.

            He glanced back at Mystery, still crouched defensively, and realized his fist was still up in the air. Slowly, he lowered it, and as he did something in his chest broke. He tilted back his head and wailed. He felt Mystery leap into his lap, pressing against his chest. He wrapped his arms around the dog and buried his face in soft fur, sobbing helplessly.

             “Coward,” he sobbed, trying to explain himself to Mystery. He wanted to be able to face Lewis bravely and accept his punishment. He wanted Lewis to understand how sorry he was without flinching from the consequences. He wanted to be able to set Lewis at peace by all this. But the only word he could squeeze out was his own self-accusation. “Coward. Coward, coward, coward.”