Best Served Cold

The Talk - Lewis

            And then the rage came, the all consuming, howling rage that lit the cavern, licking every spire and spike with pink flames of bereavement and fury.

            Traitor.

            And then he searched. He didn’t have to search long, they’d gone back home, back to their normal lives. Vivi looked a little thinner, a little more haggard, but was plunging ahead with her ghost hunting. Mystery seemed to tense up whenever he was near, but he couldn’t manifest to their eyes yet. And Arthur…

            Arthur had a mechanical arm for some reason. He didn’t care why, he hoped it hurt. He wanted nothing more than for Arthur to suffer. He tried to kill him the day he found them, but could not manifest.

            He had to learn how to do that. They’d been on dozens of haunts with so many levels of ghosts, and there had been plenty that were visible and able to manipulate the world around them. Surely he could learn as well.

            And so he went to the Mundocani house. He watched the other spirits that stayed there—it truly was a magnet of sorts—and observed how they were able to manifest, manipulate their surroundings, and even create full blown illusions. One particularly powerful ghost had even created a temporary reality that faded once her energy had been spent. The image of the entity was blurred out, as if Lewis didn’t want them to see who it was.

            This one he had cornered, begging her to teach him how to do that. She consented, being a vengeance-seeker herself. He needed a physical object to anchor his presence to, she said, and he would have to draw on the strength of memories attached to the object for his strength.

            “Who is that?” Vivi’s voice broke into the memory.

            “I will not say her name.” He said quietly. “She attached herself to the concept of her name, it calls her and feeds her power, and she is not a friend of the living. I can’t even show you her face, you might remember her and say her name. Trust me Vivi, it’s better not to remember this one.”

            Finding an anchor was no trouble. He returned to the cave. The locket Vivi had given him had fallen from the pocket when they moved his body. He anchored his spirit to it, and left, the object now a part of him.

            He practiced a few times, outlining exactly what he would do to Arthur once he had him. But he hadn’t counted on the strength of the pull from the locket. His thirst for revenge continued to be muddled by the urge—no, the need—to see her again.

            So when the mansion went up that night, what was supposed to be a deathtrap for Arthur, he began to call them. The locket—now his own heart—beat with the call.

            Come, Traitor.

            Come, Vivi.

            Come, Traitor.

            Come, Vivi.

            And that night they came, all of them, their heads bobbing in time with the call, with his heart. He could feel them in the upper levels of the mansion, and sent small dispersions of himself up to herd them deeper in.

            He’d almost had Arthur. He’d seen it in the scum’s face, he knew. He recognized him, and he ran to save his wretched hide. He’d been so furious, he barely noticed someone had joined Arthur in running from his rage, until she threw herself directly in his path.