ripley8
Science Officer NOSTROMO 1809246
Few things were more perfect in the world than upstate New York's trees when the temperatures dropped in October.
Except, perhaps, Liam Bast's plan for this year's offering to his family. His bloodline.
And the fiery colors stretching up for a thousand feet on either side of the valley that he stood in, hands planted on his hips, was an important part of it.
His ice-blue eyes flicked deftly over the abandoned building in front of him—Maple Ridge Sanitorium's main entrance. Established in 1887, not even daring graffiti artists or thrill-seeking delinquents had found the structure since its closure, 35 years ago, in 1987. The windows were fogged with time and negligence, but not broken. Ivy, with leaves nearing the color of the brick it was slowly pulling apart, covered most of the structure, but only nature was pushing time ahead on his family's estate—no trespassers.
He made sure of that.
He pulled a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun as his gaze lifted—if he wanted this to go as perfectly as he planned, he needed to get going.
One piece was annoyingly out of place.
Evidently, the small, merry band of three 'paranormal investigators' he'd lured here, had a naysayer. Her nickname was, appropriately, Scully.
She was certainly the most worthy of the lobotomies coming their way.
The other two—Alex and Ben—were already incapacitated in the procedural building. Along with the good-for-nothing Medium from the next town over. What was his name? Doug or Jim? He looked like a Jim.
"Oh, Scully, where did you go?" he muttered to himself, absently rubbing away a smudge of blood from his knuckle.
Ah, good. It wasn't his.
"HEEEELP!!" Greg was the Medium's name, and he was currently absolutely losing his shit. Sweat plastered greying hair to his forehead, made a bit larger by a receding hairline, as he struggled valiantly and uselessly against the leather restraints keeping him tight against the old hospital gurney.
"Oh my god, shut up, Greg," Alex said, turning her head toward him. She was panicking, too, but she wasn't about to scream when she knew damn well Liam Bast and Scully would be the only ones to hear them—and it was probably best Scully realize she'd found herself tits-deep in some white people in a horror movie shit and run away. "Who do you think is going to hear you?!"
"Oh god, oh god—oh god," he said, his breath in and out getting shorter and more rapid.
Ben chuckled. He had to be delusional—he had been smashed on the head, and crimson smeared half his face like a sloppy paint streak. "God is dead. Long live the queen!"
Ben's bag of equipment—all bought from money hard earned—had been carelessly thrown into a corner of the room. Alex's best guess was some sort of operating room, which made her extra nervous, but she could control that no better than the weather passing pleasantly on outside of their quandary.
She heard the tell-tale hiss and bwoop of his radio frequency sweep scanner coming to life.
Greg's already ashen features turned a touch green. "Oh no."
"Yes," the radio chimed, with startling clarity.
"No!" he was screaming, now. "No, no! Away from me, Keeper! My soul is not yours! You cannot keep me here!!"
Alex blew a long breath out of her nostrils. Ghosts were the last thing she was in the mood for dealing with, at present. Particularly if it was The Keeper—Greg had said it was the main entity on the property, concerned with 'keeping certain souls here.' Creative. "I'm sorry, now isn't the best time," she said as the EVP spike sensors started beeping sporadically. "Could you come back later?"
Just as suddenly as all the commotion among the equipment started, it stopped.
Ben giggled. "Considerate."
"No," Greg panted, shaking his head fervently. "No, don't believe it! Our father, who art in heaven—"
At once, a cacophony of beeping, whirring, booping, and alarms began sounding from the pile of equipment. The moth-eaten curtains in front of the windows began fluttering, though there was no breeze, and they were closed.
"God's not here," the radio sweeper said, the voice like a granite slab.
Ben narrowed his eyes toward Greg. "Way to go, Doug! Didn't I tell you?!"
Scully lived her life in shades of incidentals. She found it was the quickest way to explain otherwise inexplicable things. A handful of incidences could lead to a coincidence, which could potentially explain away an otherwise nonsensical leap of logic. But her way of seeing the world was cherished by Alex and Ben. They wanted someone to remind them that they did, in fact, believe in what they were doing. She earned her nickname from the get-go.
This estate was no different from other 'haunts' they had visited. Scully had delved deep into the history, uncovered stories that had an open ending and deserved to be closed, and agreed that they should go.
While they were fiddling with Ben's sleek, fancy equipment that maybe worked, depending on what you believed or knew about technology, Scully had peeled away from the group to wander the halls alone, away from anyone else's fears and anxiety tickling at her subconscious.
Nothing other-worldly, it simply was. Ben clicked his fingers together and scratched his neck when he was nervous, Alex toyed with the ends of her hair and liked to sniff without good reason, like she was about to sneeze, around blind corners.
And so Scully wandered alone, though had agreed to taking a sweep scanner with her, just in case something had something to say about anything. She didn't put much stock in it, though she did recognize that the words that came through tended to apply to their situations. They were, however, looking at the world through a hyper-specific lens, and anything could have meaning that way.
At any rate, she'd found what had used to be the…what? Headmaster's office? President's office? Director's office? Whatever. She'd found a locked door, utilized a nearby bench, and Jack-Sparrow-ed her way in. It was far too suspicious to have such a well-kept door (though it tried not to look it) among the wallpaper peeling like sloughing flesh from the walls, and molding floorboards sagging like brittle bones about to snap.
It had been the doorknob. Worn, but clean. Too tempting for a cynic. And a nosy one, at that.
From then, it was just happenstance she had a view of the entire estate, even though the windows were foggy. And happenstance she caught a glimmer of movement in the courtyard, turned, and saw Liam Bast, the man that had invited them to the estate, club Ben savagely over the head and begin dragging him away with a purpose.
She'd shook her head. "Some white people shit," she mumbled to herself and anything in the room, causing her almost waist-length locs to sway and bob with the motion. "Always in some white people shit," she added with raised eyebrows, breaking yet another lock on the desk by strong-arming a drawer open. "Why do I do this to myself?"
In it lay a single, black, leather-bound book.
"Oh?" she said, pulling it out.
One would assume running to help Ben would be priority. But anything anyone did in a horror movie, she tended to shy away from. She needed to assess, and if there was a well-kept locked room in an abandoned sanatorium—just a privately held insane asylum—well, she didn't know how, but she was sure an incidental she needed would reveal itself.
The radio scanner she had quietly hissed to life, and as calmly and routinely as putting a freshly-washed dish onto a rack to dry, she put it onto the dustless desk in front of her, still rifling through anything she could.
"You found me," the radio said, through a layer of static.
"Who are you?" she asked absently, turning to the ancient-looking filing cabinets along one of the walls. Rusted. Dusty. Perhaps unimportant, but interesting to her.
"You," it said.
"I'm sorry," Scully answered, scanning the labels. W. W for Wallace, W for why not. She decided to scrape open the rusted drawer. "I don't do the riddle shit, so just say what you want, or kindly fuck off. Or fuck yourself. I don't care. The second is a better time, though." Her fingers walked along the tabs crammed into the drawer. They looked like patient files.
Ahah. There had been a few Wallaces.
T. Wallace.
Why not? Her real name started with a T as well.
She pulled the brittle file out and opened it.
The blood in her veins turned to ice, even as her face flushed.
The patient picture was like looking at a mugshot of herself.
The frequency scanner hissed politely in the background, as though waiting for her to apologize.
"Or I could go fuck myself," she said, her eyebrows pulling upward. "Damn. Alright. What's good, ghostie? Hot takes on what to do next?"
Liam dragged his metal nightstick along the wall, pulling wallpaper with it every so often, as he tracked through the halls of the admin building.
Here, she's here.
Further.
Keeping going.
Left. Right.
He imagined the call of the family that had come before him, cleansing the pristine land of the blight caused by less than desirable people.
He started whistling as the hairs on the back of his neck started to stand on end.
"Oh Scully?" he called. "Everyone is waiting!"
He rounded another corner and stopped abruptly. The door to the former Head of Estate's office had been opened by someone other than him—popped up and free of its hinges. It lay carefully against the wall, as though it would be put back, once the trespasser had the time.
He chuckled and swung confidently into the doorway. "About time, Scully!"
"About time, Scully!"
Scully frowned as she skidded into the room where Alex, Ben, and what was his name…Jim? Maybe? had been strapped into 1890's vintage operating beds. "Ah, yes, very lobotomy-sheik."
Alex waved her hands helplessly in a little circle, with a follow up to her exclamation. "A little help?"
Scully's gaze pulled to Jim. Wait, Doug? His mouth was slack, eyes closed, face a pale green that was next to the dictionary meaning of 'seasick'. "What's with Master Ghost Whisperer?" she asked, bee-lining for Alex. They'd need to help Ben out, so the borderline scam artist in the third of four cots—needed to get his ass in gear. They couldn't lug them both out. And for her, the decision was an incredibly easy one. She liked Ben. She didn't like the Medium.
"Coming," both Scully's radio, as well as the one in the bag whispered.
Alex jumped, and then, as disbelief overshadowed her train of thought, watched as Scully exasperatedly looked at nothing in particular.
"What did I say about three syllable sentences?" Scully answered, though her heart was beginning to hammer against her rib cage. She resumed her efforts on Alex's restraints. "You really gotta' try 'em out."
"No," The radios whispered. "Stop."
Scully's fingers paused, twitched.
"Scully?" Alex asked, watching her dark eyes dart a little, like she was skimming the pages of a book. "Are you listening to the entity whose job is to keep souls here?" she whispered fiercely.
"Dammit," Scully's long locs shook violently with her head. "Fuck, she's right—"
"Oh my god. This? This is the time you decide to broaden your horizons." Alex could feel a hysteria building in her gut. "Are you fucking kidding me??"
"He'll know." Scully's hands gripped Alex's shoulders. "I have to surprise him, that's the only way." She cast around the room, feeling her heartbeat in her throat. There. A large tool cabinet.
"Coming," the radios were so quiet they could barely hear the words. "Shhh."
Liam had heard them…the only question was if the Medium was awake…
Dammit.
They were whispering.
So aggravating when people could keep themselves together under this kind of pressure. It did make his job the slightest bit more difficult.
Had Scully come back for her friends? That would be interesting. She didn't seem the type, to him. A little too cold, maybe. She certainly wouldn't come back for—ah, Greg—he suddenly recalled his name.
He found himself chuckling as he swung into the room, sure to be beaming in case he would be able to catch Scully unawares. He felt it falter as he took in only the three he'd already had. He sighed heavily after scanning the sparse room.
Alex—she had some grit—sneered at him. "I'm sorry, are we disappointing?" she snapped.
"Who were you talking to?" he asked casually, whirling his weapon.
"Didn't you want us here because this place is haunted?" she countered. "Who the fuck do you think I was talking to?"
His smile was wide and empty as he pulled closer to her, almost eager. "Have you met my great great grandfather? I never did develop a gift to speak to them, like those that have come before me," he said, his voice feathering around the edges.
Alex was taken aback at the haunting, child-esque intrigue that had stolen his features. She preferred maniac to this. "Ah—I, um, well, we can always…ask," she said, glancing toward the pile of equipment. "Excuse me, uh—yes, person we spoke to before? Are you…here?" she called, her voice betraying the lightest bit of warble.
The EVF's and EVP Sensors chorused discordant beeps, startling even Liam. The radio from the bag suddenly roared with static.
Liam put his hand over his heart, now staring at the discarded pile like a holy artifact. "Are you my family?"
The noise cut out so suddenly, the silence had a sound of its own.
"Keeper," the radio answered with bone-chilling conviction.
Liam's face went ashen. "No—no, no—go away! My family has more power than you! Get out! You must go, in the name of the Lord—"
"SURPRISE!"
Only a gurgle slipped from his lips as two orbitoclasts sank into either side of his throat, then, with lightning speed, again and again.
No. No, it wasn't supposed to be this way.
He grasped at his neck, crimson splashing away through his fingers. He turned, tried to swing his baton at the infuriating woman that had ruined every plan he'd laid for today. Those tools—he was supposed to make the spirits of his family proud, today. Three had been done before, he was going to do four.
Four perfect lobotomies, and then four perfect mercy killings.
Nobody could be as good as his great great grandfather, of course, but Liam had dreamt…
Scully dodged the clumsy swing and dove forward, crashing them over Alex and her cot. "Sorry!" she exclaimed as they hit the floor hard—Liam not quite cushioning her fall. With a grunt, she rolled away, still in possession of her pilfered weapons. With a wince, she shuffled over and kicked his nightstick away.
"M-my fa—famil—" Liam tried to say.
"Evidently," Scully said, kneeling just out of his arm's reach, "mine too."
He frowned, confused. More blood spurted onto the floor.
"The Keeper," she continued, "Tekaiya Wallace?"
"You c-cannot say th-at name—"
Scully simply chuckled and pulled the ancient file from where she'd tucked it in her belt, between jeans and underwear. Flipped it open and turned it around so he had two of her staring at him.
His eyes widened.
"Again…mine too, bitch."
Liam's eyes rolled back into his head.
"We are free," the radio said, like someone unburdening a great weight after a lengthy hike. "Thank you."
Scully threw a lopsided salute to the air. "Uh…any time, I guess."
3 WEEKS LATER
Alex and Ben stared, still in a state of disbelief, at Scully, across from them at a hole-in-the-wall diner booth. She had papers, files, and a black journal—single sheets carefully put into plastic sheaths to protect them from more of time's gnawing.
"Yeah," she said around taking a slurp from a straw. "That place was just a fuckin' lobotomy factory. A lot of queers…though they didn't seem to be racist, so…?"
"Look at that!" Ben exclaimed. "It's so hard to find homophobia without some racism sprinkled in."
"I know," Scully agreed, her grin personifying their many layers of irony. "It's almost refreshing."
Alex shifted, eliciting a squeak from the cheap vinyl seat under her ass. "And Tekaiya?"
"Right, yes—so I guess the Basts had set up some sort of fucked up ritual, back in the day. Perfect lobotomies made perfect mercy kills. And the OG Crusty Flavorless White Guy, Jeremiah Bast, when he died, started trying to snatch up the souls his just as fucked up family offered up in his memory." She tapped the leatherbound journal. "They've been killing people the whole time. The last ones, before us, were in 2018. Kept detailed records. I guess Liam was going old-school with the..." She made a motion like she was stabbing her own eye. "But Tekaiya, The Keeper, was always around. Kept the people's murdered souls away from his…icky mumbo jumbo," she said, wiggling her fingers about. "I'm still not as good at the ghost talk."
Ben nodded slightly. "Mumbo jumbo works."
Scully held up a finger. "Fun fact, she was very not Christian. Also…a lot of bible thumping got done on all of their heads and faces and other limbs, so…probably makes sense why…"
Alex nodded. "Why trying to recite the Lord's prayer was a spectacularly bad idea?"
"Almost as good of an idea as the holy water Jim brought," Scully agreed.
Ben frowned. "Jim? I thought it was Doug."
Alex rolled her eyes. "Fuck's sake, you guys. Greg. It was Greg."
Ben sniffed disdainfully. "Either way, god is dead."
Scully snorted out a laugh, as Alex answered him. "Yes, and long live the queen."
Except, perhaps, Liam Bast's plan for this year's offering to his family. His bloodline.
And the fiery colors stretching up for a thousand feet on either side of the valley that he stood in, hands planted on his hips, was an important part of it.
His ice-blue eyes flicked deftly over the abandoned building in front of him—Maple Ridge Sanitorium's main entrance. Established in 1887, not even daring graffiti artists or thrill-seeking delinquents had found the structure since its closure, 35 years ago, in 1987. The windows were fogged with time and negligence, but not broken. Ivy, with leaves nearing the color of the brick it was slowly pulling apart, covered most of the structure, but only nature was pushing time ahead on his family's estate—no trespassers.
He made sure of that.
He pulled a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun as his gaze lifted—if he wanted this to go as perfectly as he planned, he needed to get going.
One piece was annoyingly out of place.
Evidently, the small, merry band of three 'paranormal investigators' he'd lured here, had a naysayer. Her nickname was, appropriately, Scully.
She was certainly the most worthy of the lobotomies coming their way.
The other two—Alex and Ben—were already incapacitated in the procedural building. Along with the good-for-nothing Medium from the next town over. What was his name? Doug or Jim? He looked like a Jim.
"Oh, Scully, where did you go?" he muttered to himself, absently rubbing away a smudge of blood from his knuckle.
Ah, good. It wasn't his.
"HEEEELP!!" Greg was the Medium's name, and he was currently absolutely losing his shit. Sweat plastered greying hair to his forehead, made a bit larger by a receding hairline, as he struggled valiantly and uselessly against the leather restraints keeping him tight against the old hospital gurney.
"Oh my god, shut up, Greg," Alex said, turning her head toward him. She was panicking, too, but she wasn't about to scream when she knew damn well Liam Bast and Scully would be the only ones to hear them—and it was probably best Scully realize she'd found herself tits-deep in some white people in a horror movie shit and run away. "Who do you think is going to hear you?!"
"Oh god, oh god—oh god," he said, his breath in and out getting shorter and more rapid.
Ben chuckled. He had to be delusional—he had been smashed on the head, and crimson smeared half his face like a sloppy paint streak. "God is dead. Long live the queen!"
Ben's bag of equipment—all bought from money hard earned—had been carelessly thrown into a corner of the room. Alex's best guess was some sort of operating room, which made her extra nervous, but she could control that no better than the weather passing pleasantly on outside of their quandary.
She heard the tell-tale hiss and bwoop of his radio frequency sweep scanner coming to life.
Greg's already ashen features turned a touch green. "Oh no."
"Yes," the radio chimed, with startling clarity.
"No!" he was screaming, now. "No, no! Away from me, Keeper! My soul is not yours! You cannot keep me here!!"
Alex blew a long breath out of her nostrils. Ghosts were the last thing she was in the mood for dealing with, at present. Particularly if it was The Keeper—Greg had said it was the main entity on the property, concerned with 'keeping certain souls here.' Creative. "I'm sorry, now isn't the best time," she said as the EVP spike sensors started beeping sporadically. "Could you come back later?"
Just as suddenly as all the commotion among the equipment started, it stopped.
Ben giggled. "Considerate."
"No," Greg panted, shaking his head fervently. "No, don't believe it! Our father, who art in heaven—"
At once, a cacophony of beeping, whirring, booping, and alarms began sounding from the pile of equipment. The moth-eaten curtains in front of the windows began fluttering, though there was no breeze, and they were closed.
"God's not here," the radio sweeper said, the voice like a granite slab.
Ben narrowed his eyes toward Greg. "Way to go, Doug! Didn't I tell you?!"
Scully lived her life in shades of incidentals. She found it was the quickest way to explain otherwise inexplicable things. A handful of incidences could lead to a coincidence, which could potentially explain away an otherwise nonsensical leap of logic. But her way of seeing the world was cherished by Alex and Ben. They wanted someone to remind them that they did, in fact, believe in what they were doing. She earned her nickname from the get-go.
This estate was no different from other 'haunts' they had visited. Scully had delved deep into the history, uncovered stories that had an open ending and deserved to be closed, and agreed that they should go.
While they were fiddling with Ben's sleek, fancy equipment that maybe worked, depending on what you believed or knew about technology, Scully had peeled away from the group to wander the halls alone, away from anyone else's fears and anxiety tickling at her subconscious.
Nothing other-worldly, it simply was. Ben clicked his fingers together and scratched his neck when he was nervous, Alex toyed with the ends of her hair and liked to sniff without good reason, like she was about to sneeze, around blind corners.
And so Scully wandered alone, though had agreed to taking a sweep scanner with her, just in case something had something to say about anything. She didn't put much stock in it, though she did recognize that the words that came through tended to apply to their situations. They were, however, looking at the world through a hyper-specific lens, and anything could have meaning that way.
At any rate, she'd found what had used to be the…what? Headmaster's office? President's office? Director's office? Whatever. She'd found a locked door, utilized a nearby bench, and Jack-Sparrow-ed her way in. It was far too suspicious to have such a well-kept door (though it tried not to look it) among the wallpaper peeling like sloughing flesh from the walls, and molding floorboards sagging like brittle bones about to snap.
It had been the doorknob. Worn, but clean. Too tempting for a cynic. And a nosy one, at that.
From then, it was just happenstance she had a view of the entire estate, even though the windows were foggy. And happenstance she caught a glimmer of movement in the courtyard, turned, and saw Liam Bast, the man that had invited them to the estate, club Ben savagely over the head and begin dragging him away with a purpose.
She'd shook her head. "Some white people shit," she mumbled to herself and anything in the room, causing her almost waist-length locs to sway and bob with the motion. "Always in some white people shit," she added with raised eyebrows, breaking yet another lock on the desk by strong-arming a drawer open. "Why do I do this to myself?"
In it lay a single, black, leather-bound book.
"Oh?" she said, pulling it out.
One would assume running to help Ben would be priority. But anything anyone did in a horror movie, she tended to shy away from. She needed to assess, and if there was a well-kept locked room in an abandoned sanatorium—just a privately held insane asylum—well, she didn't know how, but she was sure an incidental she needed would reveal itself.
The radio scanner she had quietly hissed to life, and as calmly and routinely as putting a freshly-washed dish onto a rack to dry, she put it onto the dustless desk in front of her, still rifling through anything she could.
"You found me," the radio said, through a layer of static.
"Who are you?" she asked absently, turning to the ancient-looking filing cabinets along one of the walls. Rusted. Dusty. Perhaps unimportant, but interesting to her.
"You," it said.
"I'm sorry," Scully answered, scanning the labels. W. W for Wallace, W for why not. She decided to scrape open the rusted drawer. "I don't do the riddle shit, so just say what you want, or kindly fuck off. Or fuck yourself. I don't care. The second is a better time, though." Her fingers walked along the tabs crammed into the drawer. They looked like patient files.
Ahah. There had been a few Wallaces.
T. Wallace.
Why not? Her real name started with a T as well.
She pulled the brittle file out and opened it.
The blood in her veins turned to ice, even as her face flushed.
The patient picture was like looking at a mugshot of herself.
The frequency scanner hissed politely in the background, as though waiting for her to apologize.
"Or I could go fuck myself," she said, her eyebrows pulling upward. "Damn. Alright. What's good, ghostie? Hot takes on what to do next?"
Liam dragged his metal nightstick along the wall, pulling wallpaper with it every so often, as he tracked through the halls of the admin building.
Here, she's here.
Further.
Keeping going.
Left. Right.
He imagined the call of the family that had come before him, cleansing the pristine land of the blight caused by less than desirable people.
He started whistling as the hairs on the back of his neck started to stand on end.
"Oh Scully?" he called. "Everyone is waiting!"
He rounded another corner and stopped abruptly. The door to the former Head of Estate's office had been opened by someone other than him—popped up and free of its hinges. It lay carefully against the wall, as though it would be put back, once the trespasser had the time.
He chuckled and swung confidently into the doorway. "About time, Scully!"
"About time, Scully!"
Scully frowned as she skidded into the room where Alex, Ben, and what was his name…Jim? Maybe? had been strapped into 1890's vintage operating beds. "Ah, yes, very lobotomy-sheik."
Alex waved her hands helplessly in a little circle, with a follow up to her exclamation. "A little help?"
Scully's gaze pulled to Jim. Wait, Doug? His mouth was slack, eyes closed, face a pale green that was next to the dictionary meaning of 'seasick'. "What's with Master Ghost Whisperer?" she asked, bee-lining for Alex. They'd need to help Ben out, so the borderline scam artist in the third of four cots—needed to get his ass in gear. They couldn't lug them both out. And for her, the decision was an incredibly easy one. She liked Ben. She didn't like the Medium.
"Coming," both Scully's radio, as well as the one in the bag whispered.
Alex jumped, and then, as disbelief overshadowed her train of thought, watched as Scully exasperatedly looked at nothing in particular.
"What did I say about three syllable sentences?" Scully answered, though her heart was beginning to hammer against her rib cage. She resumed her efforts on Alex's restraints. "You really gotta' try 'em out."
"No," The radios whispered. "Stop."
Scully's fingers paused, twitched.
"Scully?" Alex asked, watching her dark eyes dart a little, like she was skimming the pages of a book. "Are you listening to the entity whose job is to keep souls here?" she whispered fiercely.
"Dammit," Scully's long locs shook violently with her head. "Fuck, she's right—"
"Oh my god. This? This is the time you decide to broaden your horizons." Alex could feel a hysteria building in her gut. "Are you fucking kidding me??"
"He'll know." Scully's hands gripped Alex's shoulders. "I have to surprise him, that's the only way." She cast around the room, feeling her heartbeat in her throat. There. A large tool cabinet.
"Coming," the radios were so quiet they could barely hear the words. "Shhh."
Liam had heard them…the only question was if the Medium was awake…
Dammit.
They were whispering.
So aggravating when people could keep themselves together under this kind of pressure. It did make his job the slightest bit more difficult.
Had Scully come back for her friends? That would be interesting. She didn't seem the type, to him. A little too cold, maybe. She certainly wouldn't come back for—ah, Greg—he suddenly recalled his name.
He found himself chuckling as he swung into the room, sure to be beaming in case he would be able to catch Scully unawares. He felt it falter as he took in only the three he'd already had. He sighed heavily after scanning the sparse room.
Alex—she had some grit—sneered at him. "I'm sorry, are we disappointing?" she snapped.
"Who were you talking to?" he asked casually, whirling his weapon.
"Didn't you want us here because this place is haunted?" she countered. "Who the fuck do you think I was talking to?"
His smile was wide and empty as he pulled closer to her, almost eager. "Have you met my great great grandfather? I never did develop a gift to speak to them, like those that have come before me," he said, his voice feathering around the edges.
Alex was taken aback at the haunting, child-esque intrigue that had stolen his features. She preferred maniac to this. "Ah—I, um, well, we can always…ask," she said, glancing toward the pile of equipment. "Excuse me, uh—yes, person we spoke to before? Are you…here?" she called, her voice betraying the lightest bit of warble.
The EVF's and EVP Sensors chorused discordant beeps, startling even Liam. The radio from the bag suddenly roared with static.
Liam put his hand over his heart, now staring at the discarded pile like a holy artifact. "Are you my family?"
The noise cut out so suddenly, the silence had a sound of its own.
"Keeper," the radio answered with bone-chilling conviction.
Liam's face went ashen. "No—no, no—go away! My family has more power than you! Get out! You must go, in the name of the Lord—"
"SURPRISE!"
Only a gurgle slipped from his lips as two orbitoclasts sank into either side of his throat, then, with lightning speed, again and again.
No. No, it wasn't supposed to be this way.
He grasped at his neck, crimson splashing away through his fingers. He turned, tried to swing his baton at the infuriating woman that had ruined every plan he'd laid for today. Those tools—he was supposed to make the spirits of his family proud, today. Three had been done before, he was going to do four.
Four perfect lobotomies, and then four perfect mercy killings.
Nobody could be as good as his great great grandfather, of course, but Liam had dreamt…
Scully dodged the clumsy swing and dove forward, crashing them over Alex and her cot. "Sorry!" she exclaimed as they hit the floor hard—Liam not quite cushioning her fall. With a grunt, she rolled away, still in possession of her pilfered weapons. With a wince, she shuffled over and kicked his nightstick away.
"M-my fa—famil—" Liam tried to say.
"Evidently," Scully said, kneeling just out of his arm's reach, "mine too."
He frowned, confused. More blood spurted onto the floor.
"The Keeper," she continued, "Tekaiya Wallace?"
"You c-cannot say th-at name—"
Scully simply chuckled and pulled the ancient file from where she'd tucked it in her belt, between jeans and underwear. Flipped it open and turned it around so he had two of her staring at him.
His eyes widened.
"Again…mine too, bitch."
Liam's eyes rolled back into his head.
"We are free," the radio said, like someone unburdening a great weight after a lengthy hike. "Thank you."
Scully threw a lopsided salute to the air. "Uh…any time, I guess."
3 WEEKS LATER
Alex and Ben stared, still in a state of disbelief, at Scully, across from them at a hole-in-the-wall diner booth. She had papers, files, and a black journal—single sheets carefully put into plastic sheaths to protect them from more of time's gnawing.
"Yeah," she said around taking a slurp from a straw. "That place was just a fuckin' lobotomy factory. A lot of queers…though they didn't seem to be racist, so…?"
"Look at that!" Ben exclaimed. "It's so hard to find homophobia without some racism sprinkled in."
"I know," Scully agreed, her grin personifying their many layers of irony. "It's almost refreshing."
Alex shifted, eliciting a squeak from the cheap vinyl seat under her ass. "And Tekaiya?"
"Right, yes—so I guess the Basts had set up some sort of fucked up ritual, back in the day. Perfect lobotomies made perfect mercy kills. And the OG Crusty Flavorless White Guy, Jeremiah Bast, when he died, started trying to snatch up the souls his just as fucked up family offered up in his memory." She tapped the leatherbound journal. "They've been killing people the whole time. The last ones, before us, were in 2018. Kept detailed records. I guess Liam was going old-school with the..." She made a motion like she was stabbing her own eye. "But Tekaiya, The Keeper, was always around. Kept the people's murdered souls away from his…icky mumbo jumbo," she said, wiggling her fingers about. "I'm still not as good at the ghost talk."
Ben nodded slightly. "Mumbo jumbo works."
Scully held up a finger. "Fun fact, she was very not Christian. Also…a lot of bible thumping got done on all of their heads and faces and other limbs, so…probably makes sense why…"
Alex nodded. "Why trying to recite the Lord's prayer was a spectacularly bad idea?"
"Almost as good of an idea as the holy water Jim brought," Scully agreed.
Ben frowned. "Jim? I thought it was Doug."
Alex rolled her eyes. "Fuck's sake, you guys. Greg. It was Greg."
Ben sniffed disdainfully. "Either way, god is dead."
Scully snorted out a laugh, as Alex answered him. "Yes, and long live the queen."