Tongue Twister

If I Open the Door To Heaven Or Hell 5/? [Wally Clark/Reader]

Summary: Wally tries to break you out of your scar. Word Count: 2k Author's Note: This chapter is from Wally's POV.

Read On AO3 // Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four //

Wally didn't know how they ended up here. One moment, he was joking around with Maddie, glad to finally get a smile on her face after she had been so hurt to hear Janet having successfully infiltrated her old life, and the next he was watching Y/N standing there in front of that damn door. He didn't know why she would stand where she had sworn never to go. But there she was in front of her scar with her jacket in hand ready to face her demons. 

He froze, prompting Maddie to stop at his side.  

"Y/N," he tried, hoping not to spook her into action. If he played this right, then maybe he could get her to back away from the door. "What are you doing?" 

Maddie shot him a confused look before finally looking down the hallway to see what had caught his attention. It didn't take her long to get it.  

"Is that--?" 

"It's her scar," Wally answered, not daring to take his eyes off Y/N.  

He noticed the way Y/N was tensed, ready to act, which meant he only had a moment to get to her. He took off running, making good use of all of the training he never wanted when he was alive but desperately needed now to sprint down the hallway.  

Y/N opened the door to her scar and stepped inside, the door shutting behind her. He hit the door only a moment after it closed. He tried the doorknob, but when the door opened, there was only an empty bathroom.  

"It doesn't work like that," Maddie informed him.  

"Well, something's got to work," he snapped, hitting his fist on the closed door. He rested his forehead against the door, wishing he had a solution.  

"Wally," Maddie started, before she stopped.  

"I just don't get it," he found himself saying. He tried the doorknob again, swinging open the door to an empty room. "I don't get it," he repeated before trying again and again to enter Y/N's scar and drag her out of there. "There's got to be a way to get to her." 

"Wally," Maddie said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She's got to make it out on her own." 

"No," Wally denied, shaking his head. He kicked the door, wishing he could break it down. It would all just reset. He was useless in this situation. "When I was in my scar, she talked to me. She got me out of there. I was so...I was so," he tried again, but he couldn't get the words out. He was lost. Hurt. Terrified. But Y/N's voice had led him out of hell and right into her arms.  

"Look, maybe we should go get the others," Maddie suggested. "Maybe we can figure out why she went in there in the first place. Something must have happened." 

"You go," Wally urged, not taking his gaze off the door in front of him. Y/N was just on the other side. He swore he could feel her. But he couldn't get to her and he was so frustrated at the idea that he couldn't save her. "I'm not leaving her." 

Maddie stood there at his side for a moment before leaving him. Wally knew she was going to get the others, but he was glad she was gone. He didn't want anyone else around to witness his failure.  

Y/N was everything to him and now he couldn’t even save her. He knew what her scar held for her. His death had only been built on disappointment and the fear that he would never be able to shoulder the expectations others dropped on him. He had gone to his afterlife feeling like he wasn't enough.  

But Y/N had her life ripped away from her by someone who wasn't worth impressing at all. Y/N had died scared and alone, not surrounded by teammates and a crowd. No one had been there to watch her fall into the afterlife except for the person who gave her the push.  

He wouldn't have her go through that again. His scar had been bad enough, but hers was just downright cruel.  

He didn't understand why she would want to put herself in that situation again. He didn't get why she would want to relive her death. All he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and protect her from the pain.  

All he really wanted was her. Her laugh and the smile she gave him when she was proud of him. The way having her anywhere near him drove him absolutely crazy, because he just wanted to touch her. And when she didn't even notice he was watching her, the way she viewed the world around her. Even in death, she was curious and bright, lighting up the darkness he felt inside and banishing it with just a look at him.  

"Y/N," he tried again, resisting the urge to try to open the door again. "Can you hear me?"  

God, he hoped she could hear him. He didn't want her to be alone. Not now. Not ever again.  

He remembered when Y/N died. The way all the other students talked about it like it was such a tragedy even though they didn’t really know her. How the girl who had bullied Y/N to death was expelled. How he watched them march her out of the school and how much he hated her even then for damning someone else to an eternity at the school. He remembered the way the teachers referred to Y/N as 'that poor girl.' How her mother cried knowing that she would never see her daughter again. How her little brother stood there, confused about why his sister would never go home again.  

"Y/N, get out of there! Just come on. Please," he pleaded, hoping she could hear him. He put a hand on the door, trying to sense her on the other side.  

He remembered when no one came to remember her on the anniversary of her death. She faded away into anonymity. Just a story for anyone looking to spook a freshman about the bathroom on the second floor with the flickering lights. It was only a dying bulb, but that didn't stop a senior from using Y/N's death as a scare tactic.  

 She didn’t get a stadium named after her. She didn’t get people reminiscing over her achievements. All she got was an abandoned memorial sight and no one left to mourn her. 

She sat and waited and no one came for her. No family. No friends. But he was still there. He would have done anything to show her she wasn't alone. They were the same now. Left to forever roam the halls of Split River High in the hopes that maybe one day, something would change.  

He always assumed that something would be crossing over.  

He didn't realize that something would be Y/N.  

"I don't know why you wanted to do this, but please just come out." He stood there on the other side of the door, waiting for any sign from her. "I'm right here for you. I'm not going anywhere."  

As far as he was concerned, she was never going anywhere without him again. If this is what it led to, then he would stick as close to her as she would let him.  

He knew she didn't get really get how much she meant to him. Sometimes, he felt like he was being pulled in so many different directions. He had to help Maddie and he had to be there for Charley and he had to keep Rhonda from being too Rhonda.  

But Y/N had become his rock. His foundation. With her, he felt like he was whole again. Without her, he didn't know what he would do. She had a way of keeping him steady when he felt like he was going to fall. He hated the thought that maybe he hadn't done the same for her.  

"Please, babe," he breathed, both his hands on the door now with his forehead resting against the wood. "You don't need to do this. You don't need to relive it." 

He couldn't wait any longer. He had to do something now. So, he did the only thing he could think to do. He threw himself against the barrier keeping him from Y/N. He hit it and kicked it and slammed into it like it was an enemy he could try to defeat. He would fight his way to her if he had to.  

He didn't know what she was going through. The silence coming from the other side of the door only served to spur him on, because he wanted to hear her voice. He needed to know that she was okay. His scar had been so twisted and horrifying and he hated that she was going through the same thing.  

"Whatever's going on in there, it's not real. You are real." He needed her to know that she wasn't that person anymore. She wasn't whatever she would see in that bathroom. She was so much more. "You don't deserve whatever's happening," he added, hoping she knew it was the truth.  

More silence. More stillness.  

He tried opening the door again, but the scene was still the same.  

He hit the door again and again, not letting him think about the pain. "Babe? Babe!" He tried, wishing he could find a way to get through to her.  

He was going to make a last-ditch effort to rush the door. He took a few steps back, ready to try to break it down, when it suddenly opened. Y/N rushed out of the bathroom and slammed the door closed behind her.  

She was standing there, watching him with such a tormented expression that he felt like he was dying all over again. All he could think was that he had failed her. But he would never do that again.  

She suddenly ripped off her jacket and threw it back down the hallway. He only had a moment to realize what would happen before she was throwing herself at him. He fell to the floor, unprepared, and she went with him. She was clinging to him like she never wanted to let go and as far as he was concerned, she never had to.  

He managed to sit up, pulling her up with him. She had her face hidden in his neck and her arms were squeezing him so tight it was nearly painful. He didn't know if she would ever be ready to talk about what she just faced, but he would be there for her. He didn't plan on going anywhere. At least not without her.  

"I'm here," he assured her. "I'm not going anywhere. You're safe. You're out."  

He kept trying to soothe the pain she felt. It was all he could do. From the way she was holding onto him, he knew that more than anything, she just needed to know that she wasn't back in that bathroom, about to die all over again.  

He wasn't sure how long they sat like that before he caught movement at the end of the hallway. It was Maddie returning with Charley, Rhonda, and Quinn in tow. Y/N hadn't even noticed them, she was so lost in her grief and fear. He knew she wouldn't want an audience for what she was going through. It was bad enough they had witnessed this much.  

He waved them off, hoping they got the hint. Charley immediately started herding Maddie and Quinn away. Quinn shot a confused, inquisitive look back, but she kept walking. Rhonda lingered behind, watching the scene before her with a set to her jaw that told him she was oddly pissed off about something.  

He didn't know if it was because Wally wouldn't let her be there for her friend or she was mad that Y/N had gone into her scar. Either way, he shook his head, waiting for her to finally turn away before he gave Y/N all of his attention again.  

He didn't have all the answers. He didn't know what was running through her mind.  

But he did know one thing.  

He would wait for her.  

For whatever she needed from him, he would be there. And he wasn't going anywhere without her. 

Taglist: @preparedfruit @morstuavitamea-a @thatonegayloser616 @kmarie06 @girlthatislost

@peterpangirl21 @uk1y0 @i-mmunity @siriusxmunofficial @lov3bug

@morallygrayboys @loudtalehologram @hey-its-roseaurum @doves1120 @benjiiisstuff

Author's Note: Next up, Wally's reunion!

Reblog if you think asexuality is a legitimate sexuality.

I'm trying to prove something.

I just saw absolute cheeks LAWWWWWD 😩 seeing Milo Manheims bare ass was not on my 2025 bingo card but I ain't complaining.

October Sun

summary: Wally had lost his grip on reality. Even for a ghost, what had transpired in the theater had been messed up. What the fuck had happened? Where had you gone? Where had everyone gone? How had he ended up in a dirty, cramped cellar that had looked like something out of a horror movie? And who had been the people he'd been stuck with?

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: manslaughter. depictions of lethal violence against a child. eventual smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

⏰we continue...🐾 we clocked in at 6818 words. for anyone triggered by violence or murder, especially involving children, the plot will still make sense if you choose to SKIP that scene. it begins in Act 3 when we return to Wally's POV. i have indicated that act with "‗‗‗‗🚩‗‗‗‗" to avoid confusion. if you wish to back-arrow out but would like a summary of events, please DM me and i'll happily catch you up in a gentler way 🧡

stay safe & bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.26

Question Three.

Why did the Monster seek revenge?

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

The supernatural wind hit Wally like a solid force, a blunt and brutal strike that propelled him backward, flung through the air, and spat through the farmhouse door. His back slammed against something hard and immovable, head cracking against the uneven surface. Grunting in pain, he fell forward, breath kicked out of him, barely catching himself before his face met the ground. He lay there for a few beats to allow a wave of nausea to settle before, on a shaky arm, he pushed himself up.

"Jesus Christ," He coughed, sitting back on his haunches, and closed his eyes to center himself. It took too many deep breaths before the throb at the back of his head receded and he felt stable again. In the absence of pain, Wally's other senses returned and he realized something was different. Wrong. The light too bright and the air too damp. He pressed the meat of his hands into his sockets, blinked rapidly, and then opened his eyes fully to take in his surroundings.

Dazed, he uttered, "Uh, okay..." and hoisted himself to his feet to look around.

He wasn't in the theater.

Exposed stone walls, low ceiling, packed dirt floor. Wally did a circuit of the space, as sparse as it was, and tried to find some clue as to where he'd ended up. A weathered work table sat against the wall to his right, its contents the typical accouterments one might find in a hobbyist's garage—drill, crowbar, hammer, welding torch. Totally normal. Except for the chemistry set assembled across the back of it.

"Weird," Wally muttered, fingers ghosting over the looping glass tubes and empty beakers. He picked up a beaker and sniffed, his face instantly twisting into an expression of disgust, "Gah!" He shoved the beaker back on the table, panting through his nose to expel the pungent odor. "Nasty."

Moving around, he saw a metal-framed shelf boasting three-deep rows of jars containing a variety of dried plants, all labeled—datura, rose, groundcherry, tobacco, mandragora, and more—and tightly sealed. That explained the reek from the beaker, Wally thought, cringing as it lingered in his nostrils. It was so bad he could almost taste it at the back of his throat. Heady and floral. Like licking soap.

Eventually, he came to a stop where he'd appeared, nothing else of interest in the space apart from a bare, stained mattress lying in the middle of the floor and a pile of wood under the staircase. Rising on his toes, he peered out one of the high windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of something familiar; a landmark or sign or anything. But there was nothing. Just trees and unpaved road and more trees.

As he sank back to the flats of his feet, the world around him flickered like film in an old VHS. Fast as a blink. Gone then there. Wally's eyes widened and he staggered a short distance, stunned that things had gone from milky daylight to dark and stormy in no time at all. As if the day had been sucked away as night forced its way in. And more shockingly, Wally wasn't alone anymore.

"Fuck. FUCK." Someone shouted. A deep, male voice that belonged to a man in uniform who was pacing a groove into the floor, gesturing wildly; hands gripping his head, beating the wall, tugging his military jacket. Agitated. Feral. Eyes blazing as he climbed the stairs, banged on the closed door at the top, kicked and punched it, "LET ME OUT!!" and then descended again.

Wally cleared his throat, cautious as he approached the man, "Erm...hi?" He started, hands raised like he was about to engage an angry lion. "Dude, are you okay?"

The man didn't acknowledge him. Didn't even seem to hear Wally. Which, sure, Wally was used to after decades of being ignored by the living, except that this man wasn't the living. Wally felt it in his bones the same way he always did. That lack of physical pressure that arced from living bodies. Yet, even when Wally stepped directly into the man's space to force his attention, the man didn't bat an eye. Continued cursing and lashing out at everything within reach. Everything but Wally.

"What the hell?" Wally murmured, peering at the man and then around the cellar. He tried again, waving his arms, getting right in the man's face, "Hellooo~?"

Nothing.

The man continued his rampage, grabbed the hammer off the worktable, and began to smash the jars on the shelf, yelling with every strike. They reset in seconds and he'd do it all over again. And again. And again.

"Cool." Wally swallowed, "That's cool," a tad more anxious than he had been moments before. Being dead and trapped and ignored by the majority of people he was surrounded by, he could handle. Being dead and trapped and completely invisible to everyone, including other ghosts? He didn't like that at all. He had to get out of here. Now.

Wally charged up the stairs two at a time, his breathing ragged as he began to panic. He grabbed the door handle and twisted to wrench the door open, only it seemed he needn't have bothered as someone on the other side was already on their way in. Wally reared back as the door was kicked open, stumbling a few steps down before he pressed himself against the wall to make room for that arc of physical presence that pushed outward from a living body.

When Wally glanced at the person, his mouth went dry; his eyes bulged; his heart stopped mid-tick. He hadn't felt this lost or confused since the first few minutes of his death.

"H-holy fucking Christ." Wally stammered, watching the man—who Wally was pretty fucking sure was still downstairs breaking shit—shove through the door, his steps laden under the weight of what he carried. Wait. Not what. Who. "Holy. Fucking. Christ." Wally repeated, syllables breathless and strained.

One body slung over the man's shoulder, the other, much smaller, tucked under his arm like a sack of potatoes. Both limp, unconscious, limbs loose and heads swaying with every encumbered movement. The man ranted, words punched out of him as he stomped down the stairs one heavy step at a time, briefly stopping to adjust the body on his shoulder before continuing.

"—and had I known, you useless little bitch, I would've taken care of it while he was still in the womb." The man spat at someone who'd remained upstairs, just out of sight. Almost regretfully, the man added under his breath, "Save us both from the pain of doing it like this."

Wally's attention snapped to the bottom of the steps when an identical voice shouted, "What the hell are you doing!?" And then, "Jesus," distressed, "they're just kids!!"

Twins? Wally questioned of the two men who were identical down to their military-issued boots. He followed Living Man down the stairs, watching as Living Man teetered slightly at the last step before correcting his stance. While the two men might've been mirror images of each other, Wally noted that Living Man moved differently than Dead Man. Dead Man was straight lines and authoritative strides. Living Man, on the other hand, was strangely graceful despite his bulk. Sort of...feminine.

Living Man scowled at Dead Man, biting out, "You have no idea what is really going on, you ignorant fool," as he moved further into the cellar, dropping the body tucked under his arm unceremoniously onto the mattress before trudging to the back wall. With more consideration, he lay the second body down, pillowing the head and placing the arms and legs in a comfortable position. He caressed a cheek, gaze softening as he muttered, "We'll get this all fixed, child." A shuddery breath, "I still need you, after all."

Wally frowned as he noted another difference. The way Living Man spoke felt unnatural in that voice. The care in each intonation, the antique vernacular. Dead Man didn't speak like that. He was rough, gritty; belly-deep pitch, and sawed off suffixes. A sensation of wrongness crept up Wally's spine as he thought about it. There were many weirdnesses setting off alarm bells in Wally's brain—the fact that Living Man, like you, could commune with the dead and that Living Man had apparently abducted two people and delivered them to a creepy cellar. But also...something Wally couldn't yet identify.

He shifted closer to Living Man and the body, the person, on the ground, leaning over to look at who Living Man had spoken to so apologetically. And, oh God, no, no way. How!? He sprung forward, dropped to his knees, immediately taking Living Man's place when he stood and walked away.

"Baby!"

Although you looked younger by a few years, he knew without a doubt that it was you. His stomach flipped, heart beating at triple speed in his chest, hands near your face as he tried in vain to rouse you. But his palms wouldn't touch. A thick halo of energy repelling his efforts. You looked pale, sick, a frail little thing drenched to the bone and Wally whimpered in dismay when he couldn't hold you. All he wanted in that moment was to scoop you up and run, to get you far away from whatever sinister plot was unfolding around him.

"Fuck." He choked, "Fuck, what did he do to you?!"

Then he smelled it on your rattled breath. Heady. Floral. Like licking soap.

At the bottom of the stairs, Living Man called up, "Hurry up! I didn't bring you here to sit idly in the kitchen, I brought you here to learn!" But Wally was too busy trying to figure out how to wake you up, how to help, he needed to help. Distantly, he heard faint footsteps descending, mild and even.

"What are you going to do to them?" Dead Man asked in a tone that edged on fear.

Living Man didn't respond, simply moved toward the mattress. Rather, a new voice answered Dead Man's question, a voice that made Wally's blood run cold. All-American, sweet as sugar, an amused hum before a statement that, on the surface was friendly, but beneath was cold and unaffected. "Isn't it obvious?" A pause. "She's going to kill them."

Time stopped. The world narrowed as Wally turned slowly to confirm the impossible. Standing primly at the end of the mattress with a darling dear smile on her face was someone Wally had seen every day since his death. Every day, that was, until last Friday.

"Janet..."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You froze when the man held out his hand, staring right at you with a soft, private smile that made your skin crawl. It didn't look right. A sharp, twisty curl to its corners. You didn't know what to do. Running seemed pointless. Never mind that you couldn't—fuck, please—make your feet move. Couldn't make your tongue work or your lungs expand or your heartbeat slow. The man's smile widened, uncanny and odd, and he shifted closer.

"Amelia," He said with a fond lilt.

Finally, you budged your foot a scant half-step back, muscles stiff with fear. In your periphery, you saw something reach toward the man's waiting hand and then a voice like birdsong replied, "Alastair," with equal fondness. Your attention snapped to the right, the fear abating somewhat, and took in a vision of a woman. About your mother's age, auburn hair pleated and pinned; eyes that sparkled with an attractive combination of mischief and mirth; and a pink petal smile that grew as she placed her delicate hand in Alastair's.

Beside her was a much older woman whose severe features shared a resemblance to Amelia's. Beneath her wrinkles, the roundness of her face was the same, and her eyes held that same youthful sparkle. However, unlike Amelia, and the other female guests, who were draped in tasseled frocks and strings of pearls, the woman wore a beautifully beaded floor-length gown, her hair fluffed and wrapped in matching Gibson Girl style.

"Anabelle," Alastair bowed in deference, plucking her gloved hand in his and bussing a kiss to her knuckles. "I'm so pleased you were able to join us."

Anabelle's only response was to nod her head and take back her hand. She swept her gaze to Amelia's and the two appeared to have an entire conversation with their eyes in the time it took you to process that, no, Alastair hadn't been looking at you, he'd been looking through you.

A blessing as much as a curse, you thought grimly, still uncertain as to where the hell you were and what the hell was going on. You watched in fascination as the crowd parted for Alastair and Amelia, their hands joined and raised as if they were stepping onto a ballroom floor, about to engage in a waltz. Anabelle glided along behind them at a close distance, hands clasped, eyes trained ahead, unflinching. Instinctively, you followed, observing how the crowd closed the space behind you and positioned themselves in an arc that faced a raised platform you hadn't noticed before. They moved in perfect synchronicity. A sci-fi hive mind that made a cold chill trickle through your veins.

When you turned again to creep along behind Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle, your gaze snagged on what was at the center of the formation. Almost choked on your own saliva. Your brain seemed to malfunction as your eyes absorbed the image of three low stone altars set into the shape of a triquetra. On each altar—holy hell—lay a person. Two young women and a young man. Unbound, eyes closed, skin like porcelain. Serene in repose. If you had to guess, they couldn't have been much older than you, possibly even the same age, and all were strikingly beautiful.

Sacrifices. The reality hit you like a punch. Casting about, you began to understand exactly what was going on, Ajay's voice echoing in your head: "The Something-Something of Dagda."

The unconscious teenagers were dressed in ceremonial robes, green velvet with gold clasps at the waist, but were otherwise nude beneath. Their chests were exposed, ash smeared like ink down their sternums in the same triskele pattern you'd seen on the broaches in the portraits. There were other symbols across their collars, over their hearts, wrists, ankles, and foreheads. Similar to the bastardized symbols you'd been investigating with Ajay, except more elegantly drawn and with flourish.

You approached the young woman closest to you, blonde with a dusting of freckles across her nose, and crouched beside the altar to inspect her. When you leaned in, a bold, flowery smell tickled your nostrils. Heady. Familiar. Like Aurora's horrible tea but worse.

"Dearest friends," Amelia began, projecting her voice to be heard in the large space. She stood behind a podium on the platform, Alastair and Anabelle flanking her. Amelia's smile was gentle and kind as she regarded her congregation. "Tonight, you will bear witness to what we have all been working so hard toward." The crowd applauded, some of the men declaring hear hear! while the women tittered daintily. "Though not all of us could be here tonight, I am pleased with our number." She paused, expression softening, "After all, it takes the power of many to change the world, does it not?"

Again, applause which Amelia silenced with a faint gesture of her hands. "Before we get started—" Anabelle and Alastair turned on their heels in synch, striding to a ceremonial table at the back of the platform, each lifting a carafe of what appeared to be red wine before stepping down from the platform and starting to replenish the crowd's empty coupes. "—We drink to the Father who will deliver us into a new and glorious future."

Everyone waited patiently for Alastair and Anabelle to finish and resume their places on either side of Amelia with their own coupes in hand. Amelia raised one that had been set for her on the podium, stepping out in front of it to admire the crowd who mimicked her action in one hybrid motion.

"To youth and revival!" Amelia saluted and the group returned the claim in a boastful chorus.

You glanced around as everyone chugged their drinks in unison, the sound of indulgent slurping spooky in the large, echoey space. Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle, however, didn't take more than a refined sip, watching on with secretive smiles as the crowd downed the wine and then placed their empty coupes on the floor at their feet. Dainty clinks against the marble and the shuffling of cloth all made as if by one person. Vaguely, you pondered if they'd learned the choreography like churchgoers learned at what intervals to stand and sit.

Amelia began to speak again, but you weren't listening. It was the usual culty drivel anyway: We're here to celebrate the Father's approval; we're going to live forever with His blessing, blah blah blah. Rather, you stepped onto the platform and moved toward the table at the back, wanting to get a better look at the items laid across it. The whole thing—steeped in pomp and circumstance—felt contrived. As if put on to give the crowd's devotion value. Shallow. False. Orchestrated. A script and a stage to give a convincing show.

You weren't sure where that thought came from, but the longer it lingered the more certain you were that you were right. The pieces on the table were neatly placed; the carafes equal distances from the centerpiece—a green silk cushion with a wooden box upon it—a couple of blunt daggers that, so far, you didn't see a use for; and an arrangement of tarot cards—the Juggler, the Lovers, the Wheel of Fortune, and the House of God. Major Arcana. Set out to look important but meaningless within the context of the ritual unfolding behind you.

Thump.

Your head shot up and you spun around, marching to the front of the platform to stand between Amelia and Anabelle.

Thump. Thump. Thump thump thump—

One by one, Amelia's flock collapsed, some clutching their throats, red eyes bulging, cheeks flushed, lips purple. Others simply fell like puppets whose strings were cut. Meanwhile, Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle remained poised, monitoring the proceedings with mild expressions until each member of the crowd was a mass on the floor, their bodies forming a perfect arc. Although no one could see or hear or sense you, you took several steps back, away from the danger that had manifested; away from those you knew had to be responsible.

At her sides, Amelia turned her palms face-up, closing her fingers around Alastair and Anabelle's hands when they took hers. "Let's begin," She said in a tranquil tone, lifting her chin as she led Alastair and Anabelle in a chant. The words were soft around the syllables, drawn and pretty and entirely foreign. A language lost to time that was only resurrected for this purpose. You gasped as the bodies on the floor jerked and quivered, chests arching up to release amorphous balls of bright white-gold light that floated above the bodies they belonged to.

Not lights, you corrected, souls.

"Shit." You croaked, watching in horror and fascination as the souls swelled and bled into each other, forming a dome around the altars at their center. A breeze fluttered through the space, quickly turning into a wind and then a roaring gale like the one that had flung you out of the theater and into this nightmare. Amelia continued to chant, louder and louder as the gale found its strength, her knuckles white as she gripped Alastair and Anabelle's hands, the vein in her neck throbbing, eyes rolling back, shouting the spell into existence.

You raised your arms against the gale, shuffled further away, and crouched in front of the table, trying to glimpse what was happening through the building supernova ahead. The light grew more intense, bigger and brighter, and Amelia kept chanting, ferocious now, practically foaming at the mouth as she screamed above the powerful noise of the gale.

And then, as the roar increased, her voice diminished and together, Alastair, Amelia, and Anabelle took a step forward. And then another. Slow. Deliberate. Down the few platform steps, shedding their skins like old coats. Their bodies dropped in heaps on the platform behind them as they continued forward, unphased. Two more thoughtful steps, then the light embraced them.

Unlike how it had started, it ended abruptly. The light expanded to the edge of the arc of bodies as if trying to escape before popping like a balloon. Shattered into fine dust that glittered in the air, but turned to motes of dry ash when they reached the ground. The sudden silence was heavy, weighing down on your shoulders as you pushed yourself to your feet, short of breath in the aftermath.

Just as you climbed down from the platform, you heard a sharp inhale, followed by a second, followed by a third. Simultaneously, three pairs of eyes flew open. The colors in them waned, changed from one to another. Amber to blue. Hazel to blue. Brown to seafoam green. Features subtly shifted, freckles faded or appeared, lips pinked or paled, hairs leached new hues.

On the altars, the three teenagers sat up; stiff and labored.

Alive.

But no longer themselves.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Question Four.

What happens as a result of Frankenstein's ambitions?

‗‗‗‗🚩‗‗‗‗

Wally stared, stunned, as Janet strode to the top of the mattress and knelt as if about to pray, setting her hands modestly in her lap. She was exactly as Wally remembered her. Brown hair perfectly groomed, outfit tidy, blue eyes sharp against a sedate expression. She studied Living Man as he hovered above the small body he'd deposited on the mattress. It was a little boy, Wally realized, dread sinking into his bones. Adorable and pudgy, no older than six or seven. Tiny beneath Living Man's bulk.

"No!" Dead Man cried out, flinging himself at Living Man but tripping and dropping to the ground on his side before he could make contact.

Janet laughed, nails on a chalkboard, "Idiot. You're a ghost. You can't touch the living." A smarmy smile and then, "Even if it is your body."

Wally gawped. Because that wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. People couldn't steal bodies like that...could they? And it couldn't be a ghost thing, definitely not. Wally couldn't get close enough to walk through a living person, never mind shove their soul out so he could wear their body like a meat suit. The only conclusion he could draw was it had to be magic, something you might know about—you you, the you he knew, safe and healthy back in the theater where Wally hoped to God you still were.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, on guard between you and the rest of the room as if it would do any good when Living Man decided to do whatever he planned to do with you. It didn't matter, Wally had to try. You looked one strong breeze away from crumbling to dust and he couldn't live with himself if he sat back and watched, a silent audience to a movie he never wanted to see.

"I'll get you out of here." He promised you, jaw tense, determined against all odds, "I don't know how, but, I swear, I'll figure it out."

Dead Man hollered in frustration, hit the ground with his fist before hauling himself upright to attack Living Man again. Failed. Tried three more times before he fell back on his ass, elbows on his knees, head hung in defeat. Throughout the commotion, Living Man hadn't so much as flinched, totally transfixed on the little boy beneath him, thumb stroking his cheek, eyes brimming with sorrow as he muttered, "You shouldn't have come back...you self-righteous bastard," the last word spat in a hush that Wally's ears almost hadn't picked up.

"He's just a kid." Dead Man implored, broken. "He hasn't even lived yet."

Living Man snorted, "That's where you're wrong, Christopher." Living Man turned his head to pin Dead Man—Christopher—with a dark stare. "You should know better given your family's connectedness."

Christopher growled, "I told you before, I don't know anything about that! We aren't magic! We're normal people!"

"Wrong again," Living Man rolled his eyes derisively, "Your family has been a thorn in my side since the earliest days of the Order. How else could I have taken your body so easily?"

Shaking his head, pressing his palms into his eyes, openly annoyed, "What fucking order? What do you even mean!?" Christopher dropped his hands, casting about, arms gesturing wide, "My grandfather was a beef farmer. My grandmother was a seamstress. My dad worked at the gravel pits. He was a loser and a drunk who beat my mom until she never woke up, what the fuck makes us so special!?"

"Your bloodline." Living Man stated, the hardness in him abating when he returned his gaze to the little boy. "It's funny, you know..." Living Man began conversationally, "I thought I'd taken care of all the loose ends last time. Turned out I was wrong and now I've spent the best parts of this life snuffing out every. single. one of them. all over again." He chuckled, dry and without humor, "You should be glad that I need your daughter or she'd be next." At the last part, Living Man shot Christopher a grin that would look at home on the Devil's face.

"You piece of shit," Christopher hissed, "You'll never lay a hand on her!"

"You won't be around to stop us." Janet chimed in blithely, leaning forward to put her hands on the little boy's shoulders as Living Man instructed her to. She seemed surprised that she could touch him, giving Living Man a brief look of amazement.

"They're the same," Living Man explained. "It's part of their connectedness. Death ushered them into the world and left a piece of himself within them." Living Man continued, fitting his big hand around the little boy's small neck, not tight, but with intention.

"You can't hurt him," Christopher pleaded, "He's six, he doesn't know anything. He can't do anything!"

Janet piped in, voice thick with undisguised condescension, "The thing about souls, Chris-to-pher," A lovely smile, "Is that they're infinite." She deferred to Living Man, "Right?"

Living Man appeared reluctant to agree, like Janet was a fly he couldn't swat, bothersome, eager for approval. "Yes. And, regrettably for dear Aiden, his knows too much, whether or not he remembers." Living Man sighed, burdened, "You are already too powerful, child. I cannot risk letting this go on any longer..." His hand began to tighten around Aiden's throat. "May God forgive me..."

Wally spurred into action, pivoting to lean over you, "Hey, hey, come on sweetheart, you've gotta get up. Please....fuck, please, get up!" He remembered what Living Man had said, that you were still part of some bigger plan, but Wally didn't trust it, gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut when he heard Aiden start to protest, clearly coming to when his lungs couldn't take in enough oxygen.

"Stop!" Wally shouted, tears rolling down his cheeks (when had he started crying?), his hands over his ears to muffle the sound of Aiden's gasps, choking, begging for his big sister—"S-sissy May..." Please no, please no, "I'm so sorry, kid, I'm so sorry." Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop, stop, stop. Wally hacked a feeble whine, a kicked dog of a sound, hating himself, hating the world, because he couldn't do a damn thing to make it "STOP!"

When Wally cried out, a pulse of energy burst through the room, emanating from Aiden's tiny body. Below Wally, your eyes shot open and you inhaled as if sucking in that first breath after being held under water. You heaved and coughed, rolling over to leverage yourself upright on your arm. You were disoriented and muzzy, movements drunk.

"Ai-Aiden?" Your head hurt and your limbs were wet-paper weak, mouth tasting like soap. You had no idea where you were. The last thing you remembered was the back seat of Christopher's car; accepting a juice box after handing one to Aiden and helping Aiden puncture his with the straw. "Aiden, what's...?" You squinted your eyes to hone your vision and then screamed when you grasped what was happening, "AIDEN!"

Janet shrieked, "She's awake!" just as you launched yourself at Living Man, tackling him like a linebacker.

Commanding Janet, Living Man released Aiden, "Hold him down! Don't let him go!" to fend you off. It didn't take much, you weren't strong enough against his mass and still weak from whatever you'd been dosed with. A mouse against a bear. Aiden sobbed, Janet kept her hands firmly on him so he couldn't crawl away, and Living Man managed to push you off with little to no effort. One punch and you muddled backwards several steps to crumple onto the cold, packed dirt.

"You can't stop her!" Janet sneered at you, "You're just a twig!"

On the other side of the mattress, Christopher rose, snarling under his breath, "But I can."

Seconds. That's how fast everything happened. Wally barely had time to jump out of the way (not that it would've mattered) as Christopher rushed you, propelled himself forward, fueled by adrenaline and anger, and hurled himself at you. No. Into you. Your ghost lurched out of your body, stammering into the wall behind you where you sank to the ground, eyes as wide and frightened as Wally's.

Living Man yelled at Janet, "You stupid girl! You didn't make it strong enough! You didn't listen!"

"I did exactly what you told me!" Janet insisted, struggling to keep Aiden in place as he writhed and jerked, wailing to be released, pleading for his Sissy May, for his mommy, for home, he wanted to go home, snotty and tear-stained and so, so small.

Without hesitation, Living Man seized his tiny neck again and squeezed with renewed vengeance. "You have to die, you bastard. You made me do this! It's your own fault!" And Janet held down his arms when he tried to claw Living Man's wrists, gagging, gasping, apologizing for something he thought he'd done to cause this, wanting desperately for it to end.

In your body, Christopher swayed on your feet, the sensation of going from massive, military-built to preteen featherweight dizzying. But he still had his strength, he knew that, to his very core he knew that and Wally could tell Christopher knew that without having it said aloud because his eyes—your eyes—bled to hazel, the same color as Christopher's, as Living Man's. Wally knee-walked closer to you, to your ghost. You were wobbly, fragile as a fawn, calling Aiden's name over and over as you wept.

Christopher turned your head to look at you and then—Wally's breath caught—he looked directly at Wally. In the eye. No questions, no uncertainty, no confusion. Just a firm order. "Don't let her see." And he sprinted forward. Wally didn't second guess it. He shifted his body to shield you from whatever the fuck was about to happen, his chest tight, a lump in his throat that strangled his words as he said them.

"Don't look, sweetheart," He choked, vision starting to blur as he was forced to watch you in agony, helpless to save Aiden. Remarkably, when you caved to your knees, reaching toward the nightmare unraveling behind Wally, you and he made contact. "God, f-fuck," Wally stuttered, catching you, grabbing your head, and pressing your face into his chest. "Don't look, I've got you, I'm here." Every word felt like cinder in his mouth. Meaningless. Empty. Because a little boy who meant so much to you was dying and all Wally could do was hold you as it happened. "I'm sorry," He whimpered, "I'm so sorry."

And then Wally heard Janet shout, "Amelia!" in warning, followed by a bloodcurdling squelch.

Wally chanced a look over his shoulder. Christopher in your body had a crowbar in his hands, raised to deliver another strike, stance set, face twisted in rage, and something else...something like grief. It's his body, Wally thought despondently. May God have mercy. Christopher kicked Living Man onto his back on the other side of the mattress, Living Man groaning and disoriented. Janet was hysterical, scurrying into a corner to hide.

"You piece of shit," Christopher bit out as he positioned himself above Living Man, one foot on either side of Living Man's ribs. "You will never. use me. again." And he swung the crowbar with the strength of a grown man, the forked tip stabbing Living Man's temple. Again. Again. Again. Over and over until Living Man's face—Christopher's face—was caved in, a pulpy mess of sinew, blood, and bone.

In Wally's arms, you cried. You cried like the world had ended. Like love didn't exist. Like all you'd ever feel again is hollow and hurt. His arms tightened around you as he rocked you, wet sniffles and a broken heart, shushing you softly. "It'll be okay, you'll be okay." He didn't think it would be. Didn't know how you'd survived this, how you had a life after this with laughter and friendship and trust.

If murdering a ghost was possible, Wally would've killed Janet. He wasn't sure if his ability to touch you extended to her—she certainly hadn't indicated that she'd seen him—but if he could, he'd beat her into oblivion. Because she'd been here, she'd participated. Wally had always had a sense about her; that she was twisted and ugly beneath the America's Sweetheart mask she'd worn around Split River High's dead.

In a voice that grated Wally's nerves, "Wh-what have you done!?" Janet panicked and scrambled toward the mangled corpse on her hands and knees. "You've ruined everything!"

Christopher tossed the crowbar aside, giving Janet a mean look as he voiced Wally's thoughts, "If I could kill you too, I would." And then, he turned on your heel and marched with purpose toward the worktable. In one swipe, he sent the chemistry set to the ground where it shattered. Next, he toppled the shelf and stomped on the jars that didn't break on impact. Finally, he stumbled back to you and Wally. He—you—was covered in blood, hair stringy and matted with it, skin stained red, speckles and smears across your face and hands and soaked into your clothes. Wally would never be able to unsee that image.

The cellar was eerily silent apart from Janet's sniveling and your weak sobs.

"I'm sorry, kid." Christopher lamented, placing a hand on your shoulder. He looked at Wally and said quietly, "You have to let her go now."

Wally swallowed, "You can see me?" as if that mattered right now.

Christopher snorted as if it was somehow funny, "It's him," he nodded to indicate behind him. "You're here but not here. I'm here but not here. A loop he dragged you into. A cry for help."

"I don't understand," Wally said, further securing his arms around you, unwilling to let you go.

"You will," Christopher assured, and then it was like he switched, got back into character, an actor on a film set redoing his lines when the director called action. "You have to let me in, kid." He told you, gentle, parental, taking your spectral face in your own physical palms. "You have to let me in so I can get out."

You didn't even protest. Simply closed your eyes and evened your breathing; embraced your physical body like a friend and melted back into it while Christopher slumped out.

Wally attempted to take your hand and give you some comfort, but, as it'd been before, he couldn't get a grip, unable to touch you, repelled by that thick halo of living energy.

Christopher crouched in front of you, blocking your view of the mattress, of Janet who was scooping flesh and brain back into the gored face of Christopher's body as if she could piece it back together, a sick cat with her dramatic wails. "I need you to do something for me, kid," Christopher said, pausing for a moment, expression apologetic, "There's something in my pocket. I...I need it to find it's way to my daughter."

You nodded, but it was clear you were only half there. Your eyes were glassy, gaze distant. Christopher didn't seem to mind as he continued, "Please, tell my daughter I'm sorry." His voice sounded pained. "Tell her...Tell Maddie I love her," and you nodded as if you understood. As if the request was as normal as pass the salt.

Before Wally could react to what he'd heard, his wrists and ankles were suddenly restrained, pitch black shadow clutching him and yanking him back through the farmhouse door before it slammed closed and vanished.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

"It worked!" The boy declared, excited, admiring his new hands with a lopsided grin.

You couldn't know for certain who was who, but it didn't take a genius to deduce that the boy was likely Alastair. The girls, however, were impossible to distinguish, both moving with the grace of a grown woman of high social status. Neither seemed as taken by their new skins as Alastair; another day, another body to wear.

"We need to finish the ritual," One of the girls said primly, brown curls getting lighter with every moment that passed. The girl glided to the platform, up the steps, and to the table at the back. She stood at the box on the cushion. Opened the lid and retrieved whatever was inside, concealing the object in the folds of her robe.

Meanwhile, the other girl padded to the podium and fetched three glass vials from the cupboard in its reservoir. Corked. Filled with clear liquid.

Alastair cocked his head as he watched the girl at the podium come to him. "What else is there to do?" He asked, brow furrowing when she handed him a vial.

"We have to bind our souls to our new vessels," She smiled prettily. "Drink up."

Trusting the instruction, Alastair uncorked his vial and poured the contents into his mouth. You glanced between the girls, but neither one followed suit, merely observing Alastair as if he were a monkey performing tricks in a big top. They shared a look similar to the one you'd seen Amelia and Anabelle share earlier; a whole conversation passing between them. Alastair didn't notice, swishing the liquid in his mouth before swallowing, frowning at the vial.

"I thought their souls were what bound us to the bodies." He said after a few beats.

The girl who'd gone to the box shook her head. "Oh, no," She said, speaking as one would to a child, "That was merely to cast the lambs from their flesh."

It sounded like a lie, you thought, peering between the girls.

The first girl lifted her hand to cradle Alastair's soft jaw, "There you go, good boy," She praised when he started to look dazed.

"What's happening?" He breathed, strained.

The girl regarded him sympathetically, "You truly were marvelous, Ali." She sighed, "But mama thinks it best that you don't come with us." Amelia. It had to be.

Alastair swayed on his feet, "I don't understand," and if he could muster concern or shock or anything more than groggy confusion, you were sure he'd make a run for it.

The other girl—Anabelle—spoke, stepping into Alastair's space and presenting him with the object she'd removed from the box. A shiny silver revolver. She pressed it into his hand, curled his fingers where they needed to go, her smile somehow simultaneously wicked and gentle. "We couldn't have succeeded without your connections, Lord Belgrave, and, for that, I thank you." Anabelle took Amelia's hand to lead her away, "However, my daughter is correct. You are a loose thread that needs snipping."

Alastair began to shake, scraping together a sentiment to Amelia, "But...I loved you."

Pitying, Amelia answered, "I know."

Anabelle lifted her chin, authoritative and commanding, voice smooth as she directed Alastair to, "Put the gun to your head." Which he obeyed, the metal rattling as he put the barrel to his temple, the action obviously made against his will.

"Please," He urged, "I could help you. I know more like them."

Amelia exhaled sharply and reminded him, "But they don't know you."

"Enough," Anabelle said, forcing Alastair's attention back to her.

Again, Alastair begged for his life, "Please, I don't want to die like this."

"You don't have a choice," Anabelle said, and then, "Now be a good boy and pull the trigger."

One thin, shallow breath.

Two.

Three.

BANG.

And you were snatched back through the farmhouse door.

💀___________________________

PART TWENTY-FIVE - PART TWENTY-SEVEN

note: unedited. written at midnight. you know the drill: i will most likely come back to tinker at the bits i think need fixing 😅

this chapter was written to Daylight (Cinematic) by David Kushner (Act 3). parts of Act 3 had also been inspired by Devil Devil by Milck, specifically the violence that unfolds when Christopher Nears attacks Living Man. the last act was written to Outta My Head by The Eagle Rock Gospel Singers. if anyone is interested in an October Sun playlist, it will be released upon completion of the story (i.e.: after PART 27)🥲🥀

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: y'all know, it ain't a thing around here anymore due to the overuse of ritual magic, some demon-summoning, and an unfortunate sacrifice that resulted in more technical issues than tumblr could handle 🔮🗡️ if you'd like to be kept up-to-date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS. we have fun here (•¯ ∀ ¯•)

Spencer: You're the love of my life, my best friend. I would do anything for you.

Y/n: I want you to eat three meals a day and have a descent sleeping schedule.

Spencer: Absolutely not.

October Moon

summary: everybody had had secrets. some more than others. and it'd been time for those secrets to be unearthed. too bad for Xavier he hadn't been privy to any of them.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER MOON pt.10

Aurora didn't know what she was doing. Read: She knew what she was doing, but hated herself a little for it and kept repeating in her head that she was going crazy. Nothing was wrong. It was a reaction to discovering Dave wasn't who she'd thought he was and now her brain had a hard time deciphering who was friend and who was foe.

Totally rational.

Despite how often she told herself this was confirmation bias or a side-effect of her paranoia, she couldn't shake the feeling that Austin Baxter was hiding something. How the hell had he known the missing ingredient in her tea?

She'd foregone drinking it after she'd remembered how nonchalantly he'd reminded her of the passionflower. Poured it down the drain and tossed the bag of ingredients in the trash. Aurora hadn't forgotten how you'd asked her not to drink it. How weird you'd been about the tea and Dave and, huh, Aurora wondered if you knew something she didn't. Say, about what was actually wrong with the tea or about Austin and his new gift of knowing things he reasonably shouldn't...

As she followed Austin's cruiser around the corner from a safe distance, she made a mental note to interrogate you about it later. For now, she passed the cruiser as it turned into an abandoned factory parking lot, pulling up down the street to stay out of sight. This was the stupidest thing she'd ever done. Seriously. Apart from marrying Dave, that was. She'd never been a Nancy Drew fan, wasn't about mysteries and sleuthing and stalking people for clues that probably didn't exist because there was nothing wrong.

"Whaaat~ the hell am I doing?"

Except her gut insisted there was something wrong.

Her intuition had crashed back in like a tidal wave after getting twenty-four hours out from under the tea's tranquilizing influence. She had brain fog for days, but was alert enough to crouch and dash across the barren stretch of unkempt tar after Austin, wearing Andrew's Black Sabbath sweater and a pair of black leggings. Seriously, what was she doing? She questioned herself again as she ducked and peeked around the corner of the building.

The building was dark inside and out, illuminated only by haphazardly installed emergency lighting, yet Austin didn't seem deterred. He disappeared through a side door that Aurora opened a crack and slipped through after counting to ten. Hoped that was enough time for Austin to put distance between himself and the door so Aurora would remain undetected.

As soon as she was inside, she felt it. Felt them. The cold air that displaced and resettled as bodies she couldn't see moved about. That icy chill and sense of desolation that clung to earthbound ghosts no matter their temperament. Only the emotion that lingered was more potent. Denser, somehow. The way she remembered it being whenever she felt Janet Hamilton or Rhonda Rosen back in high school. Established.

And, fuck, there were so much of it.

She heard footsteps echo further down the corridor and, as silently as she could, she followed the sound into a large, open space filled with machines that had been used to produce ammunition during the Second World War. There'd been another factory where Split River High now stood, thank you 8th Grade History, but it'd been reduced to brick and ash in 1952 after an explosion.

The factory she currently stood in had been shut down around the same time despite America's fascination with guns. It'd been cheaper to move production away from Split River, leaving the town's economy to steadily deteriorate over time. The one functioning factory that remained was owned by Molson Coors Beverage Company and even then, there'd been talk about relocating to another town closer to Milwaukee.

None of that explained why she felt about to two dozen ghosts haunting the space. Had they died homeless, escaping the winter? Frozen to death one night or one at a time? Perhaps that's why Austin was there, to do a walk-through and ensure there weren't any unwanted squatters. Or perhaps there'd been a sighting of Dave in the area.

No, her gut told her, that wasn't right. It astonished her how vibrant her empathy was after it'd been diluted for years. Weakened by that fucking tea she couldn't remember the reason behind. She hadn't been that stressed in New York. Certainly not to the level she'd needed sedatives to function. So, why the hell had she depended on it like oxygen for years!?

She peered around a machine and watched Austin trail down an aisle between conveyors, his head swiveling from side to side as if he was looking for something. Or at something, Aurora's mind quipped since, in the silence of the large space, his whispers were loud enough for her to hear. He was counting.

"...Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen..."

What the hell?

She wanted to slink further down the same aisle, however, in that moment, she heard Austin's footsteps double back.

Aurora made herself scarce, raced back to her car as quickly and quietly as she could. Slid behind the wheel and dropped her seat back until the cruiser had driven by. Readjusting her seat, Aurora decided, fuck it, she was already playing P.I., why not keeping going.

"What could possibly go wrong?" She murmured incredulously to herself, giving the factory one last glance before she started her car and drove after Austin.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

After long seconds staring at the photograph of the class of '60, you breathed deeply and said, "There's a ledger. Only Ginny has access to it, but if I can find it, I can compare the names from the yearbook to the names under our Circle."

"What for?" Ajay asked as he folded his arms and leaned his shoulder against the wall, peered at you through an expression that conveyed how nervous he was to let you out of his sight now that things were coming to light.

You pulled your gaze from the photograph to look at him, "Anyone with connectedness is registered with a Circle. Even if you actively try to avoid it, your name will show up in the relevant ledger, complete with the bloodline and I swear to God, if you call it magic, Ajay—" You warned when his face did that thing that suggested he was about to call you out on it again.

He pressed his lips together and locked them with an invisible key.

Wally tightened his embrace around you, stating, "So, you think it was Anabelle and Amelia."

"Wouldn't more students have had to die if they did the ritual?" Charley asked, "There was only Janet and Mr. Martin. Plus the two students they stole the bodies from. That's four. And they didn't even use Janet and Mr. Martin." He glanced between everyone, trying to gauge whether anyone else was as lost as he was.

"Wouldn't have mattered if they'd had other ghosts." You murmured, deep in thought, before you took a grounding breath. "We also know that the symbols siphon in the energy from elsewhere. The farmhouse, for sure, but there must be other places."

God, you needed Ginny to wake up. Of everyone, Ginny would know if there'd been a cluster of ghosts in any particular place around town, including the school. While you weren't familiar with her and Nanna's upbringing, you could assume that they'd had to follow the same rules you did. That included vigilance and awareness of what ghosts residually haunted where.

In a low, wary voice, "Does anybody else feel like this town should be a lot less populated than it is?" Charley uttered, taking a step back to rest against the desk that held the microfilm reader.

Rather than answer his question with a resounding yes, "When we get you guys unstuck, we should all move. Just. Leave and never look back," you suggested, closing the yearbook and placing it back on top of the stack. "Everyone's leaving the state for college anyway."

"Ooo, we should go to the beach first." Charley smiled at Wally.

Wally shook his head, "Nah, first thing I'm doing is taking this beautiful thing—" Hand under your chin, he tilted your head back a fraction to kiss you quick and hard, "—somewhere with a massive bed. And room service."

You giggled and blushed at the same time Ajay snorted, "You're dead, bro, you can't get room service."

"Yeah, but she can," Wally grinned as he swept your hair back and stamped kisses across your brow. "You guys could use the spa or use another suite or something. Then we'll take a trip to the beach."

"I want somewhere walkable." Ajay outlined, clearly fantasizing about it. "I want to walk for hours in one direction without being knocked back to Autoshop. Then Mina and I can find our own accommodations." He smirked at Wally. "But, honestly, I just want to touch a fucking tree. Be somewhere that doesn't smell like mildew and bleach."

"Yesss." Wally and Charley agreed in unison.

As fun as it was to imagine, "Alright, boys, focus," you said, though you were smiling, "We need to find Amelia first and get her to remove the barrier before we start planning roadtrips."

"You saying there isn't something you've imagined yourself doing with your very own hottie ghost once you spring him from school property?" Ajay smirked.

You scoffed, "Oh, absolutely. I'm with Wally. I want a bed and room service and we're only leaving when he's made sure I can't walk straight."

Both Charley and Ajay cringed, unhappy at how easily you'd painted that picture for them. Wally, on the other hand, radiated joy as he turned you by your hips and lifted you under the thighs. Kissed the tip of your nose as he held you, his dark eyes sparkling.

"That's my girl," He beamed, but before he could add anything else, Ajay intervened, complaining in run-on sentences:

"Alright, yep, we get it, you guys love each other, it's gross and we hate it. Can we please investigate the fallout shelter before Charley and I throw up?"

"Or gouge our eyes out," Charley muttered as he grabbed his jacket and followed Ajay into the hall to wait for you and Wally. "Or our eardrums. Or both."

"Gory," You snickered.

Ajay deadpanned, "Necessary."

You rolled your eyes playfully, but acquiesced, taking Wally's hand in yours as had become the habit. You glanced between the boys and wondered aloud, "Should we get Rhonda? She's part of Team Parabnormal. She might wanna help."

It was Charley who answered with glum disposition, "She wasn't interested when I asked her earlier," his shoulders raised and eyes on the ground. He didn't say anything more, but you could tell he wanted to.

"She's been kissing Mr. Martin's ass lately," Wally explained what Charley must've been thinking, because Charley's head shot up and he nodded at you enthusiastically.

It seemed everyone was in agreement, Ajay in particular.

"I've been watching them. It's like a cult leader and his first student." He shuddered, "I'm getting real Marshall Applewhite vibes. Minus the potential for a suicide pact."

"Unless Mr. M is planning to obliterate us like Amelia wants to. In which case, total potential for a suicide pact." Wally's hand tightened around yours, his jaw set and eyes hard. "Maybe he's working with her. Amelia's inside man."

"Shit, bro," Ajay's eyebrows shot up, "Say you don't trust him without saying you don't trust him."

Wally didn't skip a beat, "I don't fucking trust him. Not anymore. Not after how he grilled Maddie about talking to the living." He looked at you, his eyes softening, "He looked right at you when you were doing that Mock Trial thing. I didn't like it," He returned his gaze to Ajay, "Something about it sets my teeth on edge, man."

"Someone's coming," Charley announced, and before you could react, Wally pulled you into his arms and hid you and himself behind end of a row of lockers, winking at Ajay and Charley as they continued down the hall to steer the person in another direction.

As you waited for the all-clear, you peeked up at Wally, felt it was time to admit, "So... I actually found the fallout shelter the night Dave was sneaking around."

Wally gaped, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Honestly? I forgot. I was a lot more freaked out about telling you that Zav kissed me." And then, at the expression on Wally's face, "Don't look at me like that, Maddie was there, too. And Simon."

"Does Zav know?" Wally asked, lip curled in displeasure.

You pulled back slightly, brows knitted, "No. Why?"

"No reason."

But Wally appeared marginally less upset than he'd been seconds ago. Because of course he did. It was no secret how he felt about Xavier. That Wally despised someone you considered your platonic soulmate. A sentiment made worse after Xavier's rash decision to kiss you.

Wally flinched whenever Xavier's name was so much as hinted at, never mind mentioned and it fucking s u c k e d. These were two people you loved to your marrow; you wanted them to get along, had hoped that they'd eventually see eye-to-eye, but it didn't look like that was ever going to happen.

Xavier wasn't terrible; at least tried—with gritted teeth—to remain neutral where Wally was concerned. Wally, on the other hand, stubbornly refused to give Xavier the same respect.

Annoyed, "It's not a competition, you know," you muttered. You didn't pull away, couldn't, not from Wally, but this weird dick measuring contest had to stop.

"I know," Wally said as he gave you a funny look, as if his grip on you hadn't secured like Xavier had appeared to snatch you away.

"You sure about that? Because it feels like you're lying to me."

"Or," Wally countered, "Maybe I just forgot to mention it. Like you forgot to mention the fallout shelter."

And that time, you did pull away, wrenched right out of his arms. As you opened your mouth with a comeback, Ajay returned, cautious. He'd obviously heard what Wally had insinuated since he clarified that he, too, had known about the fallout shelter and hadn't disclosed it to anyone. For years.

"Buddy, calm down." He put a hand on Wally's shoulder, "It wasn't some big secret. If I'd known it was important, I would've brought it up sooner. How was anyone supposed to know?"

"Does it matter?" Wally soured. "You said that's where Mr. Martin hides out. Therefore it became important the second we suspected something was off with the guy." He took a breath, two, turned his head for a moment to get himself together before sighing and catching your gaze with his own again. Taking a step forward, he held out his hand, a somewhat pleading expression on his face, "Let's just go see what's there. We can talk about everything else after."

You wanted to protest. To ignore his hand, give him the cold shoulder and stomp by him just to make him regret pissing you off.

You couldn't bring yourself to do it. After a moment of letting him believe you'd refuse, you took his proffered hand. Allowed him to reel you in and tuck you into his side. He kissed your head, whispered an apology that sounded like a band-aid, and guided you down the hall to the stairwell with a hand on your hip.

"Trouble in paradise?" You heard Charley whisper to Ajay who responded with an equally as quiet, "The tea is hot..."

"What does that even mean?" Wally grumbled and squished you closer to him.

You couldn't contain it, you snorted, "I'm still mad at you, but...you're cute when you're clueless."

Wally scoffed, kissed his teeth, panned around so you wouldn't see the glimpse of affection in his eyes, but you caught it anyway. After a beat, he repeated:

"No, seriously, what does that mean? Are you talking about Aurora's tea or what?"

And you laughed along with Charley and Ajay, the latter of who patted Wally's shoulder and said, "You were getting so good at Gen Z slang, what happened?"

"A magical murder mystery!" Wally defended himself as he pouted adorably. "Why won't anyone tell me what it means?" And then, "Is it dirty?"

Traipsing ahead, "Nobody tell him," Charley commanded with a cheeky smirk, opened and held the door for you, Wally, and Ajay. "I want to see what he comes up with."

"You guys are the worst." Wally grumbled bitterly, "I'm totally not saving your asses when Amelia vanquishes your souls for her stupid ritual." Except he once again sealed you to his side, stamped a kiss to your temple and stage-whispered, "Not you, baby. I have a different punishment in mind for you."

He pinched your ass cheek so hard you squealed.

Together, "TMI!" and "Face!" Charley and Ajay scolded.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Xavier hadn't intended to enter 4916 Quebec Street. It was meant to be a simple, relatively safe stakeout, just as he'd promised you. But Nicole and Claire's bickering had driven Xavier to the edge. From the moment they'd crammed into his truck, it'd been nonstop. Catty jabs that hadn't quit until Xavier lost his shit, made an impassioned speech that he was, yeah, a little proud of, and abandoned the girls for the peaceful refuge of a so very creepy house.

He was going to regret his decision, he just knew it.

Claire remained in the truck while Nicole boldly trailed behind him into the darkened house, muttering under her breath about fair-weather friends who shouldn't help if all they wanted was a redemption arc.

"So what if she does?" Xavier asked, turning on his flashlight as Nicole did hers.

"She can't make up for everything she didn't do for years." Nicole insisted, paused halfway through the front door. "Claire abandoned Maddie. And now she thinks she can swoop in and save the day? I don't trust her."

Xavier see-sawed his head, "But...you trust me?"

He couldn't quite make out Nicole's face in the dark, yet Xavier could tell she was embarrassed. Maybe because he'd pointed out the hypocrisy, or maybe because she felt just as outside of the whole SimonandMaddie dynamic as Xavier always had and was desperate for someone to relate.

Either way, she surprised him by admitting, "Yeah. I do."

That. Felt really good to hear, actually. Xavier's chest swelled as he looked bashfully away. "Thanks."

They stepped further into the house, the wind whistling eerily through the cracks in the windows. This house was even creepier than the old farmhouse or the house on Lasher and 10th. There was an impression in the air that chilled Xavier to the bone. That same supernatural prickle he felt around the ghosts at school, only more persistent. He couldn't be sure, but it meant something.

Before he could announce that he had a really, really bad feeling about this, Nicole spoke.

"I just wanna state for the record, this is basically my worst nightmare come true."

Xavier briefly wondered if Nicole felt the same close, icy aura he did, but immediately brushed it aside to comfort her. Placed a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the eye.

"But I'm here," He said, "I got your back. Just look around and see if you can find anything." He continued at her lost expression, "Clothes, food. Stuff someone might have left if they were squatting here."

His leadership seemed to rouse her determination. They split up, Nicole doing a tour of the main floor while Xavier found the door to the basement. The chill thickened as he descended the stairs. God, he wished you were with him, but you'd told him in no uncertain terms that you intended to do research with Wally at the school.

Ugh. That guy.

Look, Xavier didn't hate Wally the way Wally seemed to hate him. He was honestly—really, truly—happy that you'd found your perfect person. Dead, sure, but Xavier could tell that you two had some kind of cosmic bond. A golden thread that tied you and Wally together. In fact, he could literally see it, not that he'd told you.

It was so new, in and out like bad reception; something he'd only noticed over the last couple of days. Different colors for different connections. He didn't know what they meant, or why, all of a sudden, he'd gone from simply seeing ghosts to being able to track who meant something to whom, but, hey, guess he was officially part of the family now, huh?

Yeah, he needed to talk to you about it. For sure.

And he would.

Just...not while a fucking semi-transparent hippie was standing in the middle of the empty basement, smiling at him like a long-lost friend. What freaked Xavier way the hell out wasn't so much the mysterious ghost staring at him. It was the thin, loose green thread that stretched from Xavier's heart to the ghost's, evaporating and coming together again and again like a tendril of smoke.

It clicked like common sense as soon as the ghost shifted forward.

"Holy shit, you're Dead Grandpa John." He wheezed, eyes the size of dinner plates.

"And you're my granddaughter's best friend." Dead Grandpa John—no, Xavier was not doing that—Grandpa John said. "The troublemaker. Always into mischief." He smiled wider, laughed as if he'd been there for every caper you and Xavier had pulled as kids. Jesus, he probably had been there, Xavier realized with a gulp.

"I didn't flood the bathroom, I swear, it was all her!" And he didn't know why he felt compelled to confess, but he did anyway, a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Grandpa John raised a bushy brow.

Xavier instantly caved, "Okay, so it was my idea, but she helped..." and he stared shamefully at the floor.

And Maddie and Simon had really thought he was a good liar? Wow.

"I'm not here to judge you," Grandpa John assured and shifted closer. Unlike the ghosts at school, Grandpa John glided like water over rocks in a stream, despite how his feet did, in fact, move. One and then the other. Heel-toe, heel-toe. A person walking normally. Just...not quite touching the ground.

While Wally and Ajay appeared solid, as real as you or Claire or Nicole, Grandpa John was exactly the kind of image Xavier would've pictured if someone had told him to close his eyes and imagine a ghost. Silvery. See-through. Other. Unconsciously, Xavier took a step back, although part of him—a big part—already trusted Grandpa John as if he'd been aware of Grandpa John's existence the whole duration of his friendship with you.

"She was looking for you the other day," Xavier found himself saying, dropping the glare of his flashlight to the ground. "Have you been here the whole time?"

Grandpa John shook his head, "No." Then a strange look came over his face, "I'm here to apologize to you for what has to be done."

Xavier blinked in confusion, "What's that mean?"

"It means, this is going to hurt."

The next thing Xavier was conscious of, he was flat on his back. The ground was cold and everything hurt, his head especially throbbed. He heard the screech of tires against pavement, Nicole and Claire shouting, the noise distant as the world slowly faded to black.

💀___________________________

PART NINE - PART ELEVEN

note: not exactly where i'd planned to end this chapter, but it felt right 🤷‍♀️ who am i to argue with the characters? anyway, because of this, the next part is basically halfway written 🙌 hopefully i'll be able to deliver it a lot sooner, but no promises beautiful frens 😭

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: we're not about that life around here (•¯ ∀ ¯•) things got too outta hand and i'm still cleaning up the mess left behind by the demons i accidentally summoned trying to get the damn thing to work 🕳️👹......there's a dustpan over there if you feel like helping 🧹💨 or, if you just wanna stay up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS

last photo and song

NO CHEATING: You’re starring in a movie with the last person saved in your camera roll and the last song you listened to is the title. Who/what is it?

Tagged by the amazing @whoopsyeahokay

co-staring with pookie in Need 2

Sex, Drugs, Etc.

Pt.3

Warnings: Talk of drugs/Drug use. A lot of plot. EXTREME Canon divergence. Before Maddies time. Set in 2022. Sleep Paralysis. Panic attack. Blood. Hearing voices. Disassociation. Suicide? Drowning. This is NOT meant to romanticize addiction or mental illness. (This chapter turned out a little darker than I wanted it to. I was kinda just going with the flow and this is how it turned out. I never really have a plan when writing so sorry if this isn't what was expected and sorry that Wally hasn't been shown a lot. I know its a Wally Clark x reader but I mainly write for plot. I don't recommend reading if any of the warnings above could possibly trigger you. Take care of yourself lovelys)

2.1k words

Pt.2

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The impending doom that creeps over you when you realize you can’t move is a feeling you didn’t miss. Like the grim reaper himself was looming over you, waiting for the perfect time to strike. Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea, maybe he could take you away from this place, make you not feel so trapped. 

Sleep was rare, but when it did come it wasn't peaceful. He stood there, not moving a muscle, almost like he was teasing you. At some point you started considering him a friend, he didn’t like that very much. The sight of him slowly creeping forward left you short of breath. He couldn’t hurt you, you knew that but it didn’t change the way your stomach fell to your ass. Throat begging to be able to make a sound, limbs feeling completely numb. 

The sound of his steps like gunshots getting louder and louder the closer he got consumed you. “Bang! Bang! BANG!” You shot up, taking deep breaths as you got a grip of your surroundings. It was still dark and you were more over to the edge of the lockers, almost falling off. The cold sweat dripping down your forehead makes you consider getting up and taking a shower, the sleepiness completely erased from your body. But you couldn’t, it was too similar to where- A shiver ran down your spine at the thought. 

As you jump down from your place on top of the lockers you don’t feel the dizziness you normally would from such a movement, no blood rush to your head or weakness in your knees. Guess being dead has its perks. 

It was hard to see, no light from the windows or fluorescents blinding you. You didn’t know what time it was, having learned that your phones still stuck on the time you took your last breath but you assumed you still had a few hours before the halls would be filled with tired teens. 

Something about the silence that bounced off every corner left an uncomfortable feeling in the far end of your mind. Silence was normally comforting, peaceful, but something about this absence of sound made you want to scream, fill the emptiness with your own noise. It was suffocating, or maybe it was just lonely, either way you didn’t like it. 

There's nothing to do here, the one thing you wanted you couldn't get your hands on. You're alone, truly honestly fucking alone. The realization felt like being stabbed, not in the heart but straight through your stomach where you'd be left to bleed out. As the tightening in your chest began to form you ran, as fast as you could to the first exit and pushed it open. The cold December air like a wave of relief as you took deep intakes of breath. Chest still feeling like it was being crushed by a semi truck as you let your body fall down to the ground, and that's when the tears fell. Not baby tears, no, sobs. The type that makes you want to throw up. “FUUUCK!” Your fists hit the pavement repeatedly as you feel your face go numb from crying. You laid there, for god knows how long, beating the pavement until your knuckles were bleeding and no more water could physically escape your eyes. 

As you sit there, no longer able to feel anything you hear the sound of the door open behind you. “That kind of aggression can be really dangerous.” The voice didn’t seem too familiar. As you turn you see the big eyed redhead who gave you the idea of sleeping on top of the lockers. You didn’t know what to say as she sat down beside you, her 70’s hippy aesthetic reminding you of a group you used to hang around. “You know I meditate when I'm upset.”

You let out a soft chuckle at the idea. “Yeah, my uncle Roscoe used to make me meditate.” A smile grows on your face at the memory, your eyes fixed on the pavement in front of you. “He said ‘it will heal your inner spirit’ it was kinda nice actually.” The image of his smile when you finally agreed to trying it after months of him begging you to was burned into the back of your brain. 

“Your spirits all you have left now, it's important to take care of it.” There was a spacyness to her voice, like she wasn’t fully there. Her mind drifting off into a different reality. For the first time since she came outside she looked at you, really looked at you, like she was staring into your soul and feeling your pain. “Take care of yourself.” 

“Thank you” Those were the only words you could muster up, the back of your throat dry and sore from screaming and crying. Without waiting a beat she stood up, going back inside almost like she was never there, the door closing with a click. It was silent again, but this silence was peaceful, content, the type that makes you feel safe. 

After about 10 minutes you decide it's time to go back inside where it's somewhat warm. As you go to open the door it doesn't budge. “Shit” You deliver a few frustrated kicks to the door before giving up. The redheaded girl already long gone. As you slide down, back to the door already accepting your fate, you let your head hit the cold metal with a thud. What a great fucking night. 

-

Wally was sleeping peacefully in the teachers lounge on the second floor when a scream awoke him. “FUUUCK!” This made him sit up, looking around confused, eyes still not adjusted to the dark.

“What the fuck?” He jumped up, stumbling over to the window due to not being fully awake. As he looked out he saw you, on the ground punching the pavement, it looked like you were crying. He knew it would happen eventually, he even overheard Rhonda and Charley making bets the day you died on how long it would take you to break. Grief was weird, especially when you’re grieving your own death. Nothing could ever prepare you for it. 

He debated on whether or not he should go out there and check on you. You seemed like the type of person who liked to be alone with your pain, it didn’t stop him from wanting to wrap you in a big hug and tell you it’s gonna be alright. 

He watched your movements slow as you grew tired, the anger and adrenaline wearing off, no doubt leaving you feeling more empty than you were before the outburst. Even though your breath evened out and the blood on your fists disappeared he could tell by the way you sat there, not moving that you still weren’t okay. Who could be? Nothing about anything was okay. 

The sight of you stiffening as someone crept out behind you made him nervous until he saw the red haired bimbo he knew as Dawn sit down beside you. He didn’t know much about Dawn, she was just kinda there, some would call a drifter doomed to never pass on. Though he wasn’t sure if anyone would really pass on. 

Whatever Dawn said to you seemed to make you feel at ease, your body loosening as you let your guard down. A comforting sight, you’re always on edge. Wally hasn’t seen you just let go since you got here, hell even when you were alive it was like you had a steel wall around you. The wall was still up but something about Dawn seemed to make you trust her in some odd way he couldn’t understand. 

Wally decided to let Dawn handle it, he didn’t want to overwhelm you by having too many people around you. He understood how sensitive death makes people, even if you constantly try to act as though it doesn’t bother you he could tell you were slowly crumbling under the pressure. 

He crept back over to the couch, wanting to get a little more sleep before the morning bell would ring, serving as an alarm for every resident of Split River high. 

 ⚠This is when it gets really dark so read with caution ⚠

It wasn’t until 30 minutes later when Mr.Mandela showed up, unlocking the front door, that you were finally able to re-enter the school. It was still quiet and dark, the sun yet to make an appearance, but this was a different silence. The screams in your mind that didn’t get to make their way out with the rest of them filled it perfectly. But these weren't screams of anger, no, these were screams of desperation. Desperation for a way out, desperation for true silence, desperation for the fuzzy feeling that creates a barrier of protection, that makes you so numb you can't think. 

Then the screams turned dark, mind frantic as they came up with new ideas. ‘The pool’ This one was a whisper, somehow making its way past the louder voices. ‘The gym’ and that's when it came to you. As you made your way to the gym the screaming didn’t stop, they knew what was best for you. At least that's what you convinced yourself in this moment of desperation. 

The sound of your heavy breaths and the screaming was all you could hear as you frantically pushed the gym door open and made your way to where they hold weight lifting classes. You grabbed two 50 pound weights that would normally be difficult to lift but something in you made them feel like feathers. It might have been adrenalin, from what exactly? You didn’t know, but nothing could stop you from whatever your plan was. The voices became jumbled, all screaming the same thing just unsynchronized. ‘ROPE!’ Where the hell were you supposed to get rope? The theater.

Your brain was in overdrive, your thoughts not your own but the voices that drowned together to create a deafening screech. You don’t remember walking to the theater, it's like you blinked and you were there. Again you blinked and there was a rope in your hand and a stage light on the stage floor in front of you. There was a girl screaming at you about something that became muffled due to the onslaught of noise she couldn’t hear. With the weights on each of your shoulders, hands clutching them tightly and the rope placed over the back of your neck you rushed to the pool. Thinking that if you could run fast enough you could get away from the blurred together screaming. You knew it was pointless, it was a part of you, constantly reminding you that even death couldn’t fix you. 

The world was a blur, your movements somehow in slow motion but frantic. As you pushed the door to the pool room you no longer felt like you were in control of yourself. Your limbs were moving on their own as you set the weights down, grabbing the rope, you tied it around your neck tight, making it almost impossible to breathe. 

Nothing felt real, everything around you was distorted. You reached down, tying the weights to the end of the rope and within a blink you were in the water, the coldness shocking your system. Your brain had no time to process as water filled your ears, eyes burning from the chlorine. Your mouth clamped shut, not allowing the water in as you realized what was happening, finally becoming conscious as the voices began to settle. You tried to swim to the top but the weights held you down, thrashing your limbs violently as your lungs began to sting. 

You attempt to untie the rope from your neck but your bodies grown weak from the lack of oxygen. The world went blurry as your head felt like it was going to explode. The pressure became too much, your limbs thrashing violently as you tried to escape the ropes tight grip. You couldn't take it anymore, your brain felt like it was turning into multan lava and with no other option your body forced you to do the one thing you had refused to do.

Your mouth opened, taking a deep breath. Water filled your lungs and your body felt like it was on fire. Hot panic soaring through you as you tried to cough up the water only for more to fill your lungs. This was it, you didn’t know what ‘it’ was exactly and that made it worse. The unknown, such a scary thing that you allowed yourself to walk right into. 

Time felt like it was moving too slowly as you began to slip in and out of consciousness. At least now you’ll get some more sleep right? Fuck. Your body began to grow limp, no longer fighting your fate. The cloudiness in your head took over, unconsciousness taking you easily as everything went black.

Pt.4

My attempt at hands 😅

when she says she doesn’t send nudes