⚠️ School Spirits Season Finale Spoilers ⚠️

October Moon

summary: things had begun to escalate after Quinn Wu had been pushed from the roof by none other than your brother-in-law. revelations had been made and everyone had been prepared to get down to business.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

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

bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER MOON pt.6

The Ciorcal. A council that oversaw a clutch of families whose blood was infused with connectedness. There were many throughout the world, the number of families under each Ciorcal's governance limited to ensure the rules could be effectively enforced. Ciorcals weren't all powerful or meddling. Nothing like the Volturi in Twilight or the Ministry of Magic in Harry Potter. More like a rural Board of Revision who stepped in to make decisions when families couldn't agree on courses of action. Very mundane stuff that often involved pots upon pots of coffee during deliberations, and a lot of paperwork. Often, hearings took time to schedule since most councilmembers had real lives with real jobs and real social demands.

You'd never met them. You didn't know who your family had to report to if an issue arose with someone's connectedness. Only the matriarch had the privilege of reaching out to them in times of need.

The matriarch in your family was, of course, Ginny. And Ginny didn't seem pleased to have had to call one of the councilmen ('Godfrey', you'd heard her bark when he'd rambled on for too long about his grandkid's ballet recital) simply because Andrew had found a totem linked to a homicide that'd taken place in Mississippi in 2010.

The right thing to do, you thought, was to hand it over to police so they could test it for DNA or whatever. Only, there was nothing special about the totem to indicate that it'd had anything to do with anything apart from having been donated. They were normal-looking sneakers. Not even a pair that the victim had been reported as having worn. And Andrew had happened upon them at a Goodwill while browsing for costume pieces with his girlfriend. There was nothing Andrew could say that would sound plausible enough to avoid becoming the next prime suspect.

Ginny pinched the bridge of her nose, groaned, and then said harshly, "I understand that Marjorie has apples to harvest, Godfrey, but we need to———interrupt me again and I swear to every God and Goddess you can name I will choke you with your ridiculous bolo. I dare you to test me."

You tried not to laugh, pressed your lips together and grabbed Nanna's hand. You were both sat in the living room hunched over a puzzle, a relaxing pastime Nanna shared with you when you were stressed. And, oh boy, were you stressed. It was your sophomore year; you felt awkward and ugly and you had nothing to wear to Homecoming. And, although you knew it was stupid, Wallace J. Clark had started haunting you for real and you maybe-sort of wanted to impress him. Even if you couldn't have sought out, talked to, or acknowledged him in any way.

Ginny's agitated growl brought you back to the present. She tossed the cordless landline phone onto the couch and collapsed beside it, head on the backrest, fingers massaging her temples.

"All good, sister?" Nanna asked with a small smile, examining the puzzle pieces.

Ginny rolled her head to the side to scowl at her, "They're all idiots and I want a new Circle. In fact, I demand it. Who do I bring this up with!?"

Nanna's eyes glittered, "I think we'd have to move, if that's the case."

"Oh, hooey, we could petition to have them replaced, I'm sure."

"Really?" You wondered and glanced between Nanna and Ginny, "You can do that?"

Ginny returned to rubbing her temples, "Even if we can't, I will!" She exclaimed, truly frustrated. "Bloody sheep shaggi—"

"And~ that's enough puzzle time for one day," Nanna interrupted as she rose from her chair, encouraging you to follow her, "Let's get started on supper, sweetpea."

"I want steak!" Ginny called after you and Nanna, "With garlic mash! After putting up with slow-talker Godfrey, I've earned it!" And then, to herself, "It takes that man a thousand years to get to the point. I'm seventy-nine, for Chrissakes, I don't have time for that."

Nanna sing-songed back, "You'll get what you're given!"

"It's not too early to pass the baton onto you, you know." Ginny said like a threat, giving Nanna's back a pointed look. Apparently, dealing with the Ciorcal was a responsibility nobody wanted.

Nanna paused briefly and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, "Garlic mash, you said?"

Ginny grinned victoriously.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You were snuggled against Wally, back to front, between his legs on the floor at the back of the library. It was still too early on a Monday morning to worry about being caught. Charley sat in front of you and Wally, cross-legged with his back against Civil War history books. Ajay was sprawled across the windowsill. He listened as he gazed outside forlornly, still nursing Mina's ongoing absence.

Maddie leaned against Wally, her head on his shoulder, arms around her knees, clearly battling with too many thoughts. Lastly, Xavier stood at the end of the aisle, wary and alert and watching the door for anyone who wasn't on Team Parabnormal, as he'd called it. A loyal guardian.

He hadn't left your side all weekend, even when, on Saturday, you'd snuck onto school grounds to see Wally under Security Guard Barry's nose. Xavier had respectfully waited with Ajay while you and Wally had taken advantage of the makeshift bed that hadn't yet been dismantled. It'd been the distraction you'd needed after having witnessed Quinn Wu's almost lethal drop, and though Xavier hadn't been too keen for it, he'd driven Aurora's car and had diligently pretended he hadn't been chauffeuring you to a sex date with your boyfriend who'd been dead for forty years.

Xavier was a good friend. A good person. The only person you could trust with everything without having to explain in depth.

After Aurora had arrived at the school to collect you on Friday, she'd informed you that Ginny had had another episode. That Nanna had had to stay behind to wait for an ambulance because Ginny hadn't opened her eyes when they'd tried to rouse her after you'd called. She'd had episodes often throughout your life, but this seemed to be the worst of them. It reminded you that she wasn't as youthful and vivacious as she seemed. That she was a woman in her eighties with a body that no longer performed the way it used to.

Xavier had had Claire drop him off at your house before Aurora had left, wanted to be there should Dave have returned. He hadn't, but that Xavier had stepped up to protect your grandmother and great-aunt solidified for you that Xavier wasn't what Maddie and Simon believed, regardless of his prior misbehavior. He'd taken a taxi to the hospital with Nanna and had stayed until you and Aurora had arrived to relieve him.

For her part, Aurora had been a shell of herself when she'd found you after the dance. On the phone, you'd had to tell her why Sheriff Baxter had insisted she and Nanna and Ginny leave the house if Dave hadn't shown up. Shock, Nanna had whispered when you and Aurora had been sat in Ginny's hospital room, Aurora staring into space while you spoke quietly to Nanna. Currently, Aurora rotted in the bed of the Baxter's guest room, head under a pillow as if she could have blocked out the world.

They hadn't found Dave. Dave who might not have been innocent, but who hadn't been present when his body had pushed Quinn off the roof. Though his eyes had still been hazel, you'd known that it'd been Amelia looking through them. His situation wasn't like Christopher Nears whose ghost had been expelled from his body and trapped. No, Dave had been a—

"Golem?" Charley asked, head cocked like a confused puppy, "Like the clay monster things?"

"Yes and no," You offered, "It does usually mean clay monster things, but my family uses it to describe someone whose body is animated by energy that's not theirs."

Charley raised an eyebrow and, "So, a possession," he stated skeptically.

"Hard no," You said and held up your hand as you listed, "First, only a traveler can use a golem. Second, golems are temporary and the host's ghost is dormant in their body while their body is being used. Third, to be used as a golem, you have to have either full-blown connectedness, like me, or you have to have the potential to have it.

"Possession, on the other hand, can happen to anyone and the possessor has to be dead. A ghost with no body." Maddie's face pinched as she tried to understand. You elaborated, "Also, the host is aware of the ghost. Generally, the ghost is a super pissed off person who died traumatically. Hence why there's always records of lashing out and cursing and all that stuff."

"Got it. Golems, temporary. Possessions, a lot of projectile vomiting?" Charley added with a question mark.

You winced and tipped your head from side to side, "Either one can make you sick, actually. Think of it like an infection. The longer it sticks around, the harder your body tries to reject it. Either the body wins...or it doesn't."

"Jesus," Wally said under his breath, "This shit is wild."

Xavier interjected, "Can we please go back to the part where you said to be a golem you have to have magic?"

"It's not magic," You deadpanned.

"Don't really care." Xavier dismissed, and then, "You're telling me Dave has or could have magic?"

The corners of your mouth dropped severely, "Yeah. I know. Trust me."

"You had latent magic," Maddie mentioned to Xavier, "Same with Simon." She panned to you for support, "Right? That's why they can see us."

"It's still not magic, but I'd say yes." After a moment of reflection, you urged Maddie, "Trust me, though, if you knew Dave, you'd understand why it's so..."

"Fucking. Dave." Xavier finished on your behalf. You gestured to him, that.

Charley brought everyone's attention back on task when he asked, "Guys, if Amelia's already possessing people—"

"Borrowing," You inserted the correct terminology.

"Borrowing?" Charley blinked several times, "Okaaay. So, if Amelia is borrowing people...that means she has to have a body around here, right?" You nodded. "One she obviously wants to get rid of or she wouldn't be creeping around. And her whole thing is stealing bodies." Again, you nodded. "So, why doesn't she just...keep one of the bodies she borrowed?"

To be honest, "I don't think she can," you said, then chewed your lip in thought. "You could technically push someone's soul out of their body. Amelia did it to Christopher, right?" Maddie bowed her head, "But if it's for long-term use, you risk the body rejecting you since it isn't yours. Like an organ. Unless the chemistry matches, there's no guarantee a ghost can just keep the body. Which means, if they're in there too long and they're not a match, the body starts going through the stages of decomp. A lot slower than an actual dead body. But still...same-same."

The ghosts looked between themselves, Charley's features conveying to you that that usurping someone's body was something he'd never thought of trying.

"We're not assholes," Ajay reminded him, having read Charley's expression for what it was. "Although it would be nice to leave the school. Even for a day."

"We're. not. assholes," Wally doubled-down as he stroked your hip with his thumb, almost as if he was reassuring you that no one in his haunt was going to do something like shove a living person out of their body for a field trip.

You smiled up at him before informing everyone, "Besides, if you're inexperienced, you'd need a big source of energy to ensure you could successfully hold onto a body. Which brings me back to why Amelia can't just keep one of her golems. In that memory I got trapped in, Alastair said something about how the death of those cult members was what glued his and Anabelle's and Amelia's souls into their new bodies. I think Amelia would need to get a bunch of........." You trailed off, the realization dawning in fazed degrees. "Oh my god..."

There was an extended silence until, from the windowsill, "That's why we're trapped here," Ajay uttered, looking at the group. "Amelia's using us the same way she used the dead cult members, isn't she?"

Wally tensed, his body rigid behind you, thumb stilled on your hip, "What does that mean?"

"It means the symbols that I found were probably made by the Something-Something to trap their energy resource." Ajay's gaze was heavy as he clarified, "Us."

Charley glanced between you and Ajay before fixing on you, "But you said there were, like, fifty or sixty of them. Including us, we're only twenty here. Nineteen now that Janet crossed over."

"I don't think Janet was supposed to cross over," You said quietly, the gears in your head turning, "Maybe that's why Amelia tried to kill Quinn. To...to replace her."

Maddie pointed out, "Even if she succeeded, that still doesn't bring the total anywhere near fifty or sixty, though. If Amelia needs more than us..."

"If," Ajay said as he hopped down from the windowsill. "She could've perfected the ritual. It's just her now, right?"

"That we can confirm, yeah." Then you speculated, "Anabelle could be out there, too. Which, being Amelia's mom, I bet she is." Everyone sat in troubled silence for a moment before you suggested in a timid voice, "Maybe this isn't the only place she's hording ghosts." You glanced at Xavier, "I think it's..." A deep, shaky breath before you restarted, "I think I need to go back to the farmhouse."

Wally's arms tightened around you protectively, "Not on your own, baby," and pressed a kiss to your head, letting his lips rest there for a few seconds as he breathed you in.

Xavier said, "I agree with Grease Lightning, kiddo, you're not going alone," a short pause as he schemed, and then, "We can go tonight. My dad's working a double so he won't notice if we're not home."

"You're still staying at his house?" Wally asked, shifting to look at you and you could sense the jealousy he was trying so hard to conceal.

"Until tomorrow," You confirmed, "The locksmith's been booked solid since the break-ins started and couldn't get to us until tomorrow morning."

He pressed his brow to your head, "I wish I could go with you."

"You~ have an important job to do here," You reminded him, smiling softly and reaching up to run your fingers through his hair, "You guys are going to help Maddie get her memory back and then we'll be able to figure out what happened and if her disappearance has anything to do with Amelia."

Wally nodded into your hair, but his arms tightened further.

"I promise to cooperate," Maddie said with humor, having noticed Wally's reluctance to accept that you were going on a road trip with Xavier who she suspected had done something besides cheat on her to upset Wally. "I'll go along with whatever weird, kooky thing you guys wanna try." She lifted her hand, scout's honor, "No complaining."

"That's an offer we can't refuse," Charley chuckled and tapped Wally's foot with his toe, "Whaddya think, buddy?"

Reluctant, "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds awesome." He stamped another kiss to your head. Tentatively, eyes soft, he asked, "Do you think Aiden'll still be there?"

The question made Maddie flinch, because if Aiden's ghost had remained in the farmhouse, it was likely that Christopher's had also. Measuring your words, "I'm not sure. Honestly, I don't even know how I'm going to find the place. My memory is all fucked. I still remember it being in town."

Charley volunteered, "I saw Meheive on the mailbox, if that helps," his voice just as hushed and cautious.

"We'll start there." At least you knew what you'd be busy with at lunch. You mapped out the rest of your day, already itching to run to the computer lab and write your name on Mr. Balkin's log because those spaces filled up fast. "I'll see what I can find and then text you," you told Xavier, getting to your feet.

Everyone stood, ready to leave, except Ajay who returned to roost on the windowsill. When Wally inquired about Group, Ajay brushed it off, stating he wasn't in the mood; believed Mr. Martin wouldn't have any advice beyond what he'd already given Ajay on the Mina front.

Wally patted Ajay's shoulder and then returned to you. Leaned down and kissed you slowly, sweetly, pulling back to whisper, "I love you, baby."

"I love you, too." You replied, closing your eyes when you felt him kiss your forehead. "I'll see you at lunch."

At Wally's agreement, everyone but Ajay exited the library; you and Xavier went left, the ghosts went right toward the gym. You had a Mock Trial to prepare for as liaison for the school newspaper, and Xavier had Bio homework to catch up on so, at the end of the hall, you and he parted ways.

However, not before Xavier reassured with a joking grin, "I'll be there, kiddo. If things go sideways, at least we'll go down together."

You rolled your eyes, "Such a glass-half-full thing to say, Zav."

"You know me, always looking for the silver lining!"

"Idiot," You smacked his arm lightly and he feigned agony, wincing and rubbing his arm like you'd nearly amputated it.

"So cruel when all I wanna do is help," He moaned with an exaggerated pout.

Refusing to indulge him, you turned to head to your locker and grab what you needed for the Mock Trial, "You're a menace~!"

"You love me anyway~!"

Begrudgingly, you had to admit that, yeah, you did...

He was still a dickhead, though.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Wally had never seen that side of Mr. Martin. Jaw tense, features screwed up in vexation; his feathers ruffled in a way that they had never gotten before. Normally, Mr. Martin was a pillar of even tones and encouragement. The man who'd gracefully assumed the role of leader for their patchwork haunt. He was the glue, the calk, the cement that kept everyone together.

Until Maddie threatened to leave Group to find clues to clear Mr. South's name. The session had already been going off the rails at thunderous speed since Charley had kept probing Maddie for answers. Wally knew it was Charley's manner of trying to unlock her memories, but it only served to get under Mr. Martin's skin and put the man on edge. And, weirdly, spouting Mr. Martin's passive mumbo jumbo, Rhonda seemed to be on his side. She'd never bought into Mr. Martin's advice, as well-meaning as it was, yet, recently, she'd been following him around like a lost duckling and regurgitating his words like they were revelation.

What the hell was going on?

Wally was startled from his thoughts when Mr. Martin said, "Whether your memory returns or not, you're not in a position to help the accused, Maddie." At which Wally and Charley shared a nervous look. "We have no influence over what happens in that world."

Wally flicked his gaze to the back of your head, visible above the back of the first spectators' bench.

"Do we?" Mr. Martin prodded Maddie in a pointed tone. When she didn't answer, he repeated, "Do we have any sway over a living person?" And the expression on Mr. Martin's face might've been docile, but there was something beneath it. Something that made Wally uneasy. "Is there something we're not sharing with the group?"

One more there-and-gone glance at you, and Wally interjected, "Uh, speaking of repressed memories..." He leaned down to grab the psychology textbook he'd boosted from the library.

"We're not," Mr. Martin insisted.

Wally ignored him, desperate to take the heat off him, Maddie, and Charley, "Well, we can, so I will." Wally presented the textbook and assured Maddie that, "We're gonna help you get through this, Maddie, okay?" A hand on her back, his eyes sincere. "We're all going to figure it out." And he believed it was true. Between you and Simon and Xavier; and he, Charley, Ajay, and, hopefully, Rhonda, the odds were in their favor. They'd help Maddie remember and she'd be able to tell you what'd happened to her so you, Simon, and Xavier could go and valiantly retrieve her body like the knights in shining armor you and they were. Wally had faith in that.

"Thank you, Wally," Maddie answered.

What remained of the Group session was rocky and, either defeated or unsettled, Mr. Martin dismissed everyone earlier than he usually did. Before vacating the circle, Wally leaned in to ask Maddie, "Quick question," his voice low to avoid being overheard. She sat back down and waited for him to speak, "The day you ended up here...you didn't by any chance drink tea that probably tastes like soap, did you?"

A hundred questions passed over Maddie's expression as she thought about how to respond. Wally knew it was totally random, but figured it couldn't have hurt to ask. If that tea had drugged you and possibly made fifty to sixty wealthy socialites attend to the whims of a crazy woman, it very well could've been what'd caused Maddie to forget why she'd been in the boiler room in the first place.

Eventually, "No," she answered, and she sounded worried about Wally's mental health. "You think her sister snuck into the school to drug me with her favorite herbal sedative?"

"I just wanted to make sure," Wally defended, "And I'm not saying it was my girl's sister. Amelia could've golem'd—"

"Borrowed," Charley chirped as he came to stand in front of them.

Wally backtracked, "Amelia could've borrowed someone's body and slipped it into your drink at lunch or something."

"She could've spiked my odorless, colorless water with something that smells like a thousand grandmothers' perfumes without me noticing?" Now Maddie was grinning, cheeky, a glint in her eye.

Wally groaned, "If you're going to make fun of me for trying to help, I'm gonna find something else to do with my time." His gaze unintentionally slipped to you.

Maddie raised an eyebrow, followed his line of sight and then smirked, "You mean someone."

"Shut up." To get out of the hot seat, Wally stood and collected his backpack. Together with Rhonda, Wally was pleased to note, they left the gym. As they moved down the hall, "I have an idea," Wally announced, "but I need you to bear with me, okay?"

"Alright," Maddie said, followed by a semi-curious, semi-concerned, "Why?"

"Hey, you agreed to do whatever weird, kooky thing we wanted to try, right?" Wally grinned, "And I wanna start with those triggers I told you about. First up," he turned toward the cafeteria and, without comment, everyone trailed after him, "Do you remember what your last meal was?"

Maddie's nose scrunched as she tried to recall. "Whatever they served in the caf," she said, albeit unsure.

"Great, we just have to check their menu rotation and we'll go from there." Wally was excited for his experiment. His blood pumped and his brain buzzed similar to how he felt on game days. Jittery, but good jittery. Like he was on his way to do something with purpose.

Charley made a face of disgust, saucily recommending, "If it's whatever they try to pass off as fish, we're skipping it."

"We don't have to eat it." Rhonda said, linking her arm with his. Charley beamed at her as if she'd told him Mr. Figueroa could see Charley and wanted a word.

Beside Wally, Maddie snapped, "Thanks. Guys. Love the solidarity."

"Oh-ho-ho no," Wally shook his head as he draped his arm across her shoulders and gave her a friendly squeeze, "This isn't about solidarity. We're here to support you and to try to trigger your memories."

"And torture you with the school's trash fish." Charley added gleefully.

Maddie shot him a glare, shoulders drawing inward and mouth twisting in displeasure, "I think I'm good, actually. I don't need to remember anything."

Wally chuckled, "Too late for take-backs, Maddie."

"It's never too late," Maddie disagreed, "I take it back. I'm taking it back now."

Wally waltzed ahead and opened the cafeteria door, merrily saying, "You'll be fine. It's not like you can kill a ghost, right?"

The look Maddie leveled him with would've withered a lesser man.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Xavier drove in the direction of the old Meheive estate, the truck quiet except for the low drone of the radio. He'd dropped Claire off at her house after the confrontation with his father in the 7-Eleven, and picked you up outside his house. Nanna had returned to the hospital to sit at Ginny's side. Your mother, Alice, was conducting a reiki session at her friend's studio downtown. Aurora had relocated from the guest room to the den where she'd curled up to distract herself with reruns of shit reality television. No one knew you and Xavier were gone.

He'd filled you in on the lunchbreak escapade to the station; how he and Simon had found a clue that pointed to Nicole. As skeptical as Xavier was, you'd altogether refuted the idea that she could be responsible for Maddie's abduction. However...it made a twisted sort of sense to Xavier.

Simon had described the root of the resentment Nicole could've possibly harbored toward Maddie. Toward Simon. And Xavier saw how that could've led to a tragic outburst that had resulted in Maddie's current predicament. Plus, if it had been Nicole, that could've explained why Maddie's body was still alive somewhere. Maybe Nicole hadn't meant for things to escalate how they had and, heart heavy with guilt, Nicole had undertaken being Maddie's warped Florence Nightingale.

"Maybe..." You allowed, but, "It still doesn't feel right."

"Does any of this?" Xavier returned with a rueful smile.

You snorted, "True."

Twenty minutes later and Xavier turned onto a gated dirt road. The gate itself was dilapidated, yawned open, its iron panels slanted away from the frame as if trying to free themselves from their hinges. Xavier drove carefully down the dirt road, no lights to guide him apart from his high beams. The setting felt spooky, Xavier's blood curdling as he maneuvered around fallen branches and deep pits in the dirt. No lights. Just dark and trees and whatever hid within them.

One would think the town would've maintained the property. A heritage sight owned by the family of one of Split River's founders. Apparently, no one had had the incentive since, when Xavier drove to the crest of the horseshoe driveway, the house itself was completely run down. It had the essence of grandeur in its woodwork and architecture, but he could tell it had long since been abandoned to the elements.

He saw the ghosts at school, therefore knew that building was haunted, but it didn't feel it. The Maheive estate, however...it emanated profound melancholy, enough that it urged Xavier to turn around and put as much distance as he could between it and him.

Fighting his instincts, Xavier glanced at you when he parked, reached over and took your hand to give it a squeeze.

"You ready?" He asked softly.

You didn't respond. Simply inhaled a rattled breath and returned the squeeze before opening the truck door to climb out. You waited at the nose of the truck for him and, just as he reached you, his vision shifted. Or perhaps it was the world around him, because the house had suddenly changed. He rubbed the meat of his palms into his sockets and looked again, but the house remained pristine. Turrets proud and mended, shingles restored, paintwork smooth and intact.

"What the hell?" Xavier muttered, astonished.

Without looking at him, "Even homes have ghosts if they had enough life made in them," you said, then smiled sadly, "This is how the house is perceived in the world of the dead."

"So, why don't I see the school any differently?"

"It's still alive." You shrugged like that made an iota of sense. Xavier went with it, though, not sure if he wanted another magic lesson. Your voice in his head chided him that it's not magic, but Xavier was having a harder and harder time believing that. A ghost house sounded like something a wizard would say. And wizards? Notorious for wielding magic.

"So, is this how I'm going to see every abandoned building from now on?"

You seemed to consider that for a moment and then, "I think it depends on the building." You turned your head to gaze at Xavier and instructed, "Just look closer."

Xavier peered at the house, but he didn't know what he was supposed to have been looking for—wait. There. Beneath the reminiscence was the decayed reality. Two images overlayed to create a new composite. A house trapped between life and death.

"This is both very cool and very terrifying," Xavier commented.

He trailed behind you as you made your way up the front stairs, minding your steps. Carelessly trod over the fallen screen door that was also in perfect condition on its hinges. Watching you pull it open while not pulling it open was a trip that made Xavier a little queasy. The unnaturalness of it disagreed with his brain.

You hesitated with your hand on the main door's polished-tarnished handle. Understanding, Xavier took over—it was unlocked—and put a hand on your back to guide you inside when he pushed the door inward. He felt a chill zip through his skeleton, the hairs on the back of his neck standing as he stepped over the threshold. The air felt thin and cold. Inside, the house was stately, something one would see in a British period drama. Beautifully woven rugs and old-fashioned wallpaper; portraits and paintings in goldleaf frames; candlelight in the hall and carbon arc in the rooms.

Xavier's mouth hung open as he took it all in. "This is insane," he said as the urge to snoop rose within him.

What? It wasn't every day he'd have the chance to explore a ghost house from eighteen-dickity-six. While he could see the weathered and decrepit interior beneath the ghostly mirage, the mirage itself was still marvelous to behold.

As he'd done at the place on 10th and Lasher, Xavier clasped your hand. For support. For safety. For comfort. For all of the above. And right then, a bell rang. The clangy, old-fashioned kind with a clapper and string. The sound came from the back and, cautiously, Xavier led you further into the house, down the hall, into what had been yet still was a small kitchen. You and he froze when a woman trotted away from the dinner bell screwed into the wall, to the oven where she stirred something in a stock pot.

Xavier's heart slammed behind his ribs and his grip on your hand tightened. Spooked, he shot you a look, except you weren't paying attention. Not to him. Not to the woman. No. Rather, your eyes were cemented to a door at the back of the room. Jesus, was that the cellar door? Xavier's question was almost immediately answered when it opened and two people emerged. A man in military garb. And a young boy clutching a stuffed lion.

"Oh my God." Xavier croaked, breath caught in his throat. His stomach lurched as Aiden skipped to the oven and grinned up at the woman. Behind Aiden, the man—Christopher, Xavier speculated—called Aiden's name and gestured for Aiden to, "go sit at the table, champ."

Your hand shook in Xavier's and he could hear you taking gasping, little inhales that hiccupped when Aiden stopped in his journey to the next room. He turned his head and looked right at you, a toothy smile then sweeping his mouth.

"Sissy May!" He squealed and ran to you.

Xavier choked, swallowed, released your hand as you knelt to Aiden's level. Your eyes were glistening with unshed tears, smile forced as you greeted your brother for the first time in six years. Dear Aiden, who'd been in that house since his death, unbeknownst to his family that had grieved him.

Aiden appeared exactly as Xavier remembered him. Small and excitable, a kid with more energy than he knew what to do with. His crooked grin and brilliant green eyes that gazed at you with unconditional love. Xavier wasn't as strong as you; collapsed to his knees as he heard Aiden ask innocently if you and Zavvy had come for supper.

"We're having Martha's stew again and it's very good." He informed you, so matter-of-fact and polite, like Alice was around to observe his behavior.

Xavier recalled how similar he and Aiden had been, Aiden's restlessness mirroring what Xavier had been like as a boy. Alice had often been at wit's end just as Xavier's mother had. Which is likely why Xavier had felt a connection with Aiden unlike anyone else. A protectiveness and loyalty that had led him to including Aiden in everything Xavier did with you.

"We-we can't, Aiden," You apologized, voice rough as you spoke, "Maybe next time."

Aiden pouted at his rainboots. "You never wanna hang out with me."

Xavier felt hot tears roll down his cheeks. He placed his hand between your shoulder blades, a gentle reminder that he was there if you needed him.

You laughed, thick and wet, blinking up at the ceiling to control your own tears. A sniff and then, "You know, that's honestly the only thing I've wanted do for a long time...is hang out with you."

"Then why can't you stay?" Aiden grumbled, petulant, pulling the same guilt-trippy stunt he'd pulled countless times when you'd decreed that he hadn't been allowed to join the slumber parties you and Xavier had had as kids. Aiden's face remained downturned, but his eyes watched you through his lashes.

Frankly, Xavier wanted to know as well. He was happy to sit at a table and eat ghost food if it meant spending time with a child he'd considered his brother. Even for one night. Just one night.

"It's late," You explained, and to Xavier's ears it sounded as if you were struggling to get the words out, "And we have to be home before we get in trouble, but," you paused, whimpered, "I promise to come back, okay?" With that resilience and acceptance only children have, Aiden agreed and smiled again. "Can I..." you sniffled, "Can I have a hug before I go, Addy?"

"What's the magic word~." Aiden sang and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

You laughed through your tears, "Pleeeease can I have a hug?"

Instantly, Aiden crashed forward into your arms, tucked his head into your throat and let you embrace him. Xavier placed a hand on Aiden's back, a sob punching out of his chest when he made contact. He wrapped an arm around you, the other around Aiden, and held you both close. His body trembled. His teeth clenched. And he cried as soundlessly as he could so as not to disturb the moment. It wasn't long enough, the hug, but it healed something in Xavier's heart.

Christopher called Aiden's name from the other room and Aiden squirmed out of your and Xavier's embrace.

"I have to go," He said like a little gentleman, so articulate, and, "Love you, Sissy," he planted a sloppy kiss on your cheek. He did the same to Xavier, "Bye, Zavvy," before he cheerfully turned and speed walked through the entry to the adjoining room, stuffed lion crushed to his chest.

You and Xavier helped each other stand and, without having to direct him, Xavier crossed the kitchen and peeked through the entry way into what he discovered was a well dressed formal dining room. You pressed into his side to see for yourself that there were more ghosts around the enormous table apart from Aiden, Christopher, and the mystery woman Xavier assumed was Martha.

Men and women, young and old; a few teenagers no younger than fifteen. The ghosts' clothes spanned the decades from what Xavier guessed was the 1940s onward. As he stood in the entry, clearly visible, overtly analyzing them, he was surprised to realize that none of them seemed to notice. It was like you and Xavier didn't exist to them, Aiden included.

"It's a loop," You murmured, voice cracking, "Right now, we're not even here."

"But he just spoke to us," Xavier said.

You snorted, the sound weak and lacking humor, "They can come out of it from time to time, but as soon as they reenter the loop, they forget." After a pregnant pause, "How many do you count?" you whispered as your eyes flicked from one figure to the next.

Xavier tallied, "Twelve."

"Me too."

As soon as you spoke, Xavier felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Reluctantly, he backed away from the entry, away from Aiden who was slurping his stew, his spoon absurdly large in his tiny hand. The text was from Simon, an update informing Xavier and, by extension, you, that Nicole hadn't hurt Maddie. That she'd taken a misconceived route to buy herself a ticket to Chicago.

Xavier had to peel you away from the entry, had to hold you close as you seemed to turn hollow in the wake of witnessing your little brother forget you were there, his consciousness overwritten by the loop that'd seized he and Christopher for six years.

"Come on, kiddo," Xavier said calmly, "We got what we needed. We should go."

"There might be others," You advised, but you didn't argue when Xavier opened the passenger side door of his truck for you.

"There might be," He agreed, staring at the house, "but it's almost 9PM and we don't want to get caught, right?" He offered you a weak smile, accepting the hug you drew him into and rubbing your back soothingly. He kissed your head and helped get you settled in your seat before moving to the driver's side.

Revisiting that place had taken a toll on you—and, if he was being honest with himself, him—and Xavier wanted to get you away from there. He could tell you were sinking deeper and deeper into the memory of when you'd last been there, your gaze distant and glossy. Your curled up in your seat, slanted against the inside of the door. Xavier reached over the console and lifted your hand. An anchor. To remind you of what was real, where you were, who you were with.

Just as he was about to pull onto the freeway from the dirt road, you mumbled, "We need to stop at my house," your tone as fragile as it was firm

Xavier asked anyway, "What for?"

"Zav," and, slowly, you turned your head. Xavier was struck by how sick and shaken you looked. However, with what you said next, Xavier understood why, "Aiden didn't have Limon when he died..."

💀___________________________

PART FIVE - PART SEVEN

note: we begin our mad dash to the finish line anew 💣 i took @patrickispinky's advice and got some very much needed rest over the weekend, but i'm greased up and ready to smash this out ⌛

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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.

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

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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.

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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 (•¯ ∀ ¯•)

Happy birthday to Milo Manheim and happy last episode of school spirits (i haven't got to watch it yet 😭)

I'm slowly but surely getting back on my grind. Working on a Mr.Martin request (ion wanna hear anyone saying it weird okay, ask and you shall receive.) No clue when the next part of Sex, Drugs, Etc. is gonna be out because it takes a little more time than requests but hopefully I can get it done soon. Love y'all 💞😘

may the 4th be with you

been waiting all year to say this shit

Alphabet Soup

NSFW alphabet challenge (request) pairing: grey!Wally Clark x fem!reader premise: the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it. (Janet and Wally are dating to increase their social value. Meanwhile, Wally wants to get closer to her step-sister. You.) warnings: smut. AU - modern setting. romanticized toxic behavior. cheating (not on you). egregious use of the word 'baby'. all oneshots for this collection will be linked as they come out.

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A is for the addiction Wally develops once he sets his sights on you. He's feral with it. Can't get enough of your skin under his fingertips; your shapes fitted against his; the sounds you make when he takes you apart with his teeth and his tongue and his dirty fucken mouth. So different from the public persona he sheds the second you're behind closed doors.

B is for bad ideas. Like the one that crept in behind his eyelids the instant he noticed you, cute and soft and sweet as a kitten. God, he wanted to do something about it right there. In front of the roomful of people between you, no fucks given. Wally's impulsive on a good day and reckless on a bad day, and you inspire too many fantasies that he can't not want to live out.

C is for competency, control; the single-minded intensity Wally has for every task. How he moves with a perfect combination of aggression and grace on the field, catching the ball from the QB. Touchdown. How he folds over the hood of your car and fiddles with cables and tightens bolts and fixes the rattle in the engine. How he holds his own desire at bay to bring you to the edge, over and over and over again until you sob. How he makes you come as soon as he slides home, grinds in, measured and slow, making it last as long as he wants before taking pity on you and fucking you into the mattress.

D is for Wally's dirty mouth. The things he rasps at you as he takes you apart with his fingers, his mouth, his cock. "You feel so good, baby,"—"fuck, I love the way you taste,"—"I want you to come on my tongue,"—"that's it, fuck, yeah, don't stop, baby, just like that, so good for me, such a good girl..." His fingers dig into your hips as he guides you in his lap, up-down-grind-repeat; his lips on your throat, teeth in your skin, marking you up so everyone knows you belong to someone. Belong to him.

E is for the effort Wally finds himself making to see you smile. It's stupid, he thinks, because it's not like he loves you. He's horny and putting out isn't part of the deal he and Janet made at the end of Junior year. But then he sees some jackass try to touch you, making jokes Wally doesn't find funny, drawling that he'll treat you special and make you see God as you shove and kick at him. Then you start crying and Wally sees red. Steps in. Pummels the guy's nose into his skull so hard, Wally's knuckles are scraped and bloody when he caresses your face and kisses your forehead. Promises to drive you home from the party. "Fuck that guy, baby girl, he won't touch you again."

F is for the way Wally shamelessly flirts with you. The back-and-forth you and he have when surrounded by people. Dark and husky, leaning in close with his back to Janet who's too busy with her drones to care what Wally's up to. You're fierce and funny and you flirt right back once you're comfortable enough, but Wally's had a lot of practice and knows how you get you hot with the right inflections. Eyes dark and heavy, lips brushing your ear, breath ghosting your skin while his fingers trail over your hip, "I bet you'd look better on your knees for me, baby."

G is for the God-given talent Wally has. You know the one. That one he weaponizes when he wants you to stop being stubborn, be a good girl, behave. He spreads your legs, kisses down your body, then delivers his bribe; tongue-deep inside you, making out with your pussy it's like a gourmet dessert de la crème. He could spend hours there if you let him, moaning when you grind your pretty pink kitty against him, so close, Wally, oh God—it's all he needs to sustain himself.

H is for how Wally holds you down against the mattress; up against the wall; in his lap as he sits back on his haunches, one arm banded around your waist, the other braced behind him as he rolls his hips up, sharp thrusts and deep grinds into you, "That's it, baby, keep bouncing on daddy's cock...just like that...fuck." His big hand clasps your thigh when he flips you onto your back, pushing it up as far as your flexibility will allow, spreading you open for him, wanting to get as deep as he can, wanting to make you scream his name and forget your own.

I is for the intensity of Wally's stare as he watches you from across the room, his eyes tracking you as you laugh with your friends. He strips you in his mind, licks his lips as you expose your thigh when you cross your legs. A flash of pink lace, the panties Wally asked you to wear, that make his jeans tight and his lids heavy. He cups himself through the denim, casual, sprawled on the opposite couch, gaze smoothing up your legs to your hips to your collar, fucking you with his eyes until you notice and give your friends an excuse to follow Wally to the bathroom.

J is for the jealousy Wally has to keep tightly contained in his bones whenever he sees another guy approach you. Like Jacob from Pre Cal, who flirts with you as if he doesn't know you belong to someone else. Wally is too obvious, he's aware, glaring daggers at the retinue of possible others who dare step into your space. Careful, collected, Wally has to smile like he doesn't notice them as he struts over and positions himself at your back, hands on your hips to drag you against him, ass fitted into the cradle of his pelvis. He watches in satisfaction as the dipshits take their leave with their tails between their legs.

K is for how Wally kisses you. The variety of ways. Pushy and ruthless when he's agitated; too much energy and no outlet. Or soft and slow when he just wakes up, liquid smile and heavy eyes, hand cupping your jaw like you're something precious. He nips and tugs your lips with his teeth when a teammate makes a comment just this side of not fucking funny, Gary and Wally isn't allowed to do anything about it. Sometimes, his kisses are sharp, honed, exactly what you want to feel so he can get what he wants. Always, his kisses are stolen. Behind locked doors, in dark corners, wherever he can snatch them from you without getting caught.

L is for the feeling Wally is terrified to label. The one that blooms in his chest whenever you touch him, smile at him, say his name, move, breathe, exist. Shit. It's warm and tingly and drives him to distraction because this is just a fun way to pass the time, to make things more interesting; he can't want you like that... But he does.

M is for the mess Wally makes of you when he fucks you in an alley or an empty classroom or behind the stadium. Thick cock slamming into you until you come at least twice, your panties around your ankles, his jeans at his thighs, pounding into you as he grips your hips so hard you bruise. He pulls out just enough to paint your pussy with his come, smearing it through your wetness with the tip of his cock, letting his spend and your juices trickle down your leg. And when you're forced to wipe yourself off with your ruined panties, he pockets them before you can throw them away, smug and satisfied.

N is for the fact that there's nothing Wally won't try with you, do for you, take from you. He wants everything you have to give. Is determined to taste every inch of you, from top to bottom, back to front, he doesn't care, he wants it all. He's never been this consumed by someone, thinks it'll fade the more he fucks it out of his system. It doesn't work. There's always a next time, and a next, and a next. And every time he leaves wanting more.

O is for Wally's inability to be subtle when you're around. Overt, obvious, open stares of lust when you walk into a room regardless of who else is in it. His heartbeat quickens, his breathing shallows, and he feels like a mutt in rut. All dark eyes and desirous smirks, hands grazing your body when you get close enough. He thinks he's slick, secretive, getting away with murder. But the truth is, he couldn't hide how he feels about you if someone put a gun to his head.

P is for the pleasure Wally takes in pampering you. He's a gentleman like that. What makes you happy makes him happy and, fuck, he loves to dote on you. From opening car doors to surprising you with your favorite Starbucks order. Showering you in presents he thinks you'll fill out perfectly for him. His pretty little passenger princess; a precious paper doll that he dresses up like a gift just to unwrap immediately with greedy fingers.

Q is for the question Wally wants to ask but can't. The one that makes things official. That ties him to commitment and expectation. Ignoring that you're the only place he's getting his dick wet, he's not ready for that. Until he catches himself smiling—soft and fond and affectionate—when you send a text that has nothing to do with where you want him to fuck you next. And, ah hell, maybe he does want to ask. Too bad he doesn't have the nerve.

R is for how riveted, rapturous, fucking obsessed Wally is when you ride him. No matter what he claims—"your turn to do all the work, baby"—he can't hold back, always fucks up into you, flushed, panting, hands clenching your hips and stroking your thighs and squeezing your ass. He watches your body, sweet liquid movements as you ride his cock like a goddess, and comes faster than he otherwise would. But that's fine because Wally has the refractory period of a fucking nympho.

S is for those soft, sweet, silly moments that you share. The ones he coaxes out of you during the domestic lulls between fucks. He invited you over for the weekend, Janet at some friend's lake house and Wally's parents visiting his aunt one state over. Perfect timing. And it is all hard thrusts and pinned wrists and love bites on your thighs, but then it's jokes over pancakes. Forehead kisses as he holds you in the shower. Hand-holding while you walk to the gas station for snacks, his thumb sweeping the back of your hand like he loves you. Sentimental.

T is for the toys Wally loves to tease you with. He's not afraid to introduce other means of stimulation into the mix. He'll do anything if it makes you shake apart for him; if it'll make you whimper and beg for more before you plead for him to stop, too much, Wally, it's too much, I can't as he presses the vibrator against your clit. He never listens, too enraptured by the expression of pleasure on your face, the way your body responds for him, fuck, yes, "that's it, baby, come for me again, show daddy how good you feel."

U is for how uncharacteristic, unpredictable, underutilized Wally's control has become since he started this with you. He was the image of dark and dominant behind closed doors, but, three months in, he can't keep himself in check. If he has you—against a wall, in the backseat of his car, in bed, in the shower, in. on. against—his control snaps as soon as you make a single sound of wanting pleasure. He goes feral for those noises. They're his complete undoing. And he'd surrender everything you asked for just to hear them one more time.

V is for the voice notes you and Wally swap when you and he aren't together. When he hasn't had a chance to sneak away from Janet or football practice or homework in too long and he's desperate for release. He strokes himself to the tempo of your whimpers and sighs, fucks his fist when he gets to the edge before slowing down and switching voice to video. He loves to show you what you do to him, how heavy and flushed and thirsty he is for you. "Your pussy sounds so nice and wet...now show me how you want me to fuck you, baby."

W is for every whim and want Wally indulges. Of yours. Of his. Mostly of his. Gluttonous and gourmand. You want to taste caramel on his cock? Go for it, baby. He wants to get messy with whipped cream? Okay, daddy. He wants to tease you with vibrating panties while you're trying to eat at that new place on Lasher? Okay, daddy. He wants to tie you up and spank you because you came before he said you could? Fuck, yes, daddy! ... Good girl.

X marks the spot Wally hammers into at exactly the right angle when he's feeling generous. And he always feels generous with you. He's addicted to the way you look when you come. Because he did that. He made that happen. It's empowering and euphoric and he can't get enough even though he should've by now.

Y is a word followed by 'not'. A question you ask when Wally hoists you into his arms and pins you to the wall with his hips after one of the leads in the school play asks you out. He grinds against you, cock throbbing, head angry, and reminds you who you belong to; why you can't say yes to Alex Greenberg even though it's all pot kettle black. Still, as he tears your panties at the seam and fucks you with abandon, desperate and aggressive, he makes a convincing argument.

Z is for how it ends. With her, not with you, because Wally's too far into the addiction and wouldn't last a day without getting his fix. He needs you. Wants you. Fucking shit, he loves you. So it's goodbye Queen Bee Janet and hello to her silly, sexy bombshell of a step-sister. Wally has no regrets, his hand on your ass as he walks you into Homecoming, fist-bumping his friends and saluting the principal. He loses his crown and doesn't care at all, too wrapped up in you to notice. Hands on your hips, brow against his, fitted perfectly against him like a puzzle piece.

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above and below are the links to the complete collection of Alphabet Soup. you can also find all related content HERE as well as reformatted chapters on AO3.

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A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Valentine's Day Headcanons

Wally Clark x Reader

Warnings: Slight ep.5 spoiler but not really, its the brief mention of a scene but not actually what happens. fluff

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This man would go all out for valentines day… well as out as he can while trapped in the school. 

I'm talking spending hours making a bouquet of paper flowers for you. Technically he could probably get some from the greenhouse but that's not as romantic as making them himself. 

Most of your gifts will be stolen from living students on valentines day. Okay just about all of them but still he makes it seem romantic.

Movie night, huge stuffed bear, and a shit ton of chocolate. It’s a perfect night. You don’t like chocolate? Don’t worry he's got eyes everywhere watching for someone to walk in with something that you like. Technically it's just him and Charly but he makes it seem all dramatic like he’s got every ghost looking out. 

Sweet little makeout session in the greenhouse while you ask him why he didn’t just get you normal flowers. He’d shut you up with another kiss because he ain’t got time for all your questions when he's trying to get freaky.  (Ignore me i'm losing my mind after the pool scene) 

I’ve said it once and I'll say it again, cuddles cuddles CUDDLES. He doesn't care when or where he always just wants to wrap you in his arms and smother you with love. Sweet gentle kisses and whispers of praise. (SOMEBODY SEDATE ME) 

You’d force him to watch A Walk to Remember and he’d cry like a baby. “And they say romance is dead.” Said through pitiful sobs. 

He’d make you slow dance with him. I mean SLOOOOOW. Like staring into your soul with the biggest smile imaginable while you two hold onto each other and barely move. More sweet kisses and gentle words as he rocks you back and forth. 

(Okay thats all. I swear I'm working on Sex, Drugs, Etc. I just needed a break from all the sadness. Anyways imma go convince my friend to be my valentine because he has no free will in our friendship. Hope you enjoy my descent into madness. 😀)

Derek: are you the big spoon or the little spoon?

Emily: i'm the knife

Jj: *from across the room* she's the little spoon

Starting a collection

October Moon

summary: information had finally started to come to light. things had been falling into place, for better or worse. you and Wally had had to keep keep going, no matter the cost, but at least you and he had had each other to lean on when you'd realized that not everything had been as it'd seemed.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

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

bon reading, frens

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OCTOBER MOON pt.9

"She was such a quiet girl, you know..." Nanna said softly, holding Ginny's hand as she spoke. Her eyes were distant as she fell into the past, reliving memories of their childhood. Ginny was much older than Nanna. Nanna had been a surprise after their mother, your great-grandmother, had been told she wouldn't have been able to create—never mind carry—another baby. Nanna was the youngest of five; Albert, Violet-Anne, Arvin, Virginia-Amrose, and then surprise baby Abigail.

Your family didn't see much of Nanna and Ginny's siblings. There wasn't a specific reason for it that you knew of, just a lot of distance in between that had deterred your less familiar great-aunt and her brothers from reaching out. After the death of their parents to a house fire, the elder siblings had moved on from Split River and that had been that. They were probably dead—definitely Albert who'd had to have been well into triple digits if he was still alive.

"What changed?" You finally asked, gazing at Ginny as she slept, oxygen tube down her throat. That was the worst you'd ever seen her. Your eyes pricked and your stomach clenched, and you so badly yearned for her to wake up. To hug you, pet your hair, tell you that you were being ridiculous worrying over her.

Nanna chuckled, her thumb stroking the back of Ginny's hand, "The reason her lungs are so weak." She said, quiet, tired, "The fire."

"The fire made her more—" Blunt, dramatic, stubborn, batshit insane with a warm heart and a warmer smile. You settled for, "Loud?"

"It scared her. You come face to face with death like that, sweetpea, and it changes you. Either for good or for bad." Nanna cast you an amused smile, "I like to believe that's why you and Aiden were so mischievous. Obnoxious little munchkins, the both of you."

"What do you mean?" You asked around the lump in your throat, pictured Aiden at that farmhouse as he clutched Limon and ate stew made by the specter of a stranger.

Nanna gave you a surprised look, one that indicated you should've known what she meant. She told you anyway, "Aurora was an easy birth. Out in minutes. Pink and squalling like a banshee." She chuckled, shaking her head with a fond smile. "But you...you were impatient. Wanted to be in the world as soon as possible." She paused, patted your knee, "You came early. Such a small thing." Nanna's smile fell, "You weren't breathing. But," Her smile returned, "They saved you. You recovered quickly and I have a feeling my wily sister had something to do with it..." Nanna gave Ginny a playful look of bemusement, "You didn't have to suffer years of treatments like most unlucky infants."

Amelia's words rung in your head like the knell of a church bell: Death ushered them into the world and left a piece of himself within them. So...you'd been delivered with Death at your heels. Amelia had mentioned that that was how you could interact with the metaphysical world and those who inhabited it. Holy shit.

"And Aiden?"

Nanna sighed, "Poor little bug." She made the sign of the cross, something she only ever did when Aiden was mentioned. "I always wondered if he knew..." She shook her head as if to dispel the very thought and diverted, "He was blue as a violet. The cord had...had wrapped itself around his neck. He was dead for almost a minute before they revived him..." Nanna's eyes glistened. She gazed over her sister again, lips pinched in despair.

Death had had its arms open for Aiden since the day he was born, you mourned. You weren't surprised that Nanna thought it possible that Aiden knew, somehow, someway, that he wasn't destined for a long life. If anyone in the house would've known, it would've been her. She'd examined his palms the same as she'd done everyone else's...

"Did you know?" You had to ask, uncomfortable that you hadn't remembered until now exactly what your grandmother's connectedness was capable of. "That he wouldn't live long?"

Her face was grim as the reaper, eyes haunted, "I hoped against it. Reading the Awen isn't precise, sweetpea. And I prayed, in that instance, I was wrong."

But she hadn't been. You almost wanted to confess to her about Aiden and the farmhouse and the other ghosts. You didn't, of course, but you suddenly realized how ill-equipped you were to face everything alone. The responsibility of stopping Amelia, and retrieving Maddie's body, and freeing the ghosts. Freeing Wally. It was a vise that strangled your heart without remorse.

Nanna brought the conversation back to Ginny, faraway eyes and compassionate smile, "That fire might've weakened her body, but it strengthened her spirit." She ended wistfully, "Few realize that Death is also capable of giving gifts. It can be kind as it can be cruel."

It moved you, how much Nanna cared for Ginny. As much as they bickered, Nanna and Ginny were close. Two peas in a pod. Ginny had taken care of Nanna after their parents had died; she'd assumed the role of mother and father and sister in one fell swoop since none of their older siblings would do it.

They sounded like a selfish bunch and—as you stared at Ginny's ashen face—you thought fuck them for not being there. Fuck them for allowing the distance to matter. Fuck them for ignoring or avoiding or pretending your family didn't exist because they'd rather have let everything fall apart at a time they should've come together.

Minutes later, Nanna excused herself to fetch a cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria, leaving with a kiss on your head and a squeeze of your shoulder. You took her place in the chair beside Ginny, held her hand in yours, and tried to tamp down the slurry of emotions that rose within you.

After a long moment of silence, you choked, "Everything's fucked up." A plea to someone who couldn't hear you. She couldn't travel, you imagined because her body and mind were too weak, but you desperately needed her right now. Or you needed to finally unload the burden of truth on someone you could trust because it had become too much. "There weren't stupid storms or squalls or whatever you and mom said there would be. But it feels worse. Like everything is out of control—"

A thick sniffle, a hiccup, "Maddie's a ghost and her body is missing. I think there's someone out there who wants to use the ghosts...use...shit, use Wally...to glue them in it," A thought you hadn't shared out loud until now because it scared you more than you wanted it to. Your voice broke when you continued, "I--I don't know what to do... I-I don't even know where to look. Or how to look. I need help, Ginny. Xavier and Simon are great and they want to help, they do, but they don't know this stuff and now I'm expected to be a walking encyclopedia and—" A self-deprecating snort, "Fuck. I barely know anything..."

The heart monitor beeped a steady rhythm. The ventilator whirred. Ginny remained a gaunt statue in repose.

You leaned over and pressed your forehead to the back of her hand, hot tears falling onto her cold skin, "Please wake up..."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon ran his thumb over the pendant, his other hand in Maddie's as she urged him to lure her mother to the school. Get her here, he heard Maddie plead, I always know when she's lying. But Simon's mind was elsewhere, his eyes flicking over the pendant's design, teeth clenched as he berated himself. He should've asked more questions when he'd—God dammit, the answers might've been right fucking there and he'd been too busy monitoring his pleases and thank yous.

He couldn't believe he hadn't recognized the pendant the night of the dance, strung around someone else's neck. One of a pair, your great-aunt had told him. Maddie had worn the necklace every day since he'd known her. A gift from her father she rarely, if ever, removed.

Without acknowledging Maddie's insistence to get Sandra in a room with her, Simon asked, "You said your dad gave this to you?"

Maddie's teeth clicked when she abruptly closed her mouth, visibly stunned that Simon would ask that now. A brief moment of contemplation and then, "Yeah. Right before he died."

"And you're sure about that?" Simon's eyes never left the pendant, but his grip on Maddie's hand tightened marginally, a gesture expressing that it was important, that he needed her to be precise.

"Yeah." One beat. Two. "I mean, not really. I got it in the mail. Mom said he sent it when he was still in Texas and that it had taken longer to get there than he did. He was back for a couple of weeks before..." Maddie trailed off. Simon could fill in the blanks. Christopher had been home for a couple of weeks before he'd killed himself while wearing your body like a meat puppet.

"In the mail?" Simon prompted as he released her hand to cup her jaw, gaze boring into hers. "And you're sure your dad was the one who sent it?"

Maddie swallowed. "Yeah. It was definitely him."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Simon, I'm sure." Prickly, fierce. "My dad sent it. I know he sent it."

Simon pulled her closer to press their brows together, soothing her, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, Mads, I just want to make sure that we have all the facts."

"Why?" Maddie asked and leaned back to examine him because he wasn't making sense.

Simon hesitated for a moment, unsure how to put into words the weird coincidence he was beginning to think wasn't a coincidence at all. "When I went to pick her up for the Homecoming dance... Maddie, her great-aunt had exactly the same pendant. Ginny said that it was one of a pair, earrings or something, but she lost the other one a while ago."

Maddie frowned and then her face went slack in shock, "You think her great-aunt might've been the one to give it to me?"

Simon shook his head, frustrated, confused, steadily more defeated as he realized he was so far out of his depth that he couldn't hold his head above water anymore, "I don't know." He slumped, rubbed his eyes, and gave Maddie a look of apology. "But we have to find out. Someone has to know."

"Si, I know my dad gave me that necklace. I can't explain it, it's just a—"

"Feeling?" Simon finished for her, weak smile curving his lips. "Yeah. I believe you, Maddie," He assured her, grasping both her hands in his as he bowed toward her to give her a soft, sweet kiss. "I'm not saying he didn't. But if it's the missing earring, maybe she gave it to him or maybe he took it. For a reason."

"What...what reason?" Maddie asked hesitantly, bits and pieces of information scattered in her mind like shattered glass.

"Ginny's in the hospital. And your dad's..." Dead, he refused to say, already guilty that he'd had to bring this up in the first place. "Your mom might know something. Like you said, you can tell when she's lying."

"Get her here." Maddie reiterated. "And we can figure out if—if my mom..."

Cutting her off, "Okay," Simon put the necklace back in the manila envelope, folded it, and shoved it in his back pocket before promising, "Okay, I'll figure something out."

Maddie sat silently for a long moment, gazing into the middle distance, so worn and small that Simon nearly choked on his heart looking at her. Sandra might not have been the best mom, but she was Maddie's and Maddie loved her. Simon couldn't imagine Sandra hurting Maddie, and yet... People turned into strangers when their souls were broken and they had enough booze in their veins to breathe fire.

He had no clue how the pieces fit together. If Sandra had the answers to all the questions Simon and Maddie had. Why Maddie was a ghost. Why Maddie's dad had gifted her a necklace with a pendant on it that belonged to your family. The two things were connected, Simon was sure, but he didn't know how.

As he stood, Maddie stopped him with a light touch to his hip, "Simon?" She rose to her feet and shuffled into his space, looped her arms around his neck and held him, "Yesterday, what you said about whether or not us figuring it out means me moving on—"

"Don't worry about that right now," Simon murmured into her hair. It was jarring, how she didn't smell like anything. Just clean air. He stammered, "I was being selfish."

Maddie tilted back a fraction and said firmly, "You're never selfish," which made Simon's heart skip a beat and break in a single moment.

"Maddie...if it was her," He started, nervous to voice his concern, his fear, though he had to understand, "Are you sure you wanna know?"

She didn't answer. Simply tucked her head into the crook of his neck and held him close.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

The inevitable was already underway. There was nothing Mr. Martin could do about it, no way to postpone it or change the outcome. He couldn't sabotage Amelia's plan, it was impossible given her influence; a worm in his brain slithering between the ridges and festering his conscience. It was a failsafe, she'd explained. She'd been betrayed in the past and Mr. Martin had understood, had allowed her to cast her spell and shape him into whatever she needed him to be.

Still, the fact that the night was finally upon them, after decades of waiting, made him wonder if he'd been mistaken to have trusted her word.

If Janet had been right... No. Janet was wrong. Wrong. She was clever, sure—the ideal candidate to complete their circle—yet callow in more ways than was suited to what Amelia had required of her character. Rhonda was a decent if rough substitute. Too new. Too neglected. Mr. Martin wasn't allowed to divulge more than necessary to her, and that seemed to be the wrong approach since now Rhonda was just as riled up as the rest of them when he needed her to focus.

Dawn's ascension had happened while he'd been in the fallout shelter, thus he hadn't succumbed to it to the same degree his students had. Nevertheless, he'd felt it. Felt that peace. That warmth. That omniscient truth that he'd never felt before because crossing over was supposed to be impossible inside the barrier. In that one moment, everything he'd done to help Amelia seemed cursed. Which included his poor luck in inspiring Rhonda's full submission.

It didn't matter now, did it? That slimy part of his mind tried to justify in a voice that wasn't his. The gears had begun to turn, the machine already in motion. No one would be hurt. Not more than they'd already been, at least, and it was far too late to regret what he and Janet had done to bring everyone together. Moving forward was the only option and after all was said and done, he'd pay his penance.

Wally and Charley and Rhonda spoke over each other, a cacophony of questions with no answers. None that he was at liberty to give. He plucked a thread from his blazer, hands shaking because of what it signified that his clothes were deteriorating instead of resetting as they'd done since 1958.

"—the light at the same time as the goosebumps. Simultaneous goosebumps." Wally ranted between Charley's retelling of what they'd experienced. Mr. Martin's collar suddenly felt too tight.

Bernie and Katelynn agreed and confirmed and Mr. Martin wanted the ground to open and swallow him whole. He had to keep them in line. Just a few more hours. A few more hours and it would be over and he'd be free... The noise of their curiosity caused his mouth to dry, heartbeat too quicken, palms to get clammy. He had to have faith, but it was dwindling with every second he listened to his sentient students describe Dawn's ascension from their points of view.

Their eyes were on him, pinning him in place as he fidgeted. He strung together the right words in the wrong context, anything to supplicate them, but they continued to press like walls closing in. And then Mina's face, sad and scared, seared behind his eyes and he couldn't manage the pressure.

"After all these years, how can you still be so clueless?" Charley demanded and Mr. Martin absorbed it like he'd absorbed Amelia's outrage when Janet had vandalized a plan that had been decades in the making.

It had been such a struggle to attain the right pieces and set them on the board. Amelia had been righteous in her anger. A glorious, beautiful blaze of fury that had left Mr. Martin wounded and weak. All because of Janet who'd argued his ear off for weeks. Who'd rearranged the board under his nose in order to steal what didn't belong to her.

"What if looking back isn't a bad thing?" Charley hounded, "What if it's actually the key to get out of here!? Why shouldn't we at least try that?"

They weren't allowed. They weren't allowed to look back. Unlike treacherous Janet, Mr. Martin had obeyed the rule. He'd crafted so many lies, so many perfect explanations that Amelia had praised, yet, now, she didn't trust him fully despite his fealty. What would it take for her to forgive him!? WHAT WOULD IT TAKE!?

"Because it's painful to constantly be thinking about it!" Hearing his own words, Mr. Martin knew he would forever remain her devoted servant. In sickness and health, not even death could do them part. "Right!?"

There were still two pawns on the board. Two vessels. One for him. One for her. Let Janet die a second time in Maddie's body. By morning, Maddie's ghost wouldn't exist anymore to need it.

Just a few more hours, he told himself, and it would be over.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Wally kissed you like it was the last time. Slow, deep, explorative; memorizing every shape and taste of your mouth as he held you by the hips in his lap.

The school was empty aside from the teachers involved in the awards ceremony. Ajay had snuck you in before accompanying Maddie to the teacher's lounge for a coffee and a heart-to-heart. Wally had found her in the hallway after Group and she'd been in bad shape. He was grateful that Ajay had stepped in to be there for her while she waited for Simon to arrive with her mom so that Wally could soak in your presence privately.

You'd informed Maddie that Simon had had Nicole reach out to Sandra and ask if she wanted to accept the Fall English Award on Maddie's behalf. Sandra had apparently been reluctant, yet she'd agreed in the end. Initially, they'd wanted to uncover if Sandra knew about the origins of Maddie's necklace. The same necklace your great-aunt wore to repel ghosts that might try to snatch her body.

After you'd explained, "It was me," Maddie decided they'd change direction and would question whether or not Sandra had been involved in disappearing Maddie's body sans her ghost.

Wally couldn't believe he hadn't remembered immediately when Maddie had mentioned her necklace. He'd seen it. Not the necklace itself, but the moment Christopher had asked you to take it from his body's pocket and deliver it to Maddie on his behalf.

"Amelia must've stolen it like she stole Limon," You murmured, head tilted back against the wall, staring beyond the ceiling at your mental conspiracy board. The red yarn that connected one thing to another. "She used it so Christopher couldn't steal his body back...which is why—"

"He had to use yours to stop Amelia..." Maddie finished, glum and bereaved. "So, why give it to me?"

You rolled your head to the side and stared at her a moment before, "To protect you." When Maddie gave the impression she didn't understand how it would've done any such thing, you elaborated, "He probably didn't want the same thing to happen to you that happened to him." A long, pregnant beat. "He didn't want you to be used."

"I knew it was from him," Maddie stated as she curled over her knees. "There was a note. I remember now."

You held your hands up and wiggled your fingers to connote your ability to transfer things from the metaphysical world to the living world. "I don't remember getting it to you, though. I don't remember much after seeing Aiden..." A shaky breath and then nothing.

"Wally?" You asked, likely having noticed his mind had wandered. "You okay?"

Wally's grip tightened on your hips, then smoothed down to your thighs, back up under your skirt to drag you closer by the ass. He gave you a weary smile, about as much as he could muster. Between Mr. Martin's behavior in Group and Maddie's comment—"What would you do if the one person who was supposed to protect you was the one who hurt you?"—unleashing a repressed sense of betrayal toward his mama, Wally's strength of will had rapidly declined. He didn't think he could do this anymore.

Call him selfish, but he missed the simpler times. The times before Maddie and the mystery and the cloak and dagger he and the others were forced to come to grips with. There was peace in ignorance and he wanted to find it again, just for a second, just to regroup and start fresh and—

"Hey," Your hands on his jaw, angling his face toward yours, "You still with me, big guy?"

"Sorry baby," Wally said, low and solemn, "Too many thoughts."

You nodded, "Yeah. Me too. I can't believe I never noticed Maddie's necklace. I see it every day, you'd think I would've put two and two together as soon as I met her, yanno?"

Not exactly where Wally's mind was, but that was odd.

"You said you and Maddie weren't that close before now," Wally tried to reason so you wouldn't drive yourself crazy thinking about it. "Who really pays attention to that kind of thing?"

You raised a brow, "I noticed Nicole had the same spider ring as Maddie as soon as she started wearing it."

"Okay. Fair. But that spider ring didn't ward off evil spirits, right? Maybe it's a magic necklace thing." And then he put on an all-powerful, godly voice, "All who look upon this necklace shall forget its importance lest they be cursed!"

You giggled, a sound as beautiful as a summer breeze, and beamed at him. Jesus, he could live without food and water and anything else so long as he saw that smile every day for the rest of his existence. He lifted one hand to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, dipped in to brush his lips against yours, a smile of his own forming.

"Very impressive use of the word 'lest'," You teased, "I didn't know you had it in you."

"Hey, I was practically a straight A student, thanks."

"What I'm hearing is that you bullied nerds into giving you test answers."

Wally scoffed, "I didn't bully anyone! I used my popularity to charm certain academically gifted individuals into helping me along. It was give-give, baby, I swear." He grinned, both hands back on your ass, massaging your flesh.

"You may be onto something though, Wally." You said after a moment, "I wouldn't be surprised if Amelia glamoured the necklace so that no one would recognize it." A cheeky grin, "Lest her whole plan go up in smoke before she could finish it." You raised your hands and made a poof gesture.

Wally drew you closer by the back of your head, his gaze flickering over your face as his eyes went heavy and heated, "Have I ever told you how sexy your brain is, baby?"

"Once or twice," You smirked and brushed your lips against his, "But you're welcome to remind me."

A slow, thorough kiss before Wally said, "You have a very," kiss "very," kiss as his large hand pushed your closer so you were planted flush against him, "sexy brain."

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Xavier was insubordinate on a good day, but the little nuisance had been more so in recent weeks. The Sheriff didn't like it. By then, Xavier didn't need to be cagey or deflective for the Sheriff to recognize when Xavier was hiding something. In fact, Xavier had been combative, had shown up of his own volition to once again challenge Mr. South's innocence. And hadn't that been the cherry on top of a taxing day...

It was hard enough keeping the deputies busy, their instincts firing on all cylinders, much to the Sheriff's chagrin. Which, fine, was why those people were hired—except Lou. Lou was impossible. A donut-munching waste of space with muttonchops to stand in for his backbone—but the Sheriff was at a pivotal point in tracking down and locating Madison Nears' runaway body and getting the plan back on the rails. He couldn't afford any more disruptions or screw-ups.

To think, they'd had weeks of wiggle room before that daft creature Amelia had coddled had run off in what was to be Anabelle's vessel. Weeks. The ritual wasn't to be performed until the winter solstice. Empty school. Parents of teenagers not entirely sure where they were at any given time because it was the holiday break and kids would be kids. Alas, Amelia had fucked up so royally in who she'd trusted that they didn't have a choice. It had to be tonight or they'd lose everything.

The Sheriff exited the evidence room, Xavier's energy lingering in the air after their confrontation. That had been a disaster just as everything else leading up to then had been. The Sheriff—Anabelle—had long since perfected how to handle that bucking bronco of a boy. had been raised by emotional distance and respect and he'd turned out beautifully. As had Amelia. Furthermore, it'd worked. He'd pried Xavier away from his values easily, had him right where he'd needed to be. Cutoff. Conflicted. Corrupted.

Only now, he seemed to have recovered. Quickly. Quicker than the Sheriff had ever seen anyone shed a hex. If there was time to hunt Xavier down and prise the truth from him, the Sheriff would, however, time was of the essence and Amelia had made fucking sure they didn't have enough of it to spare. To be so stupid as to let Janet Hamilton frame Amelia's most precious golem!?

May Dagda protect, because the Sheriff wasn't going to lose another precious rebirth due to things that could have, should have, been avoided.

He wanted very much to release Mr. South. His purpose was better served on the board. Unfortunately, the Sheriff couldn't afford anyone discovering the second set of prints on the crowbar. Pausing at reception, the Sheriff noted the address he'd scribbled down. Another possible lead. At his hip, out of sight of those milling about the station, he typed a text to Dave's phone. The address and a blunt reminder that Amelia had better not let her former shining star slip through her fingers again or Anabelle would snatch her precious vessel right from her spirit's embrace without remorse.

After all, daughters came and went, but youth was something worth holding on to.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

"Are you finding anything?"

"Dude, this thing was old when I went here," Wally told Charley from his place at the microfilm reader.

The file room was dark, claustrophobic, filled with a lot of information yet very few answers. So far, anyway. You sat at the single tiny table, flipping through transcripts from 1960 while, at your feet, back against your leg, Ajay perused the stack of yearbook printouts from around the same era.

"Dawn found something yesterday when she looked into her past." Charley said, determined, "I mean, Janet must've done the same. So...maybe if we look into their pasts, too, we could find something that could explain all of this."

Ajay sighed, "Don't we already know?" When Charley snapped a pointed side-eye at him, Ajay flapped a hand, "I get why we're doing this. What, against all odds, made Janet and then Dawn special enough to clock out of this hellscape. But do we really think it's going to be written on paper?"

"Or microfilm." Wally inserted, peeking out from behind the machine.

"I think Charley's onto something, actually." You said as you scanned another transcript from 1960: Maria Volkov. "Maybe there was something special about their pasts that allowed them to move on easier." You glanced up, eyes finding Wally's, "I mean, you've all looked back before, right?"

"More or less," Ajay said, flipping through another yearbook. "Yet, here we still are."

"What year are you on?" Charley asked Wally as he carded through the accordion folder containing Dawn's student files.

Wally responded, "1959. I'm trying to move backwards, but I am not seeing Janet's name anywhere." He glanced between you and Charley. "She died in 1960, right?"

"Yeah," Charley confirmed though he was distracted.

"That's what we have in our files, too." You added and then sat up straight to stretch out the kinks that had settled between your vertebrae. "Apparently she fell down the stairs and broke her neck?"

Wally cringed, "Sounds shitty." He looked at Charley again, "Did you know that? Because I didn't know that."

"I'm beginning to think we've been discouraged from asking each other personal questions about our deaths for a reason," Ajay muttered so only you could hear.

You didn't know what to say apart from, "Me too, buddy."

From his perch on the picture files cabinet, Charley rummaged through more of Dawn's files, engrossed though managing to reply to Wally, "No, I didn't..." He exhaled sharply through his nose and finally looked up, "Nothing of much interest in Dawn's student file, either..." Awkwardly, tinged with a thread of guilt, he admitted, "I know we weren't super close, but I feel kinda awful that we didn't get to say goodbye to her."

You listened as Wally answered, both you and Ajay forgoing your research to hear Wally say, "I don't want it to happen that way for me." He caught your eye, let his gaze hold yours softly, "I didn't get a goodbye last time..." You stood, shuffled around Ajay and went to Wally, settling in his lap when he shifted to welcome you. "I do not wanna just disappear..."

You nestled into his body, kissed his temple before pressing your brow against it.

"Me either." Charley said quietly.

Though it was obvious he felt the same, Ajay didn't say anything. Simply allowed Wally and Charley's grief to be heard and sat with it.

Wally turned his head, his lips pressed to your neck, his hand squeezing your hip before he tucked his face into your shoulder for a minute. You felt him breathe in and out deeply, absorbing your presence, your scent a balm for his soul, and then he returned to the slide he'd just inserted under the lens of the microfilm machine. Beneath you, he tensed.

"Whoa. Whoa, wait. This is weird." You peeked up at the screen, adjusted as Wally leaned in to read the small print. At Charley's prompting, Wally read, "Split River High School has been chosen for a national pilot program to protect students and teachers from the threat of a nuclear strike."

Oh. Shit. Had you not told Wally about the fallout shelter below the school?

"A fallout shelter will be built below the east wing of the school," No. No you had not. All you'd mentioned was that Dave had been skulking around the basement and you'd followed him. "The same location where a fire destroyed the former chemistry lab on January 14th, 1958." You were a terrible girlfr—wait.

"Wait...1958?" Charley voiced so you didn't have to. "That must be Mr. Martin's fire. Does it mention him?" Charley moved closer, half-sat on the side of the desk and watching Wally scan the rest of the old article.

"I don't see..."

You pointed to the screen where you saw Mr. Martin's name, "There."

"Oh, yes," His hand snuck under your shirt, thumb stroked your skin in thanks as he began to read again, "Authorities determined the fire was accidental. Four people were killed in the fire that overtook the lab during a routine chemistry lesson. Beloved Chemistry teacher Mr. Everett Martin was one of the deceased—"

"Wait." Charley interrupted, confused, "Four people? He said he was the only casualty."

Ajay was on his feet now, positioned himself behind Wally, a hand on Wally's shoulder as he curved forward and reread what Wally had already dictated. "Four people?"

Wally's attention returned to the screen to pick up where he left off, "Uh, two other staff, secretary Melinda Fontaine and school nurse Karla-Anne Mayfair, who had tried to help contain the fire while students evacuated were killed in the blaze as well as one student, sophomore..." He stopped, causing you, Ajay, and Charley to squint at the screen.

"What? What's wrong?" Charley asked.

Wally picked his gaze from the screen and skirted it to Charley, "Janet Hamilton." A moment of tense silence, and then Wally, pinning you closer to his body to quell his anger, wanted to know, "Why did they both lie to us?"

You stared at the name Wally had pointed to. It didn't make sense. Even in your family's files, Janet was cited as dying in 1960... Only... She hadn't had a death date until Ginny had remembered something and had Nanna write it down. You slipped out of Wally's lap and went to the stack of yearbooks Ajay had been scouring through to find the right one. Bingo. 1958.

You opened it, flipped through the pages until, "My great-aunt was in that class." That was the fire that'd weakened her. You'd assumed it'd been the same fire that had killed your great-grandparents, but no. There was Ginny's young face, smiling shyly from the page beside someone named Gladys Jones.

"What does that have to do with Janet and Mr. Martin?" Ajay wondered as he, Wally, and Charley crowded around you.

You scrutinized every other student's face for clues, because stealing bodies was the work of expert connectedness. And though they became new people in new bodies, their connectedness had always and would always remain. If you were right...

"There were only two ghosts." You uttered, and you felt Wally's hand on your hip, a steadying force, as he pressed himself against your back. "If the symbols were already around the school to trap Mr. Martin and Janet—"

Somber, Wally asked the question on everyone's mind, "Then where did the other two go?"

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PART EIGHT - PART TEN

note: dun dun duuuun. next part should be out more quickly. this one just kept testing me. thank you so much for your patience, my loves 💖 we're down to the wire now and just two (or three, maybe, idk yet) parts away from the finale 🙌

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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