Chapter 12:
SPENCER'S POV
The world became a screaming, rushing void. The solid certainty of the balcony floor was a distant memory, and the world above—a snapshot of warm light and Wednesday's unmoving figure—was receding at a heart-stopping speed. My own heartbeat was a frantic, trapped bird slamming against my ribs, a useless drum counting down the last seconds of my life.
I forced my eyes open against the tearing wind, and the breath froze in my lungs.
The welcoming, placid blue of the swimming pool was gone.
In its place, the manicured grounds below me had transformed into a grim, metallic hell. Below me, hundreds of ammo tanks crawled in synchronized, menacing patrols. Their camouflaged hulls were the color of dried blood and mud, and the air itself vibrated with a deep, sub-auditory growl that I felt in my teeth—the sound of dormant, lethal power. Moonlight didn't gleam off them; it was swallowed by their matte, predatory surfaces.
Wait a minute... The thought was a feeble spark in the storm of my terror. Where did the swimming pool go?
Logic was a distant memory. This was my reality. Hitting one of those steel behemoths wouldn't be a fall; it would be an eradication. My body wouldn't just break; it would disintegrate upon impact, a brief, red mist and a scattering of fragments. My mind, in its cruel, vivid clarity, projected the image: the searing pain, the sound of my own skeleton shattering, and then the infinite, silent blackness.
"WEDNESDAY!" I screamed, the name ripped from a place deeper than my lungs. It was a raw, primal plea. "TAKE ME BACK UP! PLEASE!"
I flailed in the empty air, my limbs cycling through a pathetic, useless pantomime of flight. I wasn't a supernatural being; I was just a man, falling. I tried to claw at the fabric of time itself, to rewind the last ten seconds, to feel the solid floor under my boots again. But it was like trying to grasp smoke. The ground, this army of impossible death machines, swelled to fill my entire vision. I squeezed my eyes shut, a final, futile act of denial, and braced for the end.
The impact was not the shattering of bone, but a shocking, all-encompassing cold.
A tremendous splash swallowed the world, and the roar of the wind was replaced by the muted, chaotic silence of being submerged. I plunged into a liquid darkness, disoriented, my lungs burning for the air I'd forgotten to take. Instinct, older than reason, took control. My arms and legs churned, fighting the heavy, waterlogged drag of my clothes, pushing, kicking, striving for the shimmering surface far above. I burst through, gasping in great, ragged lungfuls of the sweet night air. I was alive.
Coughing and treading water, I looked up.
There she was. Wednesday, perched on the swimming pool's edge as if watching a particularly entertaining play. Her shoulders shook with silent, utterly delighted laughter. The illusion shattered, vanishing as instantly as a popped bubble. The tanks, the roar, the smell of diesel—all gone. There was only the placid, chlorinated water of Livanos' swimming pool, the quiet night, and the infuriating ghost who had just given me a front-row seat to my own horrifying death.
A warm, sticky trickle trailed from my right nostril, down my lip, and dripped into the water, blooming into a tiny, pink cloud. I touched my face, my fingers coming away stained with my blood. The psychic whiplash, the violent fall into the swimming pool, had drawn blood. Mostly was a physical testament to her power.
"You!" I spat, the word a venomous dart as I dragged my sopping body from the deep end. Water streamed from me, pooling at my feet on the cool tiles. "You manipulated my head! You did this!" My voice trembled with a volatile cocktail of residual terror and boiling rage.
"Of course," she said, her voice as smooth and unruffled as the water's surface. "So that next time, you might think before taking such high risks. Consider it a very visceral, very memorable lesson in self-preservation."
I was too furious, too humiliated, to form a coherent response. I just turned and squelched away from the pool, my clothes clinging to me like a second, heavier skin. We left the area in a thick, angry silence, a dripping procession of shame. I slid into the driver's seat of my car, the leather groaning in protest as my wet clothes soaked into it. The engine ignited to life—a satisfyingly real and powerful sound—and I slammed my foot on the accelerator, peeling out of the penthouse as if the demons of my hallucination were giving chase.
The silence in the car was broken only by the hum of the engine. It was Wednesday who spoke first, her gaze fixed on the blurring city lights.
"The so-called friend-enemy, Livanos wasn't the culprit,the real threat is still out there, plotting something new," she stated, the words hanging in the air like a verdict. "Now you have their blood on your hands. You just got an innocent family wiped out because of your mistake." She let that sink in, the weight of it pressing down on me, making the steering wheel feel heavier. "Let's just pray they don't come back next Halloween to find justice on you." She said,I tilted my head with theatrical curiosity. "Would they?"
The guilt was a physical ache, a cold stone in my gut. "No, of course not!" I snapped, my knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. "I didn't kill them! The assassins did! I didn't pull the trigger!"
"Well," she said, her tone lethally casual, as if discussing the weather, "you were the cause they got killed. Your actions, your investigation, led that death right to their doorstep. You might as well have painted a target on their backs."
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a boulder. She was right, and the truth of it was a crushing weight. "They should hunt the assassins, not me," I muttered, but the protest sounded weak, a child's excuse in the face of an adult's grim logic.
I drove recklessly, using the speed and the control of the car as an outlet for the turmoil raging inside me. The city lights were a streaking blur, a river of neon I was desperately trying to outrun. Returning to my mansion was out of the question—it was the first place anyone, living or dead, would look for me. It was a tomb waiting to be sealed. Only one place offered a semblance of safety, a fragile spot in this psychotic storm: Megan's residence.
The car filled with a heavy quiet once more, broken by Wednesday's inquisitive voice. "So, you still don't know who the real enemy is?" she asked, cutting through my frantic thoughts.
I exhaled, a long, slow release of breath that did nothing to ease the tension in my shoulders. "I have an idea," she admitted, the words feeling dangerous.
"Spill it," I commanded, my interest grew,
What came next was so absurd, so macabre, that I could only stare at her in disbelief. "Kill yourself," she said, a slow, unnerving smile spreading across her lips like a crack in porcelain. "I mean, let someone kill you, since committing suicide is a crime. Then you will know who your killer is, and you can come back next Halloween to haunt him. Or her. It's the most direct path to the truth."she continued.
I barked a harsh, disbelieving laugh that held no humor. "You are crazy. You have to be kidding yourself. That's the most insane thing I've ever heard."I replied
"Well, if you like my idea," she retorted, completely undeterred, "you will first help me find my killers. Then you can go kill yourself and find yours. A simple, two-step process."
A creepy, involuntary smile tugged at my lips. The sheer audacity was almost admirable. "I'm not killing myself for no damn reason. Got that?" I shrugged for emphasis, trying to project a nonchalance I didn't feel.
"Okay," she said, sounding almost bored, as if she'd expected that answer. "So, where are we going? Because I don't expect you to go back to your mansion. I'm already exhausted for this night." She paused, and her next words sent a fresh, more calculated chill down my spine. "The way I see it, this killer is so desperate, he'll do anything to have you executed in no time. You're not just being hunted; you're being erased."
"Well, yes," I retorted, the fear making me sharp. "I see that too."
"So? Where are we going now?"
My hands tightened on the wheel. I took a sharp, decisive U-turn, the tires squealing in protest. "To my girlfriend's house," I replied, my voice firm. A few minutes later, I pulled up in front of her modern, story-building home, all sleek lines and reflective glass. I put the car in park and turned to the empty passenger seat, knowing she was there. "You would like not to invade my privacy. So, I will advise you to stay in the car. This is not a negotiation."
I got out, locking the car with a definitive, electronic chirp that felt like putting a period on the sentence. Just as the doors sealed, I saw her through the window—a faint distortion in the air that solidified just enough to roll its eyes with dramatic, exasperated flair. I marched to the front door, my waterlogged shoes squelching with each step on the pristine pathway, a stark reminder of the chaos I was bringing to this orderly place. I took a deep breath, rang the bell, and prepared to lie.
It opened almost immediately, as if she'd been waiting. And there was Megan, her face a canvas of soft concern that quickly morphed into wide-eyed shock.
"Hey, babe! O M G, what happened to you?" she asked, her voice laced with alarm. She didn't wait for an answer, pulling me into a tight, warm hug before standing on her toes to peck my lips. Her eyes, full of worry, scanned my tattered, soaked clothes and my undoubtedly pale, shaken face. "Did you get into a fight? Are you hurt?"
I exhaled, the sound heavy and ragged, carrying the weight of the entire, impossible night. "It's a long story," I breathed out, the understatement of the century.
She kissed me again, a soft, reassuring touch that felt like an anchor in my storm. She smiled, her fingers gently brushing through my wet, tangled hair. "Come on in," she said, her voice a soothing balm. She pulled me inside, across the threshold, into the warm, clean, and normal sanctuary of her home.
---
WEDNESDAY'S POV
I watched them through the tinted glass of the car window. The embrace, the concern on the girl's—Megan's—face, the way she led a sopping, miserable Spencer inside. It was all so... domestic. So achingly normal.
"She's cute," I mused to the empty interior of the luxury vehicle. "Spencer sure has good taste." A shrug lifted my shoulders. This car was a prison of polished leather and silence. I couldn't stay in here. The stillness was oppressive. My spectral form felt all itchy, a restless energy building with no outlet. Just one little haunt on Spencer's girlfriend. A tiny, harmless scare. Megan seemed like she could use a bit of excitement in her tidy little life.
A smirk twisted my lips. It was decided. I let the solidity of the passenger seat dissolve, vanishing from the car and reappearing on the sidewalk outside in the space between one heartbeat and the next. I exhaled, a unnecessary but satisfying habit, and grinned, walking up to the front door with a spring in my step. The night was about to get much more interesting for dear Megan.
---
SPENCER'S POV
I sank into the deep, plush embrace of Megan's couch, letting out a sigh that seemed to come from the very marrow of my bones. It was a sound of profound relief and equally profound exhaustion. The soft fabric was a universe away from the cold balcony rail or the terrifying void of the fall. Seeking to shed a layer of the night's horror, I peeled off my soaked shirt. The wet fabric made a sick, sucking sound as it pulled away from my skin, and I dropped the heavy, ruined garment to the floor. The cool air on my bare torso was a minor liberation.
Megan returned from the kitchen holding two glasses of a deep, ruby red wine. She handed one to me, our fingers brushing. Her smile was warm, but it couldn't fully mask the storm of questions in her eyes.
"I've been trying to reach you," she began, settling beside me and tucking her legs beneath her. "Multiple times, Spencer. Your line wasn't just busy; it was completely unavailable. I got so worried that I went to your penthouse yesterday." She took a small sip of wine, her gaze steadying on me. "I found the door slightly ajar. Spencer, the place was... empty. Scattered. Like a whirlwind had torn through it. What is going on? Why?"
The directness of her question, the raw concern in her voice, tied my stomach into knots. How could I even begin?
I opened my mouth, a lame excuse about a burst pipe and a frantic cleanup already forming on my lips, when a sound cut me off.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp, distinct raps on the front door. They were too measured, too deliberate, to be a casual visitor.
My blood turned to ice in my veins. Every muscle in my body went rigid.
Wednesday...
"I'll get it," Megan said, unfolding herself from the couch.
"No, it's—" I started, my voice tight, but she was already moving, her curiosity overriding my panic.
She went to the door, rising on her toes to peer through the discreet viewfinder. "Who's there?" she called out. She waited a moment, then leaned in again. "Huh, that's odd. There's nobody there." She turned back to me, her face a mask of pure perplexity. "Maybe it was the wind knocking a branch against the door?"
But I saw it. As she spoke, a faint shimmer, like heat haze on a summer road, passed straight through the solid wood of the door. It was a distortion in the air, a tear in the fabric of reality that only I could see. I gasped as the shimmer coalesced, solidifying into the unmistakable form of Wednesday McClair, now standing squarely in Megan's foyer. She smoothed down her military outfit, looked directly at me, and offered a sheepish, entirely unapologetic little smile, followed by a jaunty wave. Then, before I could even react, she turned and glided, soundless as a shadow, into the kitchen, her form fading from sight as she passed the doorway.
"Gosh," I muttered, the word a weak puff of air. I dragged my fingers through my damp hair, the gesture doing nothing to ease the sudden, pounding headache building behind my eyes.
"There's nobody at the door," Megan repeated, coming back to join me on the couch, her brow still furrowed. "It must have just been the wind playing tricks or some playful kids in the neighborhood."
I forced a nod, my jaw so tight it ached. She had no idea. No idea that a 17 years-ago, haunt-happy ghost had just bypassed her locks and security to invite herself in for a night of.... probably fun.....
To be continued...