Hunter's Legacy

“Did you read any of this?” Natasha asked from the passenger seat, as we sped down the freeway, trying to beat rush hour traffic. She had opened the file the second that I pulled away from the bunker. Loose pages were scattered across my bench seat, and the rest of the file sat in her lap.

“I skimmed it,” I responded, shrugging. A scoff came from the passenger seat, which made me raise my eyebrows at the road, “What was that?”

“I was just wondering if this is what you do on all of your cases,” Natasha said. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her shaking her head.

“Do what?” I asked.

“Wait until the last minute to do your research,” she said. I breathed through my nose, trying to keep my temper in check. This was why I didn’t work with a partner; they tend to question and criticize everything you do. Well, that, and the fact that everybody thinks I’m a freak.

We came to a stop in a long line of cars; I pulled myself up, as much as I could, so that I could see what was going on. It was a dead stop and the cars seemed never ending. There must be a wreck or something. That didn’t do anything to make me feel better; my trunk carried enough weapons to be considered an armory. I found myself hoping there wouldn’t be some kind of check by the state cops.

My watch said that it was two in the afternoon, and the sun was shining into the car, the heat turning the small space into an oven. I blasted the air conditioner, closing my eyes as the cold enveloped me.

“Do you always do this?” I asked, looking at Natasha, who was studying the pages of the file.

“Do what?” she asked, turning her face towards me, but her eyes never left the pages that she studied.

“This,” I said, gesturing to the scattered pages that were littering the bench seat, “Make a mess of your partner’s car, with pages from a thick file.”

“I normally don’t have a partner to work with,” she said, glancing up and pulling the scattered pages back over to her and I watched as she put them in a neat stack beside her, before looking back at the file.

“Me either,” I said, looking at the top page of the stack. I glanced at the road, briefly; the cars in front of us hadn’t moved a inch, and I had a feeling that we wouldn’t be going anywhere too soon.

I took the stack and looked at the word Banshee stamped at the top of the page, in bold red letters. The first page was, of course, the outlining of the case…26-year-old female, Lainey O’Connell, she had reported, multiple times, hearing screaming. Though the screams were reported, there was no sign of a incident of any kind. After the third time that happened, Lainey had checked herself into a mental institution, believing that she was crazy, but, after a three day stay, it was concluded that Lainey wasn’t a danger to herself or others, and she was released.

The next page was more of the same, information, plus the recorded 9-1-1 phone calls that Lainey had made. As I scanned over them, I got the nagging feeling that it wasn’t a banshee we were dealing with.

“What?” Natasha asked, looking at me.

“I don’t think this is a banshee,” I said, tapping my finger against the white papers. Natasha furrowed her brow.

“What do you think it is?” she asked.

“To me, it sounds like we’re dealing with a ghost,” I said, “A malevolent spirit.”

“But the file…” Natasha said, holding the manila folder up and pointing to the word written across it.

“I know what it says,” I responded, snapping slightly.

“Then why would Piper give us this?” Natasha asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head, “Maybe she got her wires crossed or something.” The line of cars started moving, it was slow, but at least we were moving. Another hour, and we made it out of the line of cars, it was easy to pull onto our exit after that.

Three-and-a-half hours later, we pulled into the parking lot of a diner. It was seven at night, and my stomach was growling.

“Hungry?” I asked, looking at Natasha, who raised her eyebrows. “Oh, right.” I sighed. I pushed my door open and got out, the brisk cool air hitting my face. I bent down and peered into my car, Natasha still planted in the passenger seat. “You’re more than welcome to sit here, but I’m going inside to eat.”

I closed my door and started walking towards the diner; a smile crept to my face when I heard the other door shut, and the sound of her heeled boots as they clopped over the pavement.

The tinkling of bells on the door signaled our arrival in the diner a minute later. It wasn’t so crowded, there were tables that were empty. The diner’s color scheme was custard yellow and dark orange; the front counter was yellow with white trim, the tables were yellow with orange trim, the booths were a red-orange. The scents of cooked hamburger and fry oil reached me as I inhaled, before turning left and sliding into the nearest booth. I pick up the dark orange laminated menu, with Sally’s stamped across the front in curling cursive script. I opened it, scanning the options. Burgers paired with fries or onion rings, chicken fingers with a choice of sides, and desert being pie, cake, or some kind of pastry.

“What can I get you two ladies?” I looked up to see a middle-aged woman with wheat-colored hair that was cut into a bob. She was dressed in a waitress’ uniform that looked as though it could come from the 1950’s. I glanced up at her name tag, squinting a bit.

“Thank you, Grace,” I said, smiling and looking down at the menu, “I’ll have a burger, well done, with French fries,” I said, handing the menu back. Grace jotted down my order and turned to Natasha, expectantly.

“Onion rings,” she grumbled, sliding her menu to the edge of the table.

“Anything to go with the onion rings, darlin’?” Grace pressed. I sighed, as Natasha remained silent.

“She’ll have a burger too, rare,” I said, answering for Natasha and earning a glare from her.

"Anything to drink with that?" Grace asked, looking between us.

“Coffee,” I answered, at the same time as Natasha said. “Nothing.”

“I’ll be back with your order,” Grace said, and then it was just me and Natasha.

“Why did you do that?” Natasha asked, her Russian accent coming out in her irritated tone.

“We’re not stopping for another few hours, and I don’t really want to be your next meal,” I responded, leaning forward and lowering my voice. Luckily, none of the diner’s patrons seemed interested in us, let alone any conversation we may be having.

“You wouldn’t be my next meal,” Natasha whispered, and shrugged.

“Damn right I’m not,” I responded. Our order came a few minutes later and we dug in. The burger I order was enough to satisfy my hunger, for now, and, from the look on Natasha’s face, it was enough to satisfy hers too.

I looked at the clock on the wall, and, seeing that it read eight o’ clock, and the diner looked as though it was already starting to close, I asked for a to-go box, we paid for our meals and then left.

“What makes you think we’re dealing with a restless spirit?” Natasha asked, as we walked across the parking lot. The air was cooler than it had been an hour ago; summer was fading and signs of autumn were cropping up.

“Did you read her police statement?” I asked, as we got into the car. Natasha nodded and we slid into the car.

“Don’t Banshees do the same things?” asked, as I started the car. I stared at her in disbelief.

“How many cases have you worked, where there’s a malevolent spirit?” I asked.

“Not many,” she responded.

“Well, I assume that, between cases and finding your vampire buddy, I assume that you did the research on some monsters, just for the hell of it,” I said, turning the car on and taking it out of park.

“Of course,” Natasha replied.

“Well, so did I,” I said, as I put the car in reverse, but I didn’t move, “I read and researched monsters that I’ve never heard of before. I studied Banshees and spirits, back to back.”

“And?” Natasha prompted, when I stopped.

“And I found out that a Banshee is a spiritual guard for Irish families. The Banshee will scream before a death in the family that she’s protecting, but she can’t cause or prevent it. The malevolent spirit I usually hellbent on revenge or is fueled by hatred. The spirit will torture its victim, driving them slowly insane, and then, when its fed off of enough of its victim’s fear, and it’s gotten strong enough, it resorts to physical harm,” I explain, “In the police report, she says that things were going missing, and later on, she says that ‘she could have sworn it was floating, by itself.’ If that’s not a sign of a malevolent spirit, I don’t know what is.” I pulled out of the parking lot and we were back on the road again.

A day and a half later, we pulled into a motel that said was called Whispering Pines. I sat in the car while Natasha got the room. When she got back, I pulled around the side of the building and stopped by a staircase.

“What room number is it?” I asked, looking over at the key cards she held in her hand. I saw no scribbles or anything to indicate which room number we had.

“Room 224,” she said, handing a key card to me. I nod, taking the card and getting out of the car. Still standing in my door, I reached back behind my seat and pulled out a small duffel bag, and, after setting it on the ground by my feet, before I reached back there again, pulling out a slightly larger duffel bag. I watched as Natasha pulled out her duffel bag followed by a larger case. We shut our doors, and then grabbed our things, starting up the staircase.

Natasha inserted her key card, and the wooden door swung open, easily. Natasha went forward and clicked on a lamp. The floor was dingy yellow shag carpeting, and on it sat two queen-sized beds with yellow-and-white bedding. Other than that, there was a round table with two wooden chairs that had yellow cushions, and the table and chairs sat in front of a large window with flimsy transparent cushions, and a heavy brown curtain over it. In the corner of the room, there was a dark wood door and, upon further inspection, I found it to house the bathroom.

I put my stuff on the bed closest to the door, and then took care in pulling the curtains over the window.

“What is that?” I asked, as Natasha set the large case on her bed.

“My bow,” she said, simply.

“Bow?” I asked, with raised eyebrows, “Hair bow, Christmas bow, what kind of bow?”

Natasha smirked and said nothing, but she flipped four latches that set on the casing—two latches on each side—and then she opened the case.

There, sitting in the case, was a weapons bow, looking like a piece of weaponry from the medieval times that had been upgraded for use in the present. The curved structure was sleek to the touch, and the string seemed to be pulled taut from one end of the bow to the other.

“What is it made of?” I asked.

“This one, in particular, is made of wood,” Natasha said, picking it up out of the case. It looked light and easy to use, but I was still doubtful that it could catch an enemy in time, no matter how good she was with it. We fall into silence and settle into the hotel room. I pulled out the formal, business-y looking pantsuit, shake it out, and hung it up.

“Where should we go first?” Natasha asked, after she’d gotten settled in.

“Well, we can go talk to Lainey,” I shrugged, thinking that it was probably the best course of action, “We can find out what’s been going on and go from there.”

“Okay,” Natasha said. And I noticed that she looked a little bit nervous.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Natasha replied, although she didn’t sound fine at all. Deciding not to press it, I shrugged, “Although,” Natasha spoke up, making me look at her, “Will she talk to us?”

“She should,” I said, taking my pantsuit down and laying it on the bed, as I shrugged my jacket off, “We are from the FBI, after all.”

While I dressed in my navy-blue pantsuit, let my hair fall down my back, and crammed my feet into some painful heels, Natasha dressed in a maroon-colored blazer and matching pencil skirt, a white blouse under her blazer, and a pair of heels. She would her curls into a bun and pinned it, and the nervous look came back into her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. I couldn’t have her going out and being nervous or afraid of something.

“I kind of haven’t been on a case in a while,” Natasha admitted, twisting her fingers together.

“How long is a while?” I asked, raising my eyebrow.

“About thirty years,” she said, and my eyes widened.

“Thirty years?” I asked, trying not to sound surprised. She nodded, sheepishly.

“In 1981,” she said, sighing, “Every few years, I have to take some time off, otherwise, people will start to wonder why I haven’t been aging.” Natasha sighed, as though the next part was going to be hard for her to get out, “I was pursuing a werewolf, I had just lost Alexei's trail again. I had caught the wolf and taken care of it. I was on my way back to the car, I was ambushed by another Hunter.

“Turns out he was posing as the bartender, whom I talked to when I was searching for the wolf. I never knew what tipped him off as to my own supernatural nature, all I knew was that, one minute, I was on my way to the car, and the next, I have a wooden stake going through my middle.” Natasha touched her abdomen, as though she could still feel the stake piercing her. “I woke up in the bunker’s hospital. A day after that, I was let go, against their better judgment. In 2009, I met Piper, and the rest is history,” Natasha said, smiling.

“I thought you didn’t know about the bunker, before you knew Piper,” I said, furrowing my eyebrows.

“I didn’t,” Natasha said, “I don’t know how or why I ended up there, but I did.”

“And your case?” I asked.

“Information from the local paper,” Natasha answered, proudly. I nodded and then looked back at her.

“Do you think you can do this? We need to talk to her, and figure out what is going on, for sure,” I said.

“Yes, I believe I can,” she said, and then she stood up. I stood, as well, and we walked out to my car.

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to 1156 Hillcrest Lane. The house was a robin’s egg blue with a brick base, bushes, trees, and flowerbeds were scattered across the yard, sending splashes of color here and there.

“This is it?” Natasha asked, looking out of the passenger window, at the house.

“That’s what the file says,” I replied. I put the car in park and opened the door, getting out. I walked around the front of the car and stepped up onto the curb.

I led as we walked down the red brick-laid walkway, and I knocked when we stopped in front of the door. I knocked and, within a minute, the door swung open to reveal a short woman with dark brown hair and bright green eyes.

“Laney O’Connell?” I asked. She nodded, and I pulled out my badge, flipping it open.

“Agent Price, this is Agent Donnell, FBI, we’re here to talk to you about what you reported,” I said. Her eyes widened, slightly, and she crossed her arms over her chest, almost defensively.

“What about it?” she asked, and I could hear a slight Irish accent, as she spoke.

“We just want to ask you some follow-up questions,” I responded. Lainey’s eyes scanned over me, as though she was trying to find a lie. When she couldn’t find anything, she sighed ad stepped aside, permitting us to enter the house.

The first thing I noticed was that there were boxes stacked on top of each other, some opened, others still taped shut.

“Excuse the mess,” she said, as we walked into the dining room, “I moved in, two weeks ago, and I’ve been working so much that I haven’t really had time to unpack yet. Would you like some tea or coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” I nodded, smiling. I looked over at Natasha, who had sat beside me, looking nervous. Lainey came back with three cups in one hand and the carafe in the other. She set the carafe on a wicker-threaded coaster in the middle of the table and then went back into the small kitchen, coming out a second later with a small bowl and a small ceramic pitcher.

“So, what is it that you wanted to ask me about?” Lainey inquired, as she filled our cups.

“We just wanted to know if you’ve had any more of the same experiences,” I said, adding sugar and cream to my cup.

“Not yet,” Lainey said, stirring some sugar into her cup.

“Yet?” Natasha asked, speaking for the first time, “There is a time that these things start?”

“Yes,” Lainey sighed out, before raising the cup to her lip and taking a sip, “This is the fourth time I’ve moved, this year. Every time I get settled, these things start happening.”

“What things?” I asked, pulling out a small pad of paper and a pen.

“There are cold spots, my stuff disappears from one place and shows up in another, I’ve seen my things float and then launch themselves at me,” she said, her voice getting quieter with every word she spoke.

“Please, don’t be afraid to talk about this,” I said, putting a comforting hand on her arm.

“It’s just that…everybody else thinks I’m crazy,” Lainey responded, shaking her head.

“I can assure you, you’re not crazy,” I told her. That seemed to be what she needed to hear, for she sat up straight in her chair and then started speaking again.

“Well, there’s this piercing wail that I hear, and it seems to be right before something happens,” she said.

“What kind of something?” I asked.

“I’ve fallen down the stairs, I’ve run into walls, and, in my last house, the whole pots and pans rack fell on me when I was having dinner, and my car stopped working on my way home from work,” she said, twisting her hands together, almost nervously.

“How did your car stop working?” I asked.

“It was the weirdest thing,” Laine said, looking down at the table top and shaking her head, “My car died at the top of a hill, and then all of a sudden it started up again, but it was like I wasn’t in control of it. It was going down hill so fast and I couldn’t stop it. It was almost as if my breaks were out. Thank God no one was hurt, and, after that I took it to the auto shop and they said everything was fine.” Her eyes focused on something behind me, “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to be to work soon.”

“No problem,” I said, offering a smile as I stood up. Natasha and I each shook her hand, “Thank you for your time. We will call if we have a lead on anything.” Lainey nodded and we took our leave.

“Does it still sound like a banshee to you?” I asked Natasha, as we walked out of the house and got back in the car.

“No, I think you’re right,” Natasha replied, “It sounds like a malevolent spirit. But I’m sure that malevolent spirits don’t wail.”

“None that I’ve ever heard of,” I said, as I put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb.

The afternoon found us on our laptops, each with a take-out box in front of us, as we searched for any information of Lainey O’Connell’s past. Web searches were a bust; a finally pulled out my cell phone and dialed Piper’s number.

“Hey,” I said, when she picked up her phone, “Can you send me any other information you have on Lainey O’Connell.”

“Like what?” Piper asked, and I could hear her typing away on her computer.

“Past things, family tree, where she lived before she lived here…” I trailed off, not knowing what else I would need.

“The places that she lived before she lived there, that should be in the file that you were given, but the family tree…sending it to you now,” Piper said.

“Thanks,” I replied, opening up my e-mail. Finding the file that Piper had just sent me, I quickly downloaded it. I picture of a paper that contained boxes with names and dates, all connected by lines, and sprouting out into sort of a tree shape.

“What is this about? It’s a banshee problem,” Piper said.

“Well, I have a theory,” I told her, as I looked over the family tree.

“And that is?” she asked.

“I’ll let you know if I’m right,” I said, and we hung up. My eyes scanned over the family tree, which seemed to span over one-hundred years. My gaze zeros in on a familiar-looking name; Bridgid O’Connell. Under it, was her birth and death dates.

Opening another page, I was able to link to the Bunker’s database, and I typed in the name. I read over the information. The more I read, the more I remembered.

“I found something,” I said, causing Natasha to pull her chair around the table.

“What is it?” she asked, looking at a page that I was viewing.

“Its information on an old case,” I said, moving the arrow across the words for emphasis. The date was typed in bold letters; 1979, “These Hunters went to Ireland on vacation, but they didn’t escape work. They found a case—werewolf, I think—and took care of it.”

“What does any of this have to do with the banshee?” Natasha asked, looking from the laptop, to me, and raising her eyebrow.

“Because,” I said, going into the archive section of the Bunker’s database. I searched through the archives and pulled up a newspaper from 1979; it was from Ireland—oddly enough—and the headline story was House goes up in flames: Family of four killed, “In the journal, I remember reading that there seemed to be some sort of land dispute between the O’Connell’s and another family.”

“And?” Natasha prompted. Sighing, I made the paper bigger, to where she could read the column. Natasha’s eyes widened, and she looked over to me, “You were right.” I pulled up the family tree and pointed to Brigid O’Connell’s death day.

“One year after the house in Ireland burnt down,” I said, “My theory is, what if its not just a banshee? What if there is also a malevolent spirit? What if the banshee is trying to protect Lainey? What if the ghosts of the family that died are haunting Lainey, because they have unfinished business with the O’Connell’s.”

“And the banshee is what, protecting Lainey?” Natasha asked, her eyebrow arched in disbelief.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” I replied, nodding once.

“So, what do we do now?” Natasha asked. I looked at the clock in the corner of my computer screen; it read seven-thirty-five at night.

“She might be in the phone book, see if there is one,” I told Natasha, nodding over to the TV stand, where two thick books sat on the shelf, underneath the TV. She went over, and came back a second later, with a thick directory.

“What if she hasn’t gotten phone service here, yet?” Natasha asked, as she started scanning the pages of the directory.

“I saw a landline, so, hopefully, the first thing she did was get it connected,” I replied, as I scanned the archives for any more information that could be related to the case.

“I think I found it,” Natasha said, after a minute. She pushed the phonebook towards me, all the while, keeping her finger on the number.

“Call it, see if you get her,” I said. The beeping of Natasha’s cell phone pad filled the room.

“She’s not there, it just goes to her answering machine,” Natasha replied, as she tried again. She pulled her phone away from her ear and shook her head.

“Let’s get going then,” I said, walking over to my bed and pulling out the duffel bag from under my bed, grabbing my guns, while Natasha grabbed her bow and arrows. I filled a smaller bag with the ammunition that we would need, and then we left.

We drove down the road of the quiet little town and, in no time, it seemed, we pulled up to the curb in front of Lainey’s house.

“Well, everything looks okay,” Natasha said, looking out of her window, at Lainey’s car, which was parked in the driveway.

“Alright,” I said, glancing up at the house, “Then, we should load our weapons.”

Natasha nodded, and I pulled the smaller bag from the back seat, putting it in the front seat between us. Dipping my hand in, I pulled out several empty casings, and filled them with rock salt.

“There’s a bottle of water in the glove compartment, if you want to coat your arrows, if you want,” I said, nodding to the glove compartment in front of her. Natasha nodded and pulled the bottle of water from the glove compartment, soaked the tips of her arrows, and doused them with salt.

I glanced up at the house, as I finished loading the last salt bullet into my gun, just in time to see the porch light flicker.

“We need to get in there,” I told Natasha. She nodded, grabbed her arrows and put them into the quiver.

We made it to the doorstep and I knocked, not wanting to barge in and freak Lainey out, if nothing was wrong.

When she didn’t answer, I knocked again, harder this time.

“Lainey—” I started, but I was cut off by a shrill scream. I nodded to Natasha, and she stepped back, as far as she could, so she could get a running start at the door. Putting out her foot, Natasha kicked down the door, with ease.

We entered, and the first thing we saw was the boxes that had been stacked up earlier, were scattered, some of the contents spilling out. Another scream came from the kitchen; Natasha and I hurried in the direction.

Lainey was in one corner of the kitchen, behind her, several knives were sticking out of the wall, and bits of broken glass littered the ground around her feet. Another knife flew across the kitchen, implanting itself in the wall just above Lainey’s head.

I followed the path that it flew from and I saw the flickering image of a tall man with ripped clothes and soot dotting his face. I watched as his transparent hand closed around the handle of another knife and threw it at Lainey; the knife imbeded itself just above her head.

“Get down!” I shouted sliding across the floor, through scattered glass. I knocked the table over as another knife came soaring towards us; it stuck into the top of the table. My pants were ripped and my legs stung from where the glass had scraped them, but I ignored it as I pulled the gun out of the waistband of my pants.

“What’s going on?” Lainey asked, as another dish collided with the top of the table.

“Ghosts,” I said.

“No way!” Lainey said. The next second, she clapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, as though she was hearing something rather unpleasant.

“What is it?” I ask, putting my hand on her shoulder. My question was answered when the man flickered to the space in front of us, holding a carving knife aloft. Without a second thought, I fired off a shot, making him flicker away and causing the knife to drop to the floor.

“He-he’s gone?” Lainey’s shaky voice sounded, as she uncovered her ear and opened her eyes.

“For now,” I said, turning over on my knees. Holding the gun aloft, I scanned the kitchen, but saw no sign of the flickering man, “Come on.” Lainey got up and we hurried into the living room.

Natasha followed, her hands full of salt containers. She set one down and used the other to make a circle around us.

“Stay in here, it will protect you,” I told Lainey, ignoring the look she was giving me, that told me that she thought I was nuts, “Have you ever heard anything about a feud between your family and another?”

“Yeah, my grandfather used to tell me about the family across the way, how they were our enemies…” she trailed off, shaking her head, “…What does this have to do with anything?”

“These ghosts are the ghosts of the family that burned in a house, in Ireland, in 1979,” Natasha explained, rather hastily, over her shoulder. She had her back to us, keeping an eye out for the ghost, lest he spring up.

“Can you recall anything else? Anything else that you might have heard?” I asked, also speaking quickly.

“My dad said that my grandma was never the same after that fire happened, she was sad and distracted…and she died a year later,” Lainey said, sounding sad.

“This is really important,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “Do you have anything of your grandmother’s? anything that might have been sentimental?”

“Yeah, there’s a small chest in my closet, my dad left it to me when he died,” she said, nodding.

“Great,” I said, nodding and I nodded once to Natasha, before I stepped out of the circle, “Where is your bedroom?”

“Through the hall, last door on the right,” Lainey said, I could tell that she was still scared, but her voice wasn’t wavering, “What about the ghost?”

“I’ll be alright,” I said, as I jogged down the hall; I walked into her room. There were only two other doors in her room; one led to an en suite bathroom, and the other led to her closet. I opened the closet, pulling the string that hung from the ceiling and flooding the small space with light.

I parted the clothes, looking on the floor. When I found nothing there, I reached up higher. There was only one thing on the top shelf, and it was big enough that I had to reach up with both hands to bring it down.

It was a heavy wooden box. I set it on the floor and knelt down, opening the top and rifling through the contents. Pictures, locks of hair, rattles…all standard memento stuff. My curiosity was piqued when I found a smaller wooden box. I noted the hinges on the back, and I open the lid, carefully. Inside, a small heart-shaped, gold, locket laid on a bed of cotton. I opened the locket to find an inscription in elegant, curled, cursive.

Brigid, my forever love-Peter.

The box and locket were knocked out of my hands, and an invisible force was pinning me to the wall, by the closet.

The man that had been throwing knives at Lainey now stood in front of me, flickering slightly and glaring menacingly. I tried reaching for my gun, but the man sensed my intentions, and, with a sweep of his hand, my gun was on the other side of the room. There was pressure against my throat, and I kicked my legs, but it was a futile attempt, as my feet were going right through him.

I gasped for air, as I continued to flail around. The small chest had been knocked over, spilling the pictures that were inside it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black and white picture, the man in front of me was in it, and in it, he wore, what looked like, a letter man’s jacket, and dark colored slacks; he had his arm around the woman next to him, she wore a light-colored sweater, and a dark colored skirt. Her hair was down and curled.

“Peter?” I gasped out. The ghost in front of me never blinked, just stared at me with eyes full of hate.

“S-stop,” I gurgled and the pressure on my neck increased. Across the wall, flames erupted climbing it.

“I’m going to burn this house, just like the O’Connell’s burned ours,” the voice was a deep, hoarse, whisper. I looked up, but the man’s lips hadn’t moved.

“But—didn’t,” I sputtered, the pressure on my throat was relieved, and I coughed, as the smoke tried to infiltrate my lungs, “Brigid cared…about…you. Why would…she…hang on to this…?” I questioned, holding the photo up, to show him. Just as I thought, on the back, it had two names and a date scribbled on the back.

Peter Barnsley and Brigid O’Connell, 1957

The anger in Peter’s eyes vanishes as he looked at it. His image flickers one more time and he’s not in ripped clothes anymore; the image of him is the same as it is in the picture. The flames had disappeared, leaving the room looking like it had when I came in.

“She cared for you, so much,” I said, as I stood up, using the wall, “Brigid was heartbroken after the fire…she died a year later.” Peter looked hopeful for a moment. “I think she’s waiting for you. Are you ready?” Peter nodded.

I moved to pick up the locket and, finding a metal wastepaper basket, I dropped both the photograph and the locket into the basket.

“Natasha,” I called, keeping my eyes on Peter.

“Are you alright?” she called back.

“Yeah, I need the lighter fluid,” I called back. A minute later, I heard two sets of footsteps on the stairs and in walked both Lainey and Natasha. Upon seeing Peter’s flickering form, Lainey’s jaw dropped in surprise.

I held out my hand, and Natasha gave me the lighter fluid. Turning the bottle upside down, I squeezed the bottle, effectively dousing the contents in the basket. I pulled a pack of matches out of my pocket and lit one.

“Goodbye Peter,” I said, and I threw the match into the basket, watching as the flames erupted, along with Peter’s form.

“So, ghosts are real,” Lainey stated, as we stood outside her house.

“Ghosts, among other monsters,” I said.

“Thank you, so much,” Lainey said.

“Anytime,” Natasha said, smiling. We waved goodbye and got back into the car.

“Well, that was thrilling,” Natasha said, as we pulled away from Lainey’s house.

“Let’s get our stuff from the motel, check out, and get back to the bunker,” I said, as I pulled into the parking lot of the motel.

“Fantastic,” Natasha replied, sounding giddy. It didn’t take us long to get everything packed up. Natasha was checking out, as I pulled up in front of the office.

“Ready to go?” I asked Natasha, as she slid into the passenger seat.

“Yeah,” Natasha said, a smile still on her face.

We were on our way back to the bunker, ready for our next adventure.