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Pete hadn’t had a moment to breathe since that night at the Waylon place. Now that things had settled somewhat, though… he wasn’t sure if he even remembered how to breathe properly anymore. The air had changed. Or maybe it was just him.
People love to try to give you tips on how to deal with grief. They talk about the five—six—seven stages and tell you that it will be okay in time. It didn’t feel okay. In fact, now that he’d finally really gotten it, he wasn’t sure it’d ever be okay again.
He didn’t have a lot of friends. He didn’t have any friends now. They were both dead. Steph was there, sure, but his new and tentative relationship with her was far different than his years of friendship with Richie and Ruth. She took up a totally different place in his heart.
The worst part, maybe, was that he only went to one of their funerals. Richie was buried quietly, the day they found his body. His family was Jewish, that was how his mother had decided to handle his funeral. Pete spoke to her after. She didn’t take him to the grave, but she sent him off with some food and the directions to it.
Ruth’s funeral, however, he did get to attend. The drive there was the quietest he’d ever seen Ted. Her guardians asked if he wanted to speak at it. He didn’t want to, but he did. With a suit that was just a bit too small, he recounted how deeply she’d impacted his life. How she was so bright, how he’d wanted to see her finally get on stage one day. And then he couldn’t talk anymore.
It was like the burning of Alexandria. Like suddenly all of his history was gone because everything that held it was ash. He felt like he was an entirely different person. He felt like he’d lost everything. It wasn’t fair for him to feel that way. He still had a brother, still had parents. Steph was fucking orphaned! How was it fair for him to grieve when she lost her dad right before she turned eighteen?
So Peter had been thinking about death a lot since homecoming. The world just… kept turning. He wasn’t sure why he thought it’d stop for him. Why it’d stop for them. Things just kept moving, as if no one had ever died. People went missing all the time in Hatchetfield.
It was making it hard to focus on school, to be honest. Which was why it wasn’t entirely a shock when, come November, he was called to the counselor’s office. Hatchetfield High might not have cared about him, but… Steph did. He was sure she left one of those anonymous ticket things. He appreciated it, really. He’d have to do something for her in return at some point.
It didn’t make him feel any less awkward when he shuffled into the little waiting area holding a slip of bright orange paper. Even though he knew he was allowed to be there, he still felt sort of like he was cutting class or something. He sat down and fiddled idly with the hem of his sweater, waiting for his name to be called.
Eventually, a woman with wild red hair poked her head out of the door and waved warmly at him, “Peter?”
He nodded stiffly, following her to her office. He didn’t know Miss Holiday very well, she’d started working for the district that year, but people seemed to like her well enough. She was very… eighties. Not that that was a bad thing! He just couldn’t help but think about it when he looked at her.
She smiled, taking a seat at her desk and gesturing to the chair across from her. “So, This isn’t exactly a conventional first meeting, huh? You’re a real extraordinary student, Peter. I’m sure you’re well aware of your grades, though.”
He sat down, fumbling with his backpack slightly, “I… guess?”
That wasn’t… exactly what he was expecting. Miss Holiday did also work as a guidance counselor, he believed? It probably made some amount of sense that she’d focus on his grades. Jeez—he didn’t know what he was doing here. He only came because he didn’t want to waste anyone's time!
“Relax,” Miss Holiday said softly, pursing her lips at him, “It’s not like you’re in trouble! I just want to get some praise in there, you know? You’re a smart kid.”
“I’m eighteen,” he muttered defensively.
She laughed, “You’re a smart kid, Peter. You’re having a rough patch though, which I hope you know doesn’t mean you’re any less smart.”
He bowed his head. This wasn’t what he was expecting at all. He knew he was smart! His grades were phenomenal. He didn’t even have to try most of the time. Even if he couldn’t focus on his classes, he wasn’t worried about failing. He wouldn’t.
“So: here’s the thing. Grief is a messy mistress. I know you were close to Ruth and Richie. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Pete found himself standing abruptly, hands balled into fists, “Look. I appreciate it. But I really don’t want—or need—another lecture on grief, okay? It sucks that my friends are dead! Oh well!”
“Calm down.” She said simply, fixing him with a piercing gaze.
“Calm down?!” He echoed, heat rising to his face, “If—if I had a nickel for every time someone tried to tell me to ‘just feel my feelings’ or something, I’d be fucki- flippin’ rich!”
“Calm down.” She said again.
That time, when she said it, there was something in Pete’s brain that compelled him to comply. It was a thought he was just barely aware wasn’t his own, but not quite aware enough to fight. He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut and flexing his fingers. He didn’t need to blow up at her like that. That was uncalled for.
“Good.” Miss Holiday hummed, drumming her fingers on her desk rhythmically. “I’m not here to force you to talk about your friend’s deaths. Grief is a heavy thing. I just… wanted to make you aware.”
Pete felt embarrassment well up inside him. Oh jeez! He’d almost cursed out a counselor! He never swore at teachers! He sat down again, looking at his shoes.
Miss Holiday looked at him again, as if sizing him up. After a long moment, she said, “Peter, there are things in this world most people can’t possibly understand.”
Didn’t he know it! He’d summoned eldritch gods beyond human comprehension to take care of a zombie jock! That was something he still didn’t understand. He’d inadvertently gotten his two closest friends killed in the stupidest ways possible. Nothing in the world made sense anymore! What good was science when he’d witnessed magic? He’d tried to come up with reasonable explanations for everything, but there was nothing that made any more sense than the occult.
“I’m going to say something that might not make sense now, okay?” She announced, tilting her head to the side.
“Okay?” He muttered after her.
“A very long time ago, this school was a schoolhouse built by very powerful people.”
“The—The Waylons, I know.”
She grinned at him before continuing, “That’s right. The Waylons had a very specific rule of thumb they followed when creating places like their schoolhouse. Of course, this rule was its strongest in their own home, Waylon Hall. That didn’t mean it didn’t exist in the other four.”
Pete felt his heart drop to his stomach. This was starting to sound suspiciously like something he’d heard before. Five places the Waylons built including the schoolhouse and their home? Those were the black altars, weren’t they? But why did someone like Miss Holiday know about that? Wasn’t she new in town?
“Peter, I think you know what the rule is.”
“Pete— just… just call me Pete!” He blabbered over top of her.
That was something else that had bothered him. He wasn’t used to hearing his full name anymore, not so often. Steph never called him Peter. Neither did Ted. It felt foreign now, like it fit wrong in people’s mouths.
“Oh! Of course,” she blinked in concern. “Pete, then. I think you understand what I’m saying.”
He did. He was pretty sure he did, at least. He still didn’t know how she knew all of these things about Hatchetfield. Time was something he’d grown steadily more aware of since encountering those Lords in Black. Something about Miss Holiday seemed out of place. It made him uncomfortable in a way he wasn’t quite sure how to express. He hated this.
He wanted to believe her though, despite it.
“Nothing truly dies there.” He whispered finally, barely loud enough for himself to hear.
Miss Holiday nodded, expression solemn, “That’s right. They made sure of that.”
“Why do you— how do you know about that?”
“I read up on my history.” She replied, “I know my stuff.”
“Then that would mean…”
It was something he’d thought about a lot. How if Max had come back… maybe they would, too. They didn’t, though. He’d made a move after two weeks and it had been far longer than that. His friends were dead. There was nothing he could do about it. They were dead and gone. He couldn’t handle it if that wasn’t true. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself.
“They’re still here.” Miss Holiday confirmed.
Pete shook his head. That wasn’t possible. They were dead. He’d stood at their graves. If they were ghosts, what the hell would that mean?! Would they be trapped? Clearly they weren’t like Max, they didn’t have any sort of tangible form. If they were dead but not gone, that would just mean they had to watch the world move without them. That wasn’t fair! They didn’t deserve that!
He felt his lips tremble as he turned away from her, “Why are you telling me this? I—I didn’t need to know this.”
Miss Holiday sighed, pitying, “Because, Pete. It means that you have a chance to get something people rarely do.”
He wrapped his hands around himself, grabbing fistfulls of his sweater. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t need any of this false hope! It wasn’t fucking fair! Not to him or to Ruth and Richie. This wasn’t fair.
He couldn’t bring himself to respond.
“You can get closure.” She breathed, light and gentle.
“How?” He choked.
Miss Holiday looked at him again, gaze still just as sharp as she scanned his body. He could feel her eyes on him. She… she seemed like a nice enough woman, but all of this felt so wrong. There was something about her that reminded him of those Lords in Black, of Max. After a long moment of scrutiny, her expression softened.
“Several years ago, Solomon Lauter came into possession of a certain book. Before him, I—someone I knew had it. She was… a specialist, you see. She made me aware of some of the things it held.”
Pete felt his blood run cold. “The Black Book?”
Miss Holiday nodded, “That’s right. My friend is long gone now. As is Solomon Lauter. I don’t know where it’s gone off to, but it’s safe to assume that you’ve seen it, Pete.”
“I… yeah.”
Grace said she’d buried it. Not in the same place Mayor Lauter had, but that she’d made sure she was the only one that knew where it was. He wasn’t sure how much he still trusted her to ‘keep her beans cool’, but he knew she was the last one to have it.
“I don’t have the book, but I do have quite a memory, Pete. The Black Book is not something to be taken lightly, but the Church respected their dead, as did those who came before them. They had plenty of rituals that included the deceased. To borrow a term from D&D, one of these was something of a ‘Speak With the Dead’ spell.” She paused, suddenly seeming deeply weary, “It’s… one of the ones I remember.”
“What’s the price?” He asked, voice shaking.
She met his eyes, “You can only do it once.”
Pete was breaking into the school. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, technically, but this time he was alone. He’d thought about telling Steph, but he was almost certain that she’d try to talk him out of it. It was something he had to do, though. He did want closure.
Miss Holiday had written out the ritual as clearly and concisely as she could before letting him know the other price he had to pay. The Black Book was written in blood. She gave him a vial, but warned him it wouldn’t quite be enough. She told him to carefully put some of his own into the vial, to mix it with the rest, and then trace the words with the crimson ink. The small slit he’d left on his thigh burned when he thought about it.
She’d left the door to the counselor’s wing unlocked for him, so he supposed he wasn’t actually breaking and entering. It didn’t make him feel any less uneasy. He’d never wanted to interact with this thing again. One encounter with the Lords in Black was more than enough for his lifetime. But he wanted —needed— to say goodbye.
He stepped into the building, feeling immediately out of place. It was oppressively dark in the building, even with his phone's flashlight on. As he wandered the halls, he was acutely aware of every creak in the floor, the rush of the AC. He knew exactly where he was headed. A place of significance.
The tech lab at Hatchetfield High was hopelessly out of date. Its computers were boxy and slow, it was barely in use. It was also where the three of them would go during their free periods. Somewhere too nerdy for the more popular crowd to investigate, some place no one would bother the three teens. The lab teacher left the door unlocked for them. She still left it unlocked for Pete, even if he didn’t go much anymore.
She was a forgetful woman, so he banked on her forgetting to lock the door at the end of the day. Sure enough, when he twisted the knob it pushed open with a quiet creak. Pete let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and shuffled into the room. It was no lighter in here than it was anywhere else in the school, but the closed space made his flashlight cover more ground. That wouldn’t last.
He sat on the ground, near the door where the most space was, and carefully shrugged his bag off of his shoulders. He still needed the light from his phone to see what he was doing—for now. Soon, though, he’d have to rely on candlelight. Pete pulled the paper Miss Holiday had given him from his bag, anxiety slowly building in his chest.
Eight candles, placed in something of a figure eight. Two circles of four, close to touching. An infinity. A set of eyes. Either or. They had to be lit clockwise, four seconds between them, and then he had to cut any other light. Wait and watch until the wax of all eight candles made contact with the ground below them. Trace the shape the same way he’d lit the candles in hot wax.
Then, he had to speak.
“I—” he stopped himself, swallowing, making sure his voice didn’t shake, “I require the favor of Sight and Time. I allow myself to hold audience with the dead. To make contact with the things not of this world. I invoke the names: Bliklotep and T'noy Karaxis, The Watcher and Tinkerer, to grant my favor. I wish to see what remains of Richard Lipschitz and Ruth Fleming.”
The air around him grew terribly still and he was overwhelmed with the sensation of being watched. Something beyond his perception had set its sights on him, or maybe he only just noticed its gaze. For a moment, nothing moved. Not even himself. His body was held steady by a force he couldn’t fight, the candles ceased to flicker and dance. For that moment, he didn’t even breathe.
Then, just as quickly as it came, it passed. The stillness, the burning awareness, it was all just… gone. He stared into the candlelight, hardly daring to even blink. He wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for. The page wasn’t specific about what would happen after the ritual was completed. Pete didn’t know what the signs it had worked were, he wasn’t even sure that it would work.
It did.
It did and he heard it before he saw it. A sharp intake of breath, a startled gasp. His heart raced in his throat as he looked around the room, desperately searching for the source of the noise. He didn’t see at first, he couldn’t. Slowly, things started to take shape. A blurry outline at first, filling in until there were two bodies in front of him. Near solid, barely translucent.
He stared at them. They stared back. For a long time, no one dared to speak. Pete could barely hear himself think over the hammering of his heart. They looked… dead. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected anything else. Max—Max had, too. Blood spilled from their wounds, vanishing before it hit the ground.
Ultimately, it was Richie who broke the silence. In a voice that was strained, he whispered, “...Pete?”
It broke whatever composure Peter had managed to maintain. He let out a shaky breath that devolved halfway into a garbled sob. Tears sprung to his eyes but he was determined to keep them from falling. Failing to find the words to say to his dead friend, he lifted his hand in a minute wave.
“You can see us?” Ruth asked, blood dripping from the side of her mouth, “He can see us!”
She grabbed at Richie, shaking his arm. He bobbled, trying unsuccessfully to shove her off of him. It was something so intimately familiar to Pete that he couldn’t help but smile. He wanted to reach out and join them so badly that his chest ached with it. He didn’t want to risk not being able to make that contact.
“But how?” Richie questioned, looking around the room and cringing slightly at the set of candles in front of him.
Pete sighed, breath quivering, “I sold my soul a little bit, I think.”
“What?!” Richie shouted, leaning forward and finally shaking Ruth off, “Like—like to a demon? Is this a demonic seal? This is like… Black Butler or something!”
“Or something,” he agreed.
Maybe he shouldn’t have done this. They still acted so… like themselves. It made him miss them all over again. Could he really handle this? Once this was done it was done. This would be the last time he’d ever speak to them. Was closure really worth reopening those wounds?
Ruth sobered up slightly, wringing her hands nervously, “W-wait. What about Max? I—we haven’t seen him but… the Jägerman killed us! Both of us!”
Huh. They wouldn’t know about that, would they? It took Max two weeks to show back up. They’d died close enough together that neither of them would have come to when they took care of Max. Had they been waiting for him to show back up? Expecting him to kill again? Oh god…
“He’s gone.” Pete said finally. “We took care of him. He’s gone.”
“Good.” Ruth said after a moment.
Richie nodded enthusiastically alongside her. They both seemed to settle down slightly. If nothing else, Pete had soothed some of their worries. It was the best he could do.
“Look, I… there’s so much I want to say, but I need to warn you, first.”
They looked at him, letting him continue.
“This is the only time I can do this.” He admitted, “I won’t be able to see you again after the candles burn out.”
He could barely watch as their expressions shifted. Shock, horror, sadness. Finally, Ruth landed somewhere between that and acceptance. Richie didn’t seem to settle.
“What are you saying, Pete?” He asked, edging on desperate.
“Goodbye?” He offered, tears finally overflowing.
This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come here, he shouldn’t have done this. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth knowing he’d never get to talk to his best friends again. That they’d walk the halls of the school for the rest of time and he’d never be able to share it again. He suddenly understood why Solomon Lauter had buried the book. This was too much to bear.
“You can’t say goodbye!” Richie argued, eyes wide with panic, “Pete, this isn’t the end. We’re—we’re still here! We’re dead, sure, but we aren’t gone!”
“I know.”
Richie let out a wheezy breath, eyes brimming with barely-there tears, “Then this isn’t goodbye! You can’t—”
“Richie.” Ruth cut in, voice firm.
“I don’t—”
“Let him talk, dang it!” She yelped, hugging her chest, “If this is the last time we can talk, I wanna hear.”
Richie stopped talking, fiddling with the edge of his vest. A heavy silence settled over them. Pete folded his hands in his lap, trying to keep his body from shaking. Silent sobs jolted through his body as he forced himself back into control. He was doing this for a reason. He needed to get everything out before he was out of time.
“Thank you, Ruth.” He managed.
“I want to do this right, okay? Say everything I never got around to saying while you were still here.”
“We’ll be a good audience,” Ruth said, giving him a watery smile.
“Cool.” He whispered.
“Ruth? You’re the horniest person I’ve ever met. It’s stupid to miss your sense of humor, but I literally can’t go a day without coming up with a joke only you’d say out loud. I have no idea how you could manage to do all the things you did for the theatre program with as little recognition as you got. I wish I got to see you actually perform one day. I think you would have been able to do something really incredible.” He paused, catching his breath. “I’ve known you since we were eight. I think you’re cool. Not like someone like Max Jägerman was cool, I think you’re actually cool. You did so much for everyone around you and I don’t think people thanked you enough for it.”
Ruth let out a quiet wail, clutching her hands to her chest. Pete smiled at her, as genuine as he could manage. They’d been friends for years. Seen each other at their worst and their best. People used to assume they were in love with each other. He guessed they weren’t entirely wrong, but neither of them could ever see each other romantically. Ruth and Pete were just… Ruth and Pete.
And then, in sixth grade, they became Ruth, Pete, and Rich.
He hadn’t known Richie for as long as he’d known Ruth, but he’d never forget how meeting him changed his life. Suddenly, he never had to worry about being paired with someone who hated his guts in PE again.
“Richie… I don’t think this is gonna be as coherent as Ruth’s. I—I got to go to Ruth’s funeral, so…”
The two ghosts looked between each other, seemingly realizing for the first time that they’d had funerals.
After a long moment, Richie nodded, “Okay.”
“I wish I got to grow old with you. Two nerd ass old men who still talked about shows that ended before they were born. Our Pokemon cards probably would have gotten way more valuable, hah.” He trailed off, trying to get back on track, “I didn’t always get what you were talking about. But I know you were passionate about it, and that was more important to me than really understanding. You’re passionate about so much stuff. I thought it was awesome to have so many things to care about. You never let anyone stop you from being your own person. I think you would’ve done a lot of really cool stuff if you had the chance.”
He didn’t know what else to say beyond that. Richie looked heartbroken. Pete wasn’t sure he looked much better. He sniffed, wiping at his eyes furiously. This really was goodbye, wasn’t it? The candles were growing steadily closer to the ground.
“I’m glad you met Stephanie.” Richie mumbled, punching the consonants in her name just like he always did.
Ruth bobbed her head in agreement, “You get to date Steph Lauter! I’m sooo jealous.”
“I—what?”
“It means you’re not alone.” Richie said at the same time as Ruth said, “So you’re not lonely!”
Pete sucked in a deep breath, just managing to say, “Oh.”
They were running out of time. Ruth and Richie realized it, too. It was only a little surprising that Ruth was the first one to reach over the flames. She always was the one to initiate contact. Pete braced himself for disappointment as her hand hovered hesitantly by his shoulder. And then she touched him. And he felt it.
It was almost greedy how quickly he shoved himself forward after that. The three of them met in the middle, over the burning symbol. Richie’s face in his neck and Ruth’s on his chest. He sobbed into their shoulders and they shook under his hold. He pulled them as close as he could manage, grabbing fistfulls of ghostly fabric as they did the same.
He found himself whispering the same thing over and over again as they held onto each other desperately. ‘I’ll miss you, I’ll miss you, I’ll miss you’ until his voice grew hoarse. They said it back, just as anguished, like it was a lifeline. He was gross, all snot and sweat and tears. They were grosser, all that and blood.
They stayed that way for he didn’t even know how long. Clinging to each other like it’d change fate. With his eyes shut, he didn’t notice how the room grew dimmer and dimmer with each passing moment. Until finally…
They were gone.
Pete pitched forward, barely managing to catch himself before he made contact with the pool of wax. He let out an agonized wail, staring up into the darkness. He didn’t know if they were still there, he couldn’t.
Still, into the dark, he whispered:
“Goodbye.”