A Ghost is a Wish || Constance, Blanche, and Agnes Bachman
TIMING: Current/the Winter Solstice
LOCATION: The Common
PARTIES: @harlowhaunted, @constancecunningham, Agnes Bachman (written by @chloeinbetween)
SUMMARY: Constance and Blanche visit the seasonal lights in town to make their yuletide wishes and find themselves haunted. Constance makes a choice.
CONTAINS: mild gore, violence
Beneath the copse of glowing evergreens in the Common, Constance could almost believe in Christmas. The lights, steadier than flame and enchanted with colors she hadn’t realized could burn, spilled over the ground and painted the faces of spellbound children. Here, icy violet, th see ere pale green and rosy pink; there was no sense to it that she could discern beyond the thrill of beauty itself. “Your world has brought such wondrous magic to the mundane,” she said to Blanche, so close to her ear she could almost imagine the tickle of her hair. “Is it always like this? Such wonderful displays in the open for even the most wretched to see up close?” It was so magnificent with the light so bright in the evening it puddled on the floor in a magic carpet. Constance twirled in it and imagined the ground truly had transformed into the richest, softest fibres, the kind that would send you to sleep in an instant with their comfort. “It seems to me this should be the site of a great commemoration, a pageant or a gift. What would you ask for, Blanche Harlow?”
The colors shown through Constance’s transparent form, illuminating her in a strangely beautiful way that made Blanche happy only she could witness her. She was far happier than she had been in a long time. It was strange how such a simple outing could release the tension and stress built up for weeks and weeks on end. “I didn't believe in magic for the longest time,” she told Constance, jogging a little to catch up with her. “But I always thought the lights in the trees here this time of year was the closest thing to it.” Christmas with the Harlow’s wasn't an extravagant affair unless there was some holiday themed dinner party her parents hosted for work. After Blanche turned eleven, they rarely even bothered to get a tree unless they had to. More than once, Adrien and Blanche had woken up to a cold, empty house with money on the counter to order dinner and two wrapped presents - one for each of them. The Common was the only place where she could really appreciate the spirit - no pun intended. Blanche considered Constance’s question, her face flushing a deeper pink as it had taken to doing whenever she said her full name. “I’ve never been good at remembering what I want when I'm asked,” Blanche smiled ruefully at Constance, and she had the urge to reach out and grab her hand. A pang of sadness hit her when she remembered her hand would just pass through. Blanche looked down at the ground, thinking quietly.
“I also tend to wish for things I can't have.” She kept the bitterness out of her voice with surprising ease, and she seemed to recover almost immediately, looking up at Constance with a warm smile. “And you? Wha - What would you ask for?” Blanche asked.
“Sometimes a dream is the best thing to want,” Constance said. “So long as you know it. A gift you never receive can never disappoint and never betray.” Not for the first time, Constance felt that it would have been a mercy if Agnes’ false kindness had never touched her at all. At least when she was starving for food and kindness at once, her happiness could never grow more dangerous than a fairy tale. What good was learning what love could be if it only lasted for three years before growing teeth? What use had she for hope when it was doomed to be dashed? And yet for the first time, Constance hesitated when Blanche asked her what she would ask for. Naturally, there would be more peace in the world if Morgan Beck was stamped out for good. The distress she caused her friends, the harm she passed with her duplicitous, hypocritical Bachman nature would end, and Constance’s suffering would have been worth something. But if she could have two wishes, if the gifts could be guaranteed, or remain a dream forever… “It would have to be something wonderfully impossible, wouldn’t it?” She said, smiling back at Blanche. “Perhaps…I would like to climb into one of those pictures on your computer, like that lake in Prague, with the flowers falling onto the shimmering water? Perhaps simply to be alive again for a day before it all ends, in a body that touches and feels things like the living do…” There was at least one thing Constance knew she would enjoy touching. Oh, how sweet to dream such safe, impossible dreams…
Constance drifted closer to Blanche, another question on her lips, but she froze, aghast, when she saw a face drifting through the evening crowd. Agnes was much changed, more of a woman than Constance ever had a chance to be, the cruel wretch. But the broad features remained, haunting in their preserved beauty. “What are you doing here?” Constance growled.
Cold fear dropped over her as she watched Constance’s expression change from wondrously thoughtful to the twisted fury Blanche had come to associate with the Bachman family. It took her a moment to understand why, but she soon saw the familiar form of Agnes gliding through the crowd. “No,” Blanche said, her horrified voice barely a whisper. “Go away,” she pleaded, louder this time. It took a moment to shake herself of the ice that gripped her, before she planted herself in front of Constance, looking between them with a mixture of fear and a steely determination that she was unwilling to let go of. The only moment of hesitation was deciding who she was going to speak with first. She turned to Constance. “Please,” Blanche said softly, only for Constance to hear. “We don't have to do this. Not here. Let's go back to the lights.”
She had weighed her options over and over since that first night with Morgan by the poolside. Twice, Agnes had begun the trek back to Texas by herself, before turning back. Her heart tore in two opposing directions. Lights did not flicker and objects did not rattle when she felt things, the tempest of her emotions locked under her corset even in death, but they still twisted inside her until she felt like nothing but her indecision. It threatened to swallow her whole. The more she thought, the more only one solution seemed available to her. An end to her line’s suffering, the protection she hadn’t afforded her children in life, an end to her regret… and some kind of peace for Constance, if she would have it. She had moved through town for days, searching and at once hoping she would not find Constance at all, until she finally spotted her at the Christmas market. Agnes had been surprised to see how young she was, frozen in time decades before Agnes had been. The carefully prepared words fled her mind. All plans fled her mind. She didn’t respond to the living girl beside her, didn’t even consider her as relevant.
“Constance,” Agnes said softly, her face the picture of regret.
Agnes was always going to get more life than Constance had ever had. By design, she had granted her at least three more years before the floodgates opened on her suffering. But she had not imagined this. Agnes had wrinkles around her translucent eyes. She had a manner of dress Constance had never even seen. As far as she knew it was something out of a fashion plate, a grotesque extravagance she didn’t deserve. How worthless had her sacrifice been, that Agnes could gain this in the time between her undoings?
The tree lights flickered and flared, humming faintly.
Agnes’ face was as sad as Constance had ever seen, heavy and bent. How many times had Constance seen her present herself like that? So sorry and sad and wanting Constance’s comfort, her forgiveness. Constance drifted through Blanche to face her. “You have no right,” she declared, her voice rigid with fury. A section of lights sparked behind her and went dim. Control. Concentrate. This would not be her undoing. “Whatever reason you have come for, you have no right! Not like this! Like you’re sorry!”
“Constance please!” the desperation in Blanche’s voice caused her to raise her voice, flinching as Constance phased through her. It was hard not to feel the hot fear as her skin turned to ice, whirling on her heels as she watched Constance’s fury. “Please stop!” Blanche rushed to her side, looking at her. Lights were flickering, and Blanche's shouting caused several families to look over at her in concern. Blanche didn't care, the negative energy in the air sinking into her, resting like broken glass under her skin. She knew this feeling. The last time she had felt it was during the first failed exorcism when Cordelia’s spirit shifted into a poltergeist. Constance was already so close…Panic bubbled in her. “Don’t do this. We can go back - let’s enjoy the lights! Let’s enjoy the stars! Please! Please!” Before she realized what was happening, her voice broke and a large knot was tied in her throat. She couldn't properly breathe and her eyes were wide with unshed tears, and she looked to Agnes. “Go away,” she pleaded with her now too because she could feel the change in Constance’s anger, teetering so close to the point of no return. “Please. You don't know what you’re doing to her. You don't know what you’ll do. Please go away so we can go back. Please.”
Agnes did not shift in response to the flickering lights, nor Constance’s rage. She had always been the summer breeze to Constance’s fiery light, in joy and in grief. “I am sorry,” she said softly, knowing they would still hear. She looked to Blanche, still unsure after their last meeting, but Blanche had been right. She had been cowardly to avoid this before now. “I need to set this right. There must be an end to this suffering, for Constance too,” Agnes said desperately to Blanche, before turning back to the ghost of her ex-lover. She was no stranger to all of Constance’s tempers, some earned and some not in the life they had almost built together. Constance looked like a magnificent storm, too young by half for what she had suffered. “I am sorry, Constance. I want to do better by you in death than I ever did in life. You deserved better.”
“Better?” Constance spat. “Better is if I had used you for the curse! Better that you had never brought me to your home with your worthless—” Constance choked on the word. How pathetic, how cruel that she still could not speak of anything so impossible as love when there was no end to how loud or long she could scream and no point in holding back anything. Still, the word was burned out of her mouth. She felt its ghost in her, a hateful feeling that would fall into Agnes and her soft, quiet tears if she let it.
Constance clenched herself. Behind her, lights cracked and a tree fell to darkness. The decorations of ribbon, plastic, and glass quivered, rattling the branches. A child cried.
“What could you know about better?” Constance hissed. “What do you understand about right? Nothing about you is right, you, your cursed life—-” A horrifying thought struck Constance. It was hiding in the shape of Agnes’ cheeks, the way she frowned. Constance remembered those faces from long nights whispering her room, dreaming their way out of that house. But she also knew it from a crowded classroom, a bedroom window, a picture in the newspaper of Morgan Beck. They weren’t just any Bachman features. They were Agnes’. “Morgan is one of yours, isn’t she?” Not a great niece or a cousin or some other distant branch from the same guilty family, but her direct spawn. “Is that the real reason you’ve come? To stand by your blasted family again?” Of course, of course it couldn’t be for her.
The magic of the night was broken the second lights started exploding. No one was paying her any mind, and Blanche felt like she was going to be sick. Things were spiraling out of control too quickly, and she didn't know what to do. The only thought in her mind that it wasn't supposed to end like this, not this time. Constance would choose right, and her soul would be able to truly be at peace. She would be close to the edge, but never fall. “You don't understand,” Blanche pleaded with Agnes as the weight of Constance’s rage hit her. “You don't understand what you're doing to her. Go away, this won't help. None of this will help!” Blanche once again stepped between the two, trying to create a living barrier that would knock Constance back to how she was before. “Stop! This isn't the place for this. This isn't the - this isn't the - you can’t!” her voice cracked on the last word, and Blanche knew at that moment what she would ask for. There was a scream as glass ornaments started exploding, and the child’s cries grew louder. How could Blanche understand and articulate it in a way to defuse the fury that was raging through the Common? The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, and she clutched the fabric of her jacket around her, looking between the two helplessly. The betrayal and anger and love wasn't completely foreign to Blanche, but she has never been hurt the way Agnes hurt Constance. People were starting to panic, confused and afraid. “Constance, look at me, please. You don't have to do this. You can't. Let’s leave. Let’s go. Go with me, please.”
In life, every time they argued, it had been a one sided affair. Constance would be angry, Agnes would make herself smaller and offer no resistance, and with no where for her anger bounce against, Constance would be even more annoyed. Those had been minor arguments, forgetting when they had arranged to meet, disagreements about local gossip, the meals which they had packed for their summer picnics. Nothing as grand or as terrible as this. Constance was owed so much more than another spineless moment. “You are right. I cannot change the past, no matter how might I might wish to.” She glanced at Blanche. “I understand better than I have for decades. You helped me understand,” Agnes said truthfully, talking past her to Constance again as the world rattled with Constance’s rage. “No! No, Constance, I came here for the both of you. To do what I didn’t before, to protect you from my family.” And her family from Constance, too.
Control. Concentrate. Control. Behind Constance, glass shattered and children cried. Snow boots pattered on the ground as people backed away or shuffled back to their business. Such cruel noise, such destruction. Blanche was calling, screaming, and pleading at her side.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” Constance snapped. She turned her attention for an instant. Blanche’s face was pink and wet with tears. Her eyes, so large and uncomprehending, were that of a wounded animal. Perhaps she didn’t understand, perhaps she couldn’t. If she did, she wouldn’t be trying to stop her. “We shouldn’t have to be the ones who leave,” she snarled. “You know. You know what she did to me! What all of them did! Why would you ask that of me?” Of everyone Constance had met, Blanche had been the one she thought would let her free, would stand with her. Not help her, she was too gentle for that, but to stand, to make it so she did not feel so alone… Constance’s face twisted with hurt. Perhaps she should never have wished for anything at all, impossible or not.
“Protect me,” Constance said bitterly, her voice warbling. She would be crying herself if she had any tears left to give the world. “How would you even know what that word means, when I bent myself broken protecting you!”
The streetlamps around them flashed with panic.
“What is there left to protect me from? What is there left to do to me?” She screamed. She flew to Agnes until their forms nearly blended into one. “What is it? I should be glad to know the truth from you for once! What is it? How do you protect me? How do you do anything for me? You stole my life and even my curse wasn’t enough to keep you from tormenting me! I gave everything to make what you did to me stop hurting! And look at this! What is this! How are you still--” Looking at me, pitying me, haunting me. Constance stared hard into Agnes, pleading for answers she knew would never come. But worse than the ignorance was the helpless pull inside her, still wanting someone, maybe anyone, to love her. But oh, that was never to be in this or any other world. Constance screamed and at last let go.
You helped me understand. The irony wasn’t lost on Blanche as the sting of Constance’s rejection settled like a heavy stone in her chest. She had questioned Constance and her motives time and time again, and Blanche wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab her by the shoulders. She would feel her warm skin and hold her as they cried under the ruined lights and they could move on and heal and all would be well. “You don’t know what you’ve done. What you’ve chosen,” Blanche whispered. Her words to Cordelia echoed in her mind. The only tragedy is a woman who ruined other people’s lives to the point where she ruined herself. Blanche wanted more for Constance, she deserved more than to perish in the ruins of her past. She wouldn't see that though, she would only see what she thought she wanted. With one final scream, Constance was lost, and Blanche’s hope was gone.
She couldn’t focus on the lights exploding or the horrible wind that had picked up around them, scattering residents and tourists alike with ear splitting screams. Blanche could only feel the raw power radiating off Constance. Focus. A small voice hissed through the static that raged in Blanche’s mind. What do you do now? Blanche realized she was crying and she was more than angry. She didn’t quite know what she was. Grief stricken, maybe? Her skin felt like it had been set on fire and her insides had melted and she was so - Focus! The voice snarled, louder this time. It was loud enough to make her stagger backwards, reorienting herself.
She could see and feel the electricity in the air as she finally moved, fumbling from her purse. “Agnes go. I’ll find you later! You need to get out of here, now. Find Morgan.” Blanche blinked tears out of her eyes as her hand gripped the iron rod. She rushed forward, much like she had in Morgan’s classroom, ready to fight. She didn’t want to - god, she didn’t want to. Constance needed more. Deserved more. Why didn’t she just listen? She did everything right, and Constance still -- Focus. There would be time, Blanche realized, for grief later. There would be time to scream and cry and figure out why it felt like someone knocked the wind out of her. She could figure out where to go from here later. Now she had to dissipate Constance before she killed someone. Again. Unable to choke anything out other than something between a battle cry and scream, Blanche swung her iron.
“Your soul. Constance, I know I’m much too late for everything else, I can’t change that, it would have been worse not to-” Agnes shied away from Constance’s rage, even now it could no longer touch her. There was a tiny pulse in the air, no more notable than the click of a necklace chain giving way. She didn’t understand what happened, other than the tears on Blanche’s cheeks and her insistence that she needed to go, but she fell back, still pleading with the face of fury beating down on her. “Constance, we can be better than this. Both of us. We can end this now. I forgive you.” Her eyes widened as Blanche jerked forward, and only now did Agnes actually move away, avoiding the iron so she wouldn’t be forced away.
Constance unspooled on the wind, the threads of her soul, her sad, desperate softness fluttering away like her hair from its ribbon. She heard Agnes speaking, her high little voice like some trained bird. But for once nothing in her reached out to harmonize and rescue her voice from being swallowed by the world. Constance reached out to the world now and the wind roared, drowning out every sound in the common, ripping ribbon off the branches and blowing broken glass.
“Forgive me?” She screamed. “I never betrayed anyone! I never hurt anyone until you! You did this to me, you wretch! I wish I’d done half the things you said I did! I wish I’d murdered all of you and had done with it!” She couldn’t stop Agnes’ heart or dash her to the ground, but she could rip the glass from the streetlights and tear the shards through her form. She saw Blanche coming with the iron and shoved her back. “I would curse you too if I still could!” Blanche’s body flew and crashed into the Christmas trees. “You think I didn’t know you could betray me too? That I hadn’t learned my lesson yet? That I was your precious fool?”
The wind was too loud for Constance to hear anything at all, but around her, humans scuttled for cover like ants. Some fell, silly parcels spilling on the ground. Mouths opened in fright, but they didn’t understand what was unfolding before them, and they did not understand her hurt. But she could make them. She toppled the lamp posts, snapping them in half like they were only twigs and sparked the Christmas lights into flame, torching the branches with flames greater than all the candles in the world. Constance only had to bid them to rise and they flared, engulfing the trees all the way to the top. With a twist of her hand, Constance snapped a web of rainbow lights free and sent them flailing, thrashing, into puddles of melting snow. Power rippled white into the ground. The wind fell and in the quiet, the common drummed with the sound of falling bodies. Constance raised one of the burning trees and hurled it into a gazebo where a thick crowd had thought to take shelter. “I am going to do what I should have months ago, and I will take the blood of anyone who tries to stop me as well, since she doesn’t have any left for me to take!” Constance roared. She pointed an angry finger at Agnes. “This is your fault,” she hissed. “All of this is you! Forgive yourself for it, I dare you!”
Blanche should have known that it wasn’t going to be as easy as it had been in the classroom. She was knocked backward before she was thrown off her feet completely by an invisible force. Her body crashed into the tree. Branches and lights tore into her as her torso slammed into the trunk of the tree before she bounced down to the ground, hitting the frozen earth with a hard thump. In an instant, all the air in her body was gone, and Blanche could only gasp for breath. With no air to respond to Constance’s screams, she could only let out a wheezing objection - Blanche didn’t betray Constance. She was upfront from the beginning since Maxine had died, since Constance had almost killed Nell. Blanche wasn’t about to let her hurt all of these people, no matter the devastation she felt in her heart. If Blanche was truly going to do what she had to, it didn’t matter if it was bad people like Lydia Griffin or August Thompson. And it didn’t matter that Constance Cunningham had been twirling under the Christmas lights, beautiful and good, because she had lost herself.
There was that voice again, as Blanche lay there, barking orders at her as the initial shock from the collision. Focus! Move! Blanche hurled herself out from under the tree as it went up into flames just she realized just how much pain she was actually in. Pain was practically a pastime for Blanche at this point, so she staggered to her feet, eyes blurred from hot tears. Stumbling forward, she saw the flamed tree uprooted from the ground, soaring - soaring - soaring towards the cowering people in a gazebo.
“No!” Her hand flew out. It was too late, she only managed to knock it off course a little, hitting the side of the gazebo instead of head on. There was an eruption of flame. Screams pierced Blanche’s ears and she staggered back. The crowd was scattering, running far away from the electricity crackling off the lamp posts, far away from whatever horror had been thrust upon the common. The energy was going to make her sick and the pain was getting worse.
Focus. Make the next choice. Focus, dear.
With a start, Blanche realized she recognized the voice, and she knew what she needed to do right then. Lunging for her fallen bag, Blanche hissed for Agnes to follow her, before she forced her aching body to sprint as she fumbled for her phone.
She needed help. Now.
