Ghost From the Ages
Lane picked Aletta up shortly after sunset, as promised. Hopefully, the promise this ghost held had as much certainty to it. She was running out of options, despite how she had assured Aletta otherwise.
… Options, and, when she admitted it to herself, time. The migraines were getting worse, coming in waves, splitting her head apart with ice picks. She had been able to reach Lane (a thought which disturbed her far less than it should have--they were slipping further and further apart) with the spirit box before, briefly. That was gone. The Traveler might have believed Lane herself was gone, were it not for the headaches. Those had been a symptom of her presence; they clung tight to them now, as reassurance the woman who she had been was not entirely gone.
Too late, she realized her own slip.
Lane had insisted on driving, refusing to give up any small independence. If a migraine came, she would pull over, safely, and let Aletta resume. That was the plan. For now, she drove down the backroads of Massachusetts, towards the pin on her GPS.
“Thank you again, for coming with me.” She shot Aletta a small smile. She knew the lines under her eyes were unusual; she could have attempted make-up, but her attempts for Halloween had been... pathetic. Visible lines were better than ones she tried to conceal.
