@mirrordread sent 🏫to be trapped together in an old, haunted: school
He and the concept of school had never really got on. Ever since primary school he'd been a nuisance to every teacher who tried to educate him, and a terror to any bully who tried to chance it against his wits and childhood affinity for curses. None of those things mixed well, leading to reprimands and notices to his father, which then led to beating after beating. He learned to take a punch as well as throw one, at least.
He'd been called to this particular secondary school by his mate, Chas. He had been a bit too pissed to listen closely, but he recalled something about his granddaughter, Trish, seeing a ghost in the halls when picking up her younger sister. Normally, he would have blown him off, but when he looked at the papers, it seemed as though several kids in the area had gone missing from the school grounds, only to be found in comatose states later. Always in the same room. The dance studio.
Yup. A ghost, he reckoned. Trish had gained a gift for running into the supernatural since her up close and personal encounter with Beroul and Mictlantecuhtli. Chas never seemed to pleased about that, but it was better than her being dead or possessed, wasn't it?
It might have been a handful of decades since the last time he snuck into school after dark, but he was still good at it. This time, however, he wasn't sneaking in to smoke pot with the lads. He got in through the boy's bathroom window, dropping his feet onto the til floor with a light clack. As he passed by the full-wall mirrors over the sinks, he could have sworn he saw something moving besides himself.
He burst out into the hallway, fixing his tie. "Alright, la'. You've been making a fine mess of things, and you've got my mate Chas up in arms over his little girl's girl. Come on out and let's get this sorted before I have to break out the candles and magic circles, like."
Silence was all that met his demands. Until. Weeping. A girl's weeping. From down the west corridor.
He raced down the hall, not wanting to risk missing his chance of contact, and swung open the doors from which he heard the loudest mewling. Here he was, the dance studio, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on either side. Set up for ballet, from the looks of it. He stepped in, and the doors shut on their own behind him. He could still hear the crying like it was right in his ears. Narrowing his eyes, he stood in the center of the room. "Alright. I get it, you're upset. Any words for me, love?"
Then, suddenly, the crying cut off, and the room was drowned in silence. He stood still, then pulled the lit cigarette from between his lips and let out a sigh of smoke. "Shit." A seance it was to be, then. Usually this was better done in groups, but he had been able to contact the dead on his own before. Hell, they were often eager to meet him, whether he wanted them around or not.
He pulled three candles from his trench coat pocket, narrow and made from tallow. As he set up his circle with chalk on the center of the floor, he noticed movement from the mirrors again. "Hm...? Something to show me then?" He approached the mirror, standing nice and close to his own reflection. "Go on."
