#wr blanche

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[user is typing for a long time] [user blocks Morgan]

@harlowhaunted

[user is blocked 😔]

[constancecunningham]

@harlowhaunted

[pm] I just want to see how you’re doing.

[pm] I am still tethered to this plane. I am still upon my quest.

I have been practicing. That is, practicing how to do things, without being angry. It is very difficult, but I am improving. The spirits in the house do not blame me for happened to Nancy either, which I do not understand or agree with. I have been staying in the woods. As a compromise with them. I do not know if I can bear to visit again.

And how are you?

[mor-beck-more-problems]

From the Darkest Night || Morgan, Blanche, Jasmine, Constance, & Agnes

TIMING: Current/the night of the solstice. After Morgan’s and Constance’s choices.

PARTIES: @harlowhaunted @halequeenjas @constancecunningham Agnes Bachman (written by @chloeinbetween )

SUMMARY: Death has been and left its mark with winter’s bleakness, cold and stark. The tides of darkness turn.

Constance must be stopped. Morgan faces the truth.

CONTAINS: violence, death, exorcism

The steering wheel cracked on the Subaru as Morgan swerved around the slick, snow-covered streets. She sped past the red-green stream of traffic lights, muttering, “Fucking, fucking, fucking fuck...what are we gonna do about this, how do we fix this, what is my fucking plan, stars a--” Morgan slammed on the brake and turned the wheel violently again. The Subaru jumped the curb and wailed to a stop. In front of her was a stream of anxious cars, all trying to squeeze down the narrow way out of town, toward the highway. From the crest of the road, Morgan could see some of the mess they were escaping: dented street lamps and snapped power lines, dizzy shadows of wounded, disoriented people and gory splashes of siren lights. Whatever Morgan had let Constance get away with, it was big. Morgan revved back and hopped through any street she could to get to the rendezvous point in the outskirts, dodging stunned, frightened holiday-goers. Whatever they warned her about, she didn’t hear. She just needed to get to Jasmine, Blanche, and Agnes. Constance was bound to try her luck on the East End when she was done pitching a fit on this side of the river. And then what? She’d find out that Morgan’s house was still warded up tight and she wasn’t even home and Deirdre had enough salt in the house to prevent any warm-up carnage. And then what? If there was anything good left in the universe, no one would have to find out.

Morgan slowed when she found the group, already working on something. She stepped out of the car. “I’m--I--” This wasn’t the time to be pathetic. This may not even be the time to be sorry. “I’m here now,” she said. “Do we know where Constance is? Or what the plan is? Or--” She couldn’t tell if it was her guilt talking or not, but Morgan had the distinct feeling that no one was impressed by her questions. “Tell me how I can help. I would like to help, please.”

Something akin to anger had been boiling up inside Jasmine as she drove to the abandoned lot in the Outskirts Blanche had directed her to. There should have never been a chance for Constance to wreak havoc on the Common. This should have been done months ago when she had initially tried to make Constance pass on. If her concentration hadn’t been broken, it’d be both Constance and Nancy gone. But no, Constance was still here and a full on poltergeist which was going to make things more difficult now. She had to drive by the damage on the way to the Outskirts and her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. A hint of smoke was still in the air and everything was blown out of place. The number of ambulances on the scene only served to make her more angry. Constance wouldn’t have the chance to do this again. She quickly jumped out of the car when she got to the lot and looked over Blanche a handful of times before she was entirely convinced the girl was in fact okay. Well, relatively speaking at least. She’d directed Blanche to help her set everything up as Morgan arrived. They had to act quickly and Morgan being here meant Constance would be sooner rather than later. Under less rushed circumstances, she would have let her anger towards Morgan out. As it stood, she simply gave her an annoyed look and said, “She had left the Common and will likely be seeking you out seeing as you’re the one she has the whole revenge vendetta crap with… which is at least convenient since you’re here and cooperating now.” There was a bit of a bite to her tone that she couldn’t be bothered to hide. “Well, you’re pretty much bait at the moment, but since you have the benefit being able to see her and be on the more durable side, I’m going to ask that you keep myself or Blanche from getting impaled by something.”

Agnes felt hollow, like the blood spilled on the street had been drained right out of her. She hadn’t expected that, to have her bitterness and fury thrown back in her face with the weight of an anvil. Nothing Constance had thrown at her had done any kind of damage, but when a street light had buckled under the force of Constance’s rage, Agnes moved by instinct, lowering it to the ground so gently it couldn’t crush anyone. It was only when it was set down so carefully that the glass in the bulb hadn’t broken that Agnes cracked, once Constance was gone and she could let herself grieve just another one of her failures. But this one had been Constance’s too. That was what she’d seen, in the second before. Constance had made a choice, as she had when she’d cast her curse, when she had as she’d tried to kill Morgan over and over. Constance was no longer the girl Agnes had loved. She hadn’t been, even before she’d become a poltergeist. So Agnes had let her grief break the light in the downed street post, and had pulled herself together to look for a plan, following her heart back to Morgan, and this terrible, empty space, clinging to the walls as she tried to tuck her grief back inside her perfectly acceptable clothes.

Time wasn’t passing correctly for Blanche as she sped away from the carnage on the common. Moments in time had been plucked from her memory, dissolving into static and cold numbness. She only really came into focus once Morgan showed up, jolted back into reality at the heated anger boiling under her skin. She said nothing, keeping her face blank as she stared at Morgan, hearing the bite in Jasmine’s words. Blanche was pleased that Jasmine seemed to be feeling similarly to her. She looked away from Morgan, busying herself with finally trying to settle her appearance. She looked like -- well, like she had just been thrown into a giant Christmas tree. She pulled her hair back and started picking off pine needles from her newly ruined winter jacket. “We need to get her here,” Blanche said tonelessly. Focus. The voice in her head was now her own, reminding her that the pain in her side or anywhere else didn’t matter. Cracked ribs, exhaustion, and bruises were something she could live with for now. “Constance is on a rampage, and she no longer cares about who she takes out in her quest to kill Morgan,” Blanche said to Jasmine. It was easiest to talk to Jasmine, rather than to the group as a whole. Between Agnes setting off her already overstimulated senses and the building anger when she looked at Morgan, her head was starting to hurt pretty badly. “I don’t know how we want to do this, but we need to get her here before she devastates another highly populated area.” The image of the gazebo going up into flames came to her mind and any color left in her face drained. “Constance needs to know Morgan is here. Or think she’s here.”

Morgan hadn’t expected a warm welcome from anyone, but somehow the sharp, pragmatic snaps were worse than any volley of yelling she’d braced herself for on the way over. “I’m sorry,” she said meekly. “I’m...yes, I’m cooperating. I know I screwed up, and you guys were right, okay? I…” I can’t let anymore people die tonight because of me. Morgan swallowed that particular wish down. She was in enough trouble without explaining Miriam to anyone. “I can try to bait her. Find her. She’s probably headed to my house, right? Maybe I can draw her out here...but, uh…” She would need someone to help run interference if she really wanted to make it home in the morning. But looking between Jasmine and Blanche, that didn’t seem like something she could ask for. They couldn’t take the fall for this.

Morgan’s eyes slid over to Agnes, who had remained silent since her arrival. “Would you help me? Come with me, run interference so we can get her back here for sure?” Her eyes pleaded with her. “I know I screwed everything up, but we can still do something. Not as much as we should’ve, but something.” It wouldn’t be enough, because pain wasn’t something you could measure down to the last milligram and weigh even with carbon and silicon. You couldn’t throw it at someone like an axe and find yourself lighter or trade it like money for happiness in exchange. However you got rid of pain, it wasn’t like that.

“The two of us together will quickly draw her ire,” Agnes agreed listlessly, staring at a point past all of them and right into her past. Into the lie neither of them had truly ever been permitted to heal from, and the crushing weight of her mother’s suspicions for the rest of her life. Constance was gone. Whatever she had hoped to achieve here had failed most spectacularly, hope scorched from the earth like that damned tent. “I will do what I must.”

While they were finally on a united front, Jasmine had never been good at hiding any sort of disdain she felt. She’d never found much point in it either, even in a business setting, her customers seemed to appreciate her never relenting honesty. “Sounds like a plan. Maybe avoid taking the more populated route here,” she said, the edge still more than evident in her tone. Her glance was cast at Morgan though she was still unsure about this Agnes ghost hanging around. Her attention focused back to Blanche who seemed to be in a somewhat catatonic state that left her concerned. As Morgan and Agnes left, she spent a few moments explaining the steps in preparation to Blanche. She wasn’t sure the younger woman would ever like to learn exorcisms, but it still seemed beneficial for her to pick some things up along the way. She closed off the circle of salt and let out a sigh. She broke the quiet and asked, “Do you want to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?” It was clear she was taking this badly and Jasmine needed to help her find her strength for these next steps.

Blanche listened to Jasmine, unsure if she was truly absorbing everything Jasmine was telling her. She supposed they would find out if they were ever put into this position again. When Jasmine broke the quiet, she glanced up from one of the symbols she was examining in the ground, staring back at her. “I -” Blanche started, her throat thick with emotion she hadn’t realized appeared upon Morgan and Agnes’ departure. “I did everything right -- She’s the one that chose this.” Blanche wasn’t certain if she was talking about Morgan or Constance anymore. She realized then her anger wasn’t directed completely at Morgan’s choices. It was at both of them. Both of them were wrong, and Blanche had practically broken herself trying to make them see right. What was the point? Was there even a point in trying? There was a broken feeling in her that she couldn’t explain, but it hurt worse than any of the injuries she had put together. Blanche numbly wondered if it was disappointment. “I don’t want to talk about this now,” Blanche said as the pain in her ribs jerked her back to reality again. She wiped her eyes before tears could spill. “I’ll do what we have to, Jas… Everything else…” Her voice cracked. “Everything else can come later, can’t it?”

Jasmine nodded as Blanche spoke and noted how raw the emotion in her voice was. How she seemed so much smaller than her already small size. Broken down in a way that seemed far too dire for someone so young. She placed a reassuring hand on Blanche’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You know, you can do everything right sometimes and people can still let you down. I hate to say it, but more often than not that’s the case.” It was evident to Jasmine that somehow Blanche’s sense of self worth was tied into this which she just couldn’t wrap her head around. Morgan had previously been unreasonable and Constance had been a ghost fueled by vengeance for over a century. “None of that says anything about you,” she assured as a chilled gust of wind came through the lot. Thankfully nothing was displaced, but somehow it made the moment feel morose. They had to press forward though. There was no other option. “And we’re not done here yet,” she said to remind Blanche.

“I'll have to get used to disappointment,” Blanche replied, and the pain and anger that swelled in her chest was overtaken by an overwhelming sense of numbness. All her senses dulled, and she relaxed herself into a state of nothing. Her gaze rested on the circle, a sense of finality in the air. “No,” she agreed, glancing at her watch. “But we will be soon.”

Morgan stopped counting how many traffic violations she racked up well before she scraped past the bridge by riding the shoulder and swerving through lanes to get to her street. Constance left a trail of debris big and small in her wake. It was almost funny: when Morgan laid eyes on her up the road, standing in the road outside of Morgan’s house with Christmas lights strobing manically around her, she still looked as small and grubby as she’d ever been. No demonic glow in her pale eyes or costume upgrade like a comic book villain. Just a girl, frail and dangerous.

“I’d really like to be able to survive this so I can un-fuck my life afterwards,” Morgan whispered, fear turning her voice shrill. “I don’t know how much you know about zombies, but if she busts my head, I’m finished. So if you could run interference with her projectile playtime, that’d be great. And uh, you have full permission to hitch a ride or take over if you happen to come up with a plan, because I kind of don’t have one besides ‘make her mad and get out of here fast.’”

As she spoke, Constance drifted closer to the house, phasing through the stacks of cars crammed onto the driveway. Deirdre’s plan to get the families into the one house that was warded must have worked, but stars above, that didn’t make the scene look any less terrifying. Morgan shut her eyes and braced herself. Deirdre’s got her side and you’ve got yours. You don’t need to do this together, you just need to do it.

Sparks flew up from a reindeer next door. Rudolph’s lights went out just as his antlers turned into a halo of fire. He slowly came apart into his sharp-edged assembly required pieces and rose, trembling, into the air.

“Hey, Connie!” Morgan shouted, leaning halfway out the car window. “The real party’s right here! Are you gonna throw a tantrum all night or are you gonna kill me?”

Rudolph crashed against Morgan’s kitchen windows and bounced to the floor. Banshee proofing the glass was good for something after all. But that was where the good news ended. Morgan had wanted to get Constance’s attention, and now she had it.

Agnes felt more hollow than she had in decades in Morgan’s vehicle, her hands clasped in her lap. Her gaze distantly ahead of them as they made the same pilgrimage she had weeks ago. She was so still she almost missed Morgan’s fleeting admission. She did not say that Beck women were as prone to ruining their lives as they were prone to falling in love with other women. There was no fix, no un-fuck. There was only a tornado in the breeze of the woman she had loved. “I can do that.”

“I was never one for plans nor bravery,” Agnes replied quietly, still as empty in tone as the air that she inhabited. “Should I see the opportunity, I will take it, although I hope I will not have to.” Agnes was not sure that if she had a body again even for a moment that she would find it easy to let go. She also had little idea what a plan might even look like, other than to channel all of Constance’s rage into one place. There was little time for further hesitation as Morgan stretched out of the window and called for Constance. At the same time, Agnes floated through the roof of the car, letting Constance see her again in invitation. Her eyes met Constance’s for a long moment, perhaps hoping to see anything that she had before here, but there was nothing, more rage than woman. The letterbox was ripped out of the ground, and hurtled at their car with deadly force. Agnes extended her hand, but only pushed it enough sideways to only scrape the paint off the vehicle. There was an implicit challenge in her gaze as she looked back to Constance. Do your worst.

Constance had never imagined what Morgan and Agnes side by side would look like, it was too cruel, too wrong, to consider. Like a mirror cracked and doubled, they turned their heads toward her, eye wide and stupid as deer. She knew what they wanted, and she had half a mind not to give it to them. Perhaps she couldn’t get past the wards around the house, but she could rip everything else to pieces, could she not? But that was another trick in itself. As much as Constance burned to see the defiance stomped out of Morgan Beck’s face, she wanted to see her perish even more. Right before Agnes’ eyes, if she could have it so. Let Agnes see the curse finish before her eyes. Let her break the way Constance broke, let her whither and confront her own cruelty and her crimes.

Constance turned away and charged toward the car.

“Maybe cowardice is genetic,” Morgan shrugged. “But we do what we gotta for the people who--shit!” She had just enough time to pop back in and rev the car in reverse, shooting into someone’s minivan before Constance barreled through the windshield shattering it inward. “Probably should've seen that coming,” she said. Morgan met her eyes and her stomach lurched. She thought she had seen murder in her face before, but this was different. This was beyond desire or rage, this was as close to will and magic as a ghost could get. Morgan looked down the street and at the flicker of passing sirens and traffic lights. She was going to get shredded up and down the interstate if she tried to race Constance, and everyone just trying to drive home for the holidays, going to the grocery store, or trying to get the hell out of here for good.

“We gotta go!” Morgan dove out of the car as Constance vanished into the console, taking control of the wheel. She took off into the nearest yard, crashing through a fence before she coordinated herself enough to vault over another. She landed all wrong, bending the bones in her leg sideways but kept going. Running to the outskirts wasn’t going to be any fun, but maybe it would save a few lives. “Fuck, I hate this! You wouldn’t know how to climb things, would you?”

Agnes froze, understanding the implications of Morgan’s question. There had been games played in trees when she’d been a child, stretching for the highest, ripest apples in the trees. Then there had been the times she had to leverage herself into small nooks and crannies to find herself a moment’s peace from her husband’s incessant demands, and teaching her children how to hide and run from the events of the curse. She wouldn’t have ever described herself as a good climber, but she could do better than this, surely?

It wasn’t really even a question of whether she could. If Morgan could not clear the route back to Jasmine and Blanche, then Agnes might have found even fresher ways to fail her family. Agnes reached out, through Morgan’s hand, her arm, and then right to her heart. It did not beat, but it still hummed with energy. There was a small nook under her aorta. Agnes envisioned herself pouring into that nook like treacle out of a jug, except that there were no space limits at all. Once there, she expanded out, out, out, until she filled Morgan like she had once filled herself. It took her a moment to reorient herself where gravity had an effect, but then she was off, hurling through the outskirts faster than her human body could ever have sustained. Agnes had not felt physical pain in decades, and was less careful because of it, but she was also faster.

There was a moment of biting cold, the first Morgan had felt since she’d died, then a wave of grief, like there were too many sobs stuck in her chest, drowning her from the bottom of her lungs and up to her mouth. “Agnes,” she gasped—then there was quiet and a darkness almost like sleep.

Constance saw the Bachman women collide and disappear into the trees, scrambling like a squirrel from a fox. She seethed and electricity cackled from the power lines above her, but only a flicker. No flames, no splitting wood. Something inside Constance was breaking further, something Iike strength. She held no more illusions of love and hope and wishing, but it burned worse than any flame to see Agnes choose Morgan, help Morgan, save Morgan. Always Morgan and her wretched happiness, her stolen life. “You’re mine!” Constance shrieked.

She followed them, tearing through the dark as the pair, now bound into one body, raced over the bridge and up to the outskirts. The wind roared with each of her screams, topping them over and knocking them into the trees. Windows trembled and bowed in the automobiles she passed. On they went. Constance surged behind her once, too furious to concentrate enough to pull on their hair or throw them into the river. She tried to reach inside, to worm her way in. If she had been more clever, she would have done this from the start and forced Morgan to her doom. But she only phased through and watched helpless as the Morgan-Agnes creature vanished into the woods. She pulled on every thread of energy she hand and sped through. She would snap her neck, she would pick her up and run her through every branch in the forest. Constance reached for the pair again and sneered with satisfaction when they went flying and tumbled into the street. “You did this! You did all of this! You killed me!” She tossed them with the force of her will again. Morgan-Agnes rattled to their feet, like a puppet pulled on all the wrong strings and fell again. “You need to pay for what you did! All of you!” She was so fixated on spending herself making the pair suffer at once, she didn’t see Blanche or the circle set in the ground. Her world had burned down to a single thread of pain and Constance would unravel it down to the last fiber.

If the howling of the wind and the thudding of Morgan’s body being thrown about wasn’t enough indication that Constance was there, the bone chilling sensation that ran under her skin would have. There was no time for Jasmine to ponder the situation. Think the moment over. It was something her aunt had taught her early on; develop an instinct so sharp that you could act swiftly. “This is it,” she told Blanche before clasping the young woman’s hand in her right hand and the gem of her aunt’s necklace in her left. While Blanche couldn’t chant the words with her, her energy could give Jasmine the edge she needed to get them all out of here alive. Constance barreled through like a storm, sights only set on Morgan who judging by the extra nerves firing off inside her was possessed by Agnes. The thunderous rage in her eyes could not make Jasmine back down. This had always been inevitable and she would go about this in the kindest way for the girl Constance once was. The familiar Latin chants poured from her mouth with her voice even and strong. Her focus would not be deterred no matter how much chaos Constance brought in her wake. She kept repeating the part of the ritual that would draw Constance into the salt circle. Once. Twice. Three times. As many times as it took.

Agnes felt the ice filling her - Morgan’s - brain, as Constance tried to squeeze inside too, to rip them both from the inside out. Unsure of what else to do, Agnes just ran through her, wincing as the place their hearts might have been touched in ways they hadn’t been permitted in life. Far too late now. She could hardly remember the route that Morgan had driven, unfamiliar with this terrain, but she could feel the medium Constance had been with before like Blanche was a flame and she was but a moth. Perhaps it was that Blanche had already summoned her once, perhaps it was the second light that was the exorcist beside her. She found her way to them, only to lose sight of Constance. Agnes barely responded as Morgan’s skin was scraped by their landing, the burning bending of her bones. She could barely get the body upright before Constance threw them again. The words stung more than the jerking of this body, but Agnes was careful to protect the head. “You did this, Constance.” She replied eventually, in a voice as much her own as Morgan’s. “You made your choices too.” Agnes hardly believed her words, but she needed to keep Constance’s attention on them, not on Jasmine or Blanche.

Blanche’s grip on Jasmine’s hand was so tight, she was sure Jasmine was going to yell at her for it, but as the icy feeling spread through her body as Constance and Agnes (via Morgan) approached had her holding on for dear life. This was the one moment she wished she could help, that she knew the right words and the right power to end this now. She didn't want to watch Constance become nothing while the memory of her twirling under the Christmas lights still hung close to her mind. It was a happy memory tainted with anger and murder, and Blanche trembled as she focused on pushing every last ounce of energy she had into Jasmine. She wanted to close her eyes to spare herself of watching Constance unravel, but things were bound to fly and it wouldn't be safe for anyone, especially Jasmine, if she shut her eyes tight. Words sounded like static, and Blanche let in a deep breath as she tried her best to focus on Jasmine’s voice rather than the ghost fight in front of her. She understood their intent even if she didn't know the translation itself, and as Constance’s shrieking echoed in her ears, Blanche reminded  herself there was no other way. All options had been exhausted. She was exhausted and this was it.

It passed in an instant, like the jolt you got from snapping awake after a nightmare: Morgan was sliding helplessly over the yards in the East End, and then she was on the ground, struggling to get her bent bones to hold her up. The air burned her cheeks, her skin torn to shreds from scraping along the asphalt. Staggering to her feet, she saw a sideways view of Blanche, trembling with the fierceness of her reserve. “I’m---I---” Her words crackled in her throat. Right, she needed to breathe with her ribs bowing through them in five places. She winced as the ground vanished and crashed to the grass again. You’d think after all this time, she’d be used to it.

“No!” Constance screamed. Her voice twisted in the air, wailing with pain that went beyond nerves and feeling. It was as though she had become it and burst, splattering her anguish like blood. But the circle surged with light and all the wind in the air wasn’t enough to keep Constance from falling into it. She reached out with both hands, her airy fingers trembling with strain. She looked to Blanche. She should have known. From the first moment Blanche had come up to her at the funeral, she should have guessed. Blanche hadn’t been a spy or a cheat, but she had not been her friend or anything else Constance had deluded herself into wishing for. “I should’ve ended you!” She sobbed. “How could you make me this!”

Morgan finally got to her feet, cradling herself as she staggered to the edge of the circle. The circle seemed to be pulling on Constance’s clothes with a hundred fingers. But Morgan knew there was nothing to tear or pull on but her. Tears, thin and wispy as frost fell from the corners of her eyes and vanished into the circle of light. Maybe it was the magic, or just how little all their pain amounted to, but Morgan couldn’t see the ghost from her nightmares or her paranoias anymore. Only a raw, anguished nerve wrapped in a hurt girl. Morgan couldn’t think of anything sadder or more familiar than that. “I’m...sorry,” she breathed. “I get it, I do. You had to do something to stop feeling this way. It’s the worst kind of hurt to see everything you love fall away and find yourself in the last place you wanted. I know, Constance. And I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not. None of you are. Not once!”

Morgan stared into her trembling, translucent eyes, which seemed to grow as the rest of her came apart. “I know that feeling too. And I’m sorry, honey. I’m even sorry it has to be over. I am, okay? But whether you believe it or not, you’re not alone anymore. And it’s not enough, but it’s what we’ve got. Let go now, okay? Let it stop hurting. Please.”

Jasmine had been well practiced at tuning out chaos. Hell, she’d spent a good chunk of her life ignoring the ghosts around her once she realized others couldn’t see them. This was no different. This needed to end here and now and that meant her full concentration was mandatory. Blanche’s hand was grasped tightly in her own, almost to a painful extent, but there was no pausing her chants now. The thought of how tight her grip was for such a small person flashed through her mind for a moment, but the intent remained. Constance’s soul would be destroyed tonight. It wasn’t the preferred route, but Constance’s own choices had led her here. She ignored the chill that surged through her body and kept pushing through the words. Constance was being pulled into the circle now and would soon be trapped there until this was all through. That wouldn’t stop her from throwing a ghostly temper tantrum in the meantime, but it was a start.

Once Constance was trapped in the salt circle, Jasmine continued on to the next part of the ritual. Branches and rubble flew all around them. She found strength and power both in Blanche’s grip. Getting them out of here and ending this now would push her through. Her voice shouted over the howling of the wind and she gave Constance a harsh gaze to let her know she wasn’t backing down. Jasmine never stood down. A few lone sticks and stones had hit her, but they felt lighter than they should have and only left minor bruises and scratches in their wake. She was sure she had Agnes to thank for that. It made it apparent she could tune out her surroundings a bit more safely. She hardly picked up on any of the chatter around her though she was almost sure it was namely from Constance.

Constance’s wind was weakening now and continued to do so the more she chanted. Jasmine could see her form fading now. Only a few more repetitions and they would be poltergeist free and she could turn her attention back to Blanche who was clearly distressed. She was holding up though which was a true testament to the potential she held. The shrieks coming from Constance were nearly muted now and the wind was dying down as she fought to stay on this plane or at least take Morgan with her. It was sad to see someone so young so utterly taken over by rage that they hardly resembled a person anymore, but choices always had consequences. One final shrill sound escaped Constance before she faded away completely. The thrashing wind calmed and rubble fell to the ground.

The calm after a tough exorcism was always strange. The calm after the storm is what she could say if she wanted to be cliche. Jasmine could barely feel her legs like jelly underneath her so she took a moment to steady herself before she softly said, “It’s over now. She’s gone.” With her energy levels being severely lowered, she hardly even had it in her to shoot Morgan an annoyed glance. It came across as more of a grimace, but she guessed when it came down to it, Morgan made the right choice.

Beyond anything, Blanche wished there was some comfort to the wailing woman in the middle of the circle, caught as Jasmine’s ritual unraveled her soul for the last time. She said nothing because she didn’t want to distract Jasmine and, more distinctly, there was nothing to say. The poltergeist’s essence had cast a cold layer of ice under her skin, and she wasn’t able to feel anything at all except the energy leaving her body and her soul being destroyed. Slowly, her body began to warm, the ice thawing as Constance was no more. She knew immediately when it was over, but found herself unwilling to let go of Jasmine’s hand, clutching it hard until the sudden wave of dizziness passed. Blanche refused to pass out. She refused to go down now. 

After a moment, Blanche allowed herself to let go of Jasmine’s hand and sink down to the icy ground. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t rip her eyes from the spot Constance had been. “... I tried,” Blanche whispered. “I’m sorry. I tried.” Hot anger swelled in her again, burning through whatever ice was left in her body. With fire came pain. The pain in her ribs raged to the point where tears pricked her eyes, and the small cuts and bruises from the evening was an overwhelming ache that almost set her outwardly sobbing. Worse yet was the pressure of guilt and grief sticking in her chest. Blanche sank backward into the snow, letting the cold numb herself back up because now that it was over, there were no more choices to make.

It was Constance’s blow that pushed Agnes out of Morgan’s body, which forced Agnes to face the reality of the circle. Somehow, without ears made of flesh and bone, she felt Constance’s scream all the more keenly, rippling through every part of her. It was easier to turn her back on her, once again, and steel her heart as she formed a buffer around Morgan, Blanche and Jasmine, beating back as much debris as she could. When the screams ended and the debris calmed down, Agnes looked faint even beyond her normal pallor. Agnes collapsed to her knees, staring at the circle and wondering if being in there might have been better. Now there was nothing but to return to the painful monotony of eternity. 

Morgan stared at the empty spot where the girl had been. The whole time, she hadn’t broken Constance’s gaze once, even as her face dulled in its ghostly sheen and unraveled like an old patchwork quilt. It was too terrifying to watch the threads of her dissolve into the light, nothing and nowhere, not even ash or goo. Her eyes, the last recognizable part of her humanity, streamed with hurt. At the end, her screams were so quiet they sounded more like a child’s cry. When the last sound died and Constance Cunningham was no more, Morgan’s ears rang with their echo. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the nothing, hanging her head. Her fingers twitched, aching to take Constance’s hurt and feel something of her and understand just a little better. But there was nothing. 

She pressed her hand to her chest, righting the bones that hadn’t sprung back the right way. Her two lifetimes of hurt still throbbed in her dead heart. Nothing won. Nothing changed. Just a dull, unending ache. But there was no beat to pace it evenly; only more nothing. Where did the pain go? Constance’s pain should have drained the earth or razed the forest. She had taken down bodies and destroyed neighborhoods, but those would get fixed or spawn new wounds to fester and twist until they spawned more of their own. But where was the rest of it? Where was the mound that buried it for good? Was becoming nothing the only answer? No. There had to be something better. Even if she couldn’t trade pain for peace and happiness, even if it was completely worthless (and stars above, it sure as fuck was starting to feel that way) it had to be able to go somewhere else. This couldn’t be the only way. Morgan’s fingers reached out, cradled the nothing left behind it in her palm, and as the tears she’d held in came free and blurred her vision with a moonlit sheen, it almost looked like a piece of magic had landed on her fingertip. “I’m sorry,” Morgan whispered again. She sagged on her feet and crushed the illusion in her hand.

[constancecunningham]

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.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@harlowhaunted replied to your post: [pm] How's your leg? [d: And will you accept help...

[pm] Sling came off yesterday. Nell’s mom is going to help with the supposed 4 week period I’m supposed to avoid heavy lifting and other sports stuff. How’s the curse situation coming along? Have you gotten anymore information?

[pm] Oh, that’s great! And Nisa’s amazing. I’m sure she’ll have you out and making mischief in no time. 

It’s uuuuuuhhh good? Deirdre couldn’t sleep last night after watching Constance’s death vision a dozen times that’s fine and doesn’t terrify me at all Constance leveraged her life to curse me! 

I’m making progress! Learning lots of new things. I’m working with Nell on a plan to summon the woman who cursed me. 

[mor-beck-more-problems]

My Wild Heart Bleeds || Morgan, Adam, Blanche, Margot, & Constance

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: UMWC Humanities Dept

PARTIES: @walker-journal, @harlowhaunted, @g0t-ri5h, @constancecunningham, @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Constance sits in on Morgan’s lit seminar.

CONTAINS: Mild gore, death tw  

The afternoon section of Fear and Loathing: Western Literature of Speculation was crammed into a corner seminar room designed for intimate grad-level meetings half the size, baked into the side of the building through its set of large windows like a hothouse. Even with zombie strength, they wouldn’t slide up more than an inch to let in the cooling September air. Morgan smiled brightly at her students, as if enthusiasm alone could make the central air in the building work double time for them. “I really like the place you’re coming from with that point! Do you think it’s fair and accurate for me to rephrase your thought as, ‘the debate between Carmilla and Laura’s father in the dinner scene ends formally unresolved, with Carmilla having the last word, positioning her as a possible victor in the exchange, a position which then renders credibility to her reasonable points and, by extension, to her own perspective and humanity?’” Morgan nodded encouragingly at the girl, Maxine. Her rephrasing was a bit of a generous take on her thought, but not completely unfounded. 

“Uh...sure?” Maxine replied.

“Amazing! So, going off of Maxine’s thought, what possibilities open up for us when considering the figure of Carmilla? And, does recognizing the humanity behind her perspective complicate the more critical, even predatory ways of viewing her we discussed on Monday?”

The class trudged on in spite of the heat, fixated on passing through each moment that brought them closer to the end of the seminar. Around and behind them, the windows blazed with light. A fissure down the centermost panel glared like liquid metal as it spidered outward, spreading crooked fingers as far as they could reach, as if it meant to rip itself free, seemingly of its own accord.

The refulgent heat made Adam even less inclined to engage with class then was usual for someone who’d entered higher academia mainly to play football and have somewhere to stay while stabbing monsters to death after practice. Thus Adam had chosen his curriculum purely on the basis of what made it easier to flirt with his adamic advisor or what sounded vaguely tangential to his higher purpose of putting bullets in horror movie rejects. 

What was literature of speculation? Who knows? Adam, Terry, and Andros had privately speculated on Professor Beck’s ‘assets’ at various points. Thus Adam figured they’d satisfied the syllabus requirements. 

The DIE fellows were sweating in the back of the class and praying for death whenever one of their more enthusiastic classmate decided to ‘try hard’ on this Gothic Lesbian stuff. 

She just wanted to go home, but Blanche had to rush to work after class to help Mercy on some assignment - which probably meant she was going to be stuck on photography stake-out duty again. At least her car had working air conditioning. She was technically a nerd (Blanche had really done the reading), but it was too hot to really do anything comfortably - even listening to Morgan talk about Carmilla and humanity and thinking deeply. 

Blanche went rigid in her seat the second she felt the presence, her colored pen dropping down onto her notebook. She wouldn't have been overly concerned (she felt ghosts pass through campus all the time), but her conversation with Morgan after she warded up her house meant trouble or worse. As calmly as Blanche could manage, she tuned the lecture out as she sat back in her chair, quietly scanning the room with narrowed eyes as the temperature in the room plummeted. Fuck. Fuck. She swiveled around her seat, looking straight over the DIE boys and Adam’s head and straight into the ghosts’ angry eyes. 

Oh fuck. 

The color drained from her face as Blanche’s hand immediately shot into the air as she almost flew out of her seat. “Morgan-I-Have-A-Really-Important-Question!” Blanche blurted out immediately. 

Margot had all but fallen asleep in the sweltering heat of the classroom. It didn’t help that she’d been up half the night, awoken by her recurring night terror. Her mind was so tired. Still, Morgan was trying her best to be an engaging professor, to lead the class discussion in a formative direction. It was a pity Margot wasn’t interested in the class. She would Google the SparkNotes later.

Her eyes were just now closing, lulled by the dulcet tones of Morgan’s voice. It reminded her of a lullaby one of her nannies used to sing. So -- soothing… Sleepy...

Interrupted, jolted awake by the student behind her, knocking Margot’s seat as she stood up and began shouting for attention. Margot turned to give Blanche a hard stare, the girl flapping her hand back and forth. How rude.

Morgan was teasing out a comment from another student. Everyone was melting in their seats in the worst way but they were so close to stumbling upon the paradoxical existence of Carmilla’s complex humanity and the inhuman treatment she received in the narrative’s third act, the fear behind that swerve--- and then Blanche interrupted. “Uh...yes, Blanche?” This wasn’t usually her way, and neither was the two-notches-away-from-full-panic expression. “Go ahead. Unless the question is about excusing yourself because you’re not feeling well, because you can just...go, in that case.” 

Behind them, the window’s spider veins multiplied. The glass trembled in its pain, whimpering under the pressure of Constance’s grip. What had she expected when she drifted up to the campus, looking for signs of the woman? And yet, what could have prepared her for how blindingly smug she looked as she lectured her students? How shameless and bitterly ironic, to speak on humanity, on true feeling and justice? Constance barely noticed the blonde girl look at her. Her gaze was steadfast on Morgan, who sported neither a scratch nor an ounce of regret. Constance focused her energy on the glass, wispy tears running down her face. It wasn’t fair. If she didn’t get to have her life, she shouldn’t have to watch a Bachman run amok with theirs either. With a shriek, she  burst the window inward, hailing glass down on the whole class. 

Morgan ducked to cover her face gave Blanche a look that said, Oh, is that what you meant?

Adam’s eyes had flicked up when Blanche’s body language had changed, gaze scanning the room for anything new before settling back on her face. Adam was well aware that Blanche could perceive things he couldn’t. Just as Adam constantly felt waves of ice-hot inhumanity rippling off Professor Beck whenever he was in the same room as her, so too could Blanche be a sexier and less creepy version of that 6th Sense kid. 

Honestly Adam couldn’t tell if Blanche just was having a paranormal activity moment or was just nerdgasming about a vampy lesbian flick with a depressing lack of sex scenes. Blanche ticked off Miss Narcolepsy over there and for a few seconds Adam, Terry, and Andros sat up in mutual of some awesome cat-fight action. 

Then in one shitfuck moment glass was falling down and lots of people were doing the duck and panic thing. 

If this was a roomful of Hunter kids here, all Adam would have had to do was designate the extraction point at the nearest Safe Space and watch as everyone fell into a coordinated boot camp pace outta here.

Still he wasn’t sure if this was some structural thing, ghost stuff, or someone just popped some X-man powers from a Victorian sexual awakening. “Yo Harlow,” Adam said across the room as he tried to shake glass shards from his hair. “Got any Caspers?” 

Blanche had just grimaced at Margot when screams echoed from the surrounding students as glass scattered over the class. Pure driven panic flew through her, and she froze until she heard Adam yell out to her. Caspers. A much less important part of her mind screamed at talking about ghosts in public, but it was enough to check her back into reality

“Adam, she’s after Morgan!!” Blanche swore, clamping her hand over her ears as Constance let out another anguished scream. Fuck, that was disorienting. Students continued to panic, some running out the door as fast as they could as lights overheard started flickering and then exploding, the temperature dropping to a cool chill. Desks started flying towards their beloved professor, crashing against the whiteboard behind them. 

“Fuck, my bag, where’s my bag?” It had just been right next to her. 

The panicking students had punted her bag - full of salt, iron rods, an iron dagger, a gun, and wards-  away from her and she was trying to strong arm her way through to get to Morgan. Some poor student went flying as a chair was ripped from under him, a crunch of metal as the chair bent and snapped before their eyes. Blanche shoved someone out of her way, rushing toward the front of the room.

“Morgan, no!”

The sharp end of the now broken leg of the chair was rammed straight into Morgan’s stomach, pinning her to the whiteboard behind her. And then all hell broke loose.

Margot covered her head with her hands as glass sprayed across the room. She could feel the shallow cuts on her forearms where shards had spliced her skin, but the pain was an afterthought. Were her eyes deceiving her? Margot couldn’t fathom the chaos that was taking place. Flying desks, shattering windows; were they experiencing some kind of tornado?

While other students fled the room, Margot was frozen in place, watching as her professor was impaled by an invisible force and Blanche was shouting about her stupid bag. What purse was so important at this moment? “What the fuck is going on?!” Margot screamed over the chaos. 

None of this was real. She had surely just fallen asleep in class. Yes, this was all some part of her twisted nightmares. “This is a dream.” Margot whispered to herself. “You’re about to wake up.” She repeated this mantra as she pinched herself. Only she wasn’t waking up. 

The world shattered around Morgan. Sharp edges and razor points pinwheeled toward her face, too fast for her to catch her horrified reflection spliced through each piece. The fog around her senses parted; Morgan swore later that she felt every groove in the wood grain as it raced through her body, heavier and slower than the pole that had killed her, but no less painful. “Fuck you…” She hissed in a whisper, her lungs wheezing as they remembered the blood rushing through them, the bite of concrete at her back, and the numb feeling of death in her mouth. 

Constance screamed again as she drove the chair leg harder into the wall. “Stop! What’s wrong with you? Just stop! Stop and die!” The old overhead lights buzzed anxiously. Sparks burst and showered down on the class. Children. She hadn’t even been thinking about the children. Constance drifted back, staring with wild confusion as students phased in and out of her, neither seeing nor caring, much less understanding… What was she becoming? Constance reached out for a small one, squeezing himself under a chair as tightly as he could. “I’m sorry, it’s not you, it’s her. She’s making me do this, she can’t leave me alone!” The chair flew back against the wall and snapped in two.

Morgan’s body trembled, trying to fix itself and coming up against the chair leg in her chest. She gripped it with both hands and pulled, gasping as it inched out, dripping with dark, tar like blood. Her eyes found Margot’s as she struggled. “This. Is. Real,” she said between gasps. “Help Blanche or get out of here.”

Adam was a normally laid back guy, preferring to let non-monster life just proceed at its own pace. But he’d been conditioned to respond when the spooky side reared its head. He hollered to Terry, and Andros to get people out. Luckily instincts from the football field asserted themselves and the two other DIE started ushering students off. 

Adam’s backpack would probably be a national security concern and unfortunately most of the stuff in here could only harm physical threats. But nevertheless Adam withdrew a long cruel length of barbed wire that’d done more then  its fair share of strangling and trip-wire duty lately. The cold iron glinted beneath spots of rust and dried blood. 

Technically it was a weapon against Fae, but iron was iron. 

Adam could trust Blanche to do her ghostbusters stuff, while he could only help those he could see. He vaulted over twisted chairs as if they were track hurdles, trying to navigate a room quickly becoming a telekinetic warzone. Adam knelt beside Morgan, spooling out the suspiciously-stained barbed wire in a circle around them both. 

“Oh you’re still alive Prof ….cool, uh just a sec.” 

She’s making me do this, she can’t leave me alone. For a single moment, Blanche could almost understand Morgan inherently wanting to destroy Constance’s soul. There was no time, however, to dwell on Constance’s blatant hypocrisy woven in her rationalization of endangering a room full of people. She ducked under pieces of flying debris as Adam launched himself at Morgan. Blanche, already in a poor mood, wondered only briefly if she should be concerned about Adam killing Morgan for her obvious inhuman nature of surviving being impaled - would Morgan be necessary to kill for humanity?? - but decided that the only thing she could do right now was trust him, even through the underlying anger. 

Constance launched herself at Adam and Morgan, her infuriated scream echoing in Blanche’s ears as she realized she couldn’t pass the invisible wall the iron circle created. Blanche wasn’t thinking clearly as she frantically searched for her bag, head whipping around for the stupid thing. Before she knew it, though, she was throwing herself in front of Adam and Morgan just as a large piece of desk ripped from the floor and was thrown at them. 

Blanche’s hands raised out in front of her and there was a loud crash. 

She hardly registered the pain, she was used to it. Honestly, she was more thrown off by the large broken window in the back of the classroom the desk had flown out of. Whoops, maybe she had given that a little too much juice. The desk had sailed away from the three in front, going straight through Constance and crashing through the window. Screaming was erupting from the remaining students in the classroom.

“Please, get my bag!” Blanche snapped at Margot, breathing heavily. “It’s pink and white and it has things that can stop this. Now! I’ll try to stop her from doing any more damage to anyone else but I can only play ping pong for so long before I pass out!”

Despite Morgan’s words Margot couldn’t make herself believe this was reality. The black strands of blood that oozed from the professor’s wounds were enough to convince herself this was some kind of fever, probably the result of a concussion or even blood loss from her shallow wounds. Nonetheless Margot felt some kind of control, different than how her nightmares usually felt. 

Margot watched as one of the remaining students, she thought his name was Adam, bound over the anarchy that had taken over the classroom, before surrounding himself and Morgan in some kind of strange, ritualistic circle. Wow, her brain was so very good at conjuring things up, it had even given Blanche some Carrie-esque superpowers. Doing as Morgan had instructed, Margot turned to Blanche who was in the midst of quite the battle.

“Okay, okay! I can do that!” Margot yelled back to Blanche’s request. Pink and white, pink and white. She repeated the description to herself as she searched. Margot dodged the multitude of flying furniture as her eyes scanned the classroom floor for the bag. Margot thought back to where they had been sitting before all of this had started up. She looked in this direction, spotting the bag. Margot scrambled towards it on all fours, her palms and knees burning as she did so. “Blanche! I got it!” Just as her left hand clasped the object, she heard a deep crunch. A large overhead light had fallen, or rather, had been dropped onto her wrist by an unseen force. Margot could feel a shattering in her bones and glass in her skin. She cried out. For a dream, this pain felt so very real. She reached out with her other hand, taking hold of the bag. Margot shook the heavy light fixture off of her and cradled the injury. “Here.” She whimpered, holding it up as high as she could manage, the splinters and glass digging in deeper.

Morgan tugged on the chair leg in her chest. She could imagine how it splintered around her body and all the screaming she would’ve been doing if she’d still had a life to lose. Should she scream now? Would it make anything any better if she made a big ol’ holler and begged for someone to make this stop? Would any of this be any less ridiculous? Morgan started to laugh. It was a deathly, wheezing little rattle at first, but as the chair leg popped free and she fell into her student, it grew stronger. “Well that was weird and random and lucky, right?” She said to Adam. The classroom was still flying in chaos. Half the students had made it out but half a dozen remained, most of them cowering in corners or frozen in shock. “Class dismissed!” She called chucking the chair leg at Constance. It sailed through her and clattered against the wall, bopping Maxine on the head. “Apologies! But, seriously, go!” What else was there to do? There was some very gnarly looking wire around her and Adam that looked suspiciously purposeful. She gave him a sidelong look, brow arched in a silent question as she knelt down and reached outside it for her bag. “Can you see what’s going on?” She asked, running her hand through, but finding everything but what she was looking for. She undid all the zippers and flaps and started to dump the contents on the ground. “Don’t see many frat boys carrying this in their backpack. I’m not sure if that’s technically allowed on campus…” But anxious blabbering wasn’t actually making anything better. She needed to find-- her salt! “Perfect.” Morgan opened the velvet pouch and heaved the contents across the floor. The salt pattered the ground like rain. It spread thin, rolling wide across the dusty tile. Constance flew up to one of the chairs still standing, unharmed. She clenched her fists as she took in the double barrier between her and her ‘prize.’ “Sorry to keep disappointing you,” Morgan sneered, her eyes drifting downwards at her failed ploy. The feeling was mutual.

Adam had known Morgan was an inhuman since first being in class with her and feeling the frigid fire sensation her proximity set off all through his body. But though Adam had been born with the clairvoyant ability to sense all supernatural creatures, well those with physical bodies anyway, his Hunter vibes weren’t as specific as those who’d undergone more specific mutation. Morgan could have just been the world’s biggest pixie for all he knew. 

 But since the prof was taking this whole impalement thing like a champ, Adam was placing his bets on one of the undead. Since he’d seen her during the day without wickerman shit going down, the Hunter was going to very tentatively put his money on his gothic lit teacher being a zombie.

Was Morgan Beck actually a two hundred and twenty something year old Mary Shelly moonlighting as a Texan? Time would tell. 

Morgan asked some rather uncharitable questions of why a gentleman was carrying bloodstained barbed wire in his bag and if he could see anything. “Trying to keep cows outta the keggers,” he explained cheekily before turning to survey the madness going on. He wanted to help Blanche and not just chill in this iron circle, but the simple fact was: “Can’t see anything except shit flying everywhere and Harlow doing some cheer squad poses.”

“Morgan! Adam! Stay in the circle!” Blanche yelled frantically. Playing telekinetic interference was harder than she thought, and she didn't want them to get hurt chucking trying to chuck salt. Out of frustration, Constancee stopped aiming at Adam and Morgan and aimed at Blanche herself, seeing it faster to go through her. Debris was building up as Blanche redirected things to slam into the walls, Constance howling in rage at her failures. 

Finally, Margot yelled to her, and Blanche heard the best news of the day. Unfortunately, Constance wasn’t deaf. “No! Fuck -” She saw the light fall, and feared the worst - but Margot was okay, for now, holding her bag high enough for all to see. “Margot, run! Or take cover!!” Blanche reached out her hand, and her bag flew through the air. Constance tried to rip it down away from Blanche, causing salt and books and a small dagger to go clattering to the ground. Blanche tugged back, the pain in her head excruciating as she gave one hard mental yank, and it flew back into her. Blanche wasted no time; she finally grasped her iron rod tightly, throwing her bag to the side.  Constance threw things, trying to knock her off balance to get her away or worse. There was no use. Blanche ducked or threw them away herself before she was close enough to --

“This doesn’t concern you! Run like the others, why don’t you! Run, before I--”

Blanche cut Constance off with a hard swing of the iron rod. She dissolved with one last scream, and the presence faded away quickly. Blanche felt like her skin was on fire, but the tiny pin pricks in her skin were gone. They were alone. It was over. She looked back to where Adam and Morgan were, their figures blurring as the rod slipped from her hand. “She’s gone. It’s safe.” Blanche’s knees buckled underneath her and she collapsed, utterly exhausted. “Call 9-1-1, Margot’s hurt.” Blanche called quietly. She laid backward, unable to keep herself upright as she closed her eyes tight and sank into darkness. Time to rest.

The bag flew from her grasp, and at Blanche’s order, Margot reduced her form to a fetal position, not knowing if she could make it to the exit. She covered her head and drifted in and out of consciousness, her mind forgetting, or rather, repressing the memory of what had just occurred.

Margot was awoken by Constance’s piercing scream, her ears continuing to ring from the sound for minutes afterwards, but at least she was back to the real world. Finally she was out of the strange scenario her brain had conjured up after the tornado, or hurricane, or whatever it was. 

She began to stand, holding her head. “I’m okay. I’m fine!” Margot assured Blanche and the rest of them, though her body was throbbing. “Blanche?” Margot could see the girl’s crumbled frame on the ground. “Blanche!” Margot ran to her and kneeled beside her. She brought her head to Blanche’s chest and heard the slow thumping of her heart. At least she was alive. Margot took Blanche’s hand, not knowing how else to be useful. “Professor, are you okay?” She looked back at Morgan and Adam.

It never felt like it was over, with Constance. Morgan stayed still, trembling and on high alert. It wasn’t until Blanche’s body slipped to the ground with a thud that she snapped back into step with the rest of the world. All the wrecked furniture leapt out at her eyes, super saturated with violence, confounding her sense of space with their jutting wrong angles, dusty debris, and bloody ends… blood…

“I-I’m fine,” Morgan stammered, stepping over Adam’s wire ring. “Who all is still in here? Adam, you’re good, right? Margot--” She stumbled over to the girl, looking at the mess of her wrist. “You’re gonna need to get to student health, or the hospital. But you’ve in one piece, and you’re gonna be okay!” She squeezed the girl’s shoulder, nodding encouragingly. If it wasn’t for the dark stain of dead blood on her cardigan, you wouldn’t have known she’d been run through and stuck to the wall only minutes ago. “Blanche--” she sighed, shrugged, and stepped over the girl. She would be okay. Morgan could carry her out to her car and get her squared up in her own apartment easy. “Carlos!” She gave the boy a sharp look. 

He was grinning sheepishly, scrunched up in the corner, as if it would make him any smaller than his six feet two inches. “Sorry. It just seemed, like, better to try to be invisible?  But I’m going now. I’m--”

Carlos paled and bent double as he vomited cheetos, acid, and clear fluid on the floor.

Morgan followed his line of vision and found-- “Shit, Maxine! Maxine?” She pushed the rest of the classroom furniture aside and knelt down to where she lay on the floor. There was a deep gash in her head, soaking her sandy brown hair black. Her eyelid hung down the wrong way and there was some kind of matter sticking up through her hair. Morgan’s stomach clenched. She didn’t dare touch her like this. There was no telling how few barriers there were between her brain and Morgan now, or if there was any tender, fresh-peeled skin she’d crave taking a bite of-- Maxine had been quiet, depressed, wry humored, blunt when you could get her to open up. She really wasn’t good at explicating literature into coherent theory, but she was young and soft and struggling, and now she was nothing. “Carlos--” she said, voice shaking. “Please leave. All of you…” She turned around and collected Blanche off the floor and into her arms. “Grab your stuff, or don’t, but we’re not staying here. It’s not safe.” It was starting to seem like nowhere was.

“I’m alright Professor,” Adam quietly gathered both his and Blanche’s occult paraphernalia while the Medium was being attended to by Morgan. Though salt, iron, and other instruments were unlikely to arouse that much suspicion, it didn’t make sense to take any chances in this town. He packed up his backpack and Blanche’s bag and slung them as a shoulder as the room was vacated. 

But though Adam pretended to be wholly engrossed in packing and ushering the vomiting remaining students out the door, the Hunter kept an eye on Professor Beck. If Morgan was what Adam thought she was, or some other rarer variety of undead, then she’d have to be closely observed when around the wounded students. 

If she slipped up? Well with those gnarly injuries it’d be pretty plausible that a beloved literature professor perished in the hospital complication. There’d be a whole weepy story in the student paper and everything. 

With Blanche safely cradled in Morgan’s arms, Margot let go of the girl's hand. She sensed that Blanche was in safe hands with the professor. As everyone began to exit, Margot took a second to gather herself. She wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but she was not in any mood to find out right now. Using her one good arm, she hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. There was no way she was leaving her laptop behind. How else was she going to figure all of this out? 

The room was empty now, the rest of the class being ushered out by Morgan and Adam. Margot stood in the doorway for a few moments, admiring the destruction, before following the rest of the group out into the hall and presumably to the hospital. 

Constance screamed silently, reaching within her soul for something to sew herself back together again. The world broke into starlight flashes, too bright and formless to mean anything. Her mind blazed. Was she dying again? Was she going back to the purgatory before this new world? To hell? She wondered the same every time she was struck and dissipated. The magic of death was strange to her and she did not know when it would be ripped away as suddenly as it had been ripped into her. When the winds of fear that had scattered her to the wilds fell and the world was still once more, she could see the room where she had shattered it, and within, puddles of salt laid to tell her how much she did not belong and was not wanted, as if she did not spend her existence with that clarity in abundance. But beyond the salt, and dripping slowly into it, was the darkness of thick blood protruding from the head of a young girl.

Constance flew to the broken classroom walls. She would reach all the way through to the girl if her body would only will itself solid again. But she was only air, and the salt had spilled too close to the wall for her to come through. She spied the dead girl only from a distance, taking in the judgement from her unblinking eyes. What have I done? She thought. What have I done?

You have crushed me, the girl’s body seemed to say. You have proven them right.

If Constance could have wept for them both she would have. What cruelty was this, that she set out to strike down only one soul and take a life as miserable and innocent as her own had once been? She sent the thought away on the wind, lest it destroy her further. 

“I will show them,” she whispered to the air. “I will show them all what true monsters are.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Sideways || Morgan & Blanche

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: Blanche’s Apartment

PARTIES: @harlowhaunted & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: A seance for Agnes Bachman only goes half-right. 

CONTENT WARNING: Wrong Agnes is mean :/

“I don’t know how this works, but maybe don’t touch anything with your bare hands if you can help it,” Morgan explained, releasing the wood bobbin from her hand so it rattled and rolled onto the floor. “I’m pretty sure Cece just sniffed at something from Granny Agnes’ box of goodies and now she looks like, well, not-Cece. I don’t think you want to be running around town looking like my dead relatives.” She gave Blanche as much of a smile as she was able to give and looked for a place to sit. The apartment had been given a deep, photo-ready clean, and all the furniture was cleared away to make room for the magic circle on the floor. Morgan wanted to ask if everything was okay, this wasn’t what she understood to be Blanche’s norm, and she hadn’t checked in on the girl as much as she knew she probably should. As she tried to figure out how to sit, how to meet her eyes, what to do with the soup she’d brought as an offering, she said, “Uh, anything I should know, before we get started?”

Things were sparkling in her apartment. Blanche wasn’t really a messy person unless she was depressed and had no energy to clean, but she wasn’t really a make this place look like Disney On Ice in TWO SECONDS either. But after Kaden’s comment about messes, Blanche sort of… Well, she overdid it a little. She was pretty sure things were literally squeaky clean. Blanche had shoved all her furniture up against the wall neatly, drawing the circle that Jasmine had taught her up on the dark linoleum floor with a chalk pencil. Candles littered the surrounding area, perhaps a little clumsily, but it was for the overall energy of the magic that was to be performed. Though, Blanche sort of thought magic was a strong word, it was more of a light summoning. It wasn’t like she could yank Agnes’ spirit from the ether like Nell and Morgan had with Constance. They didn’t even have any concrete proof that Agnes was still walking the earth… Though, Blanche hypothesized that she was. The Bachman’s seemed to all have unfortunate fates. It made sense to her that Agnes would have ended up as a spirit. Blanche watched the little bobbin roll across the floor and grimaced. “Right, no… uh, no touchy, I guess.” Blanche had to immediately resist the urge to touch it. “Um, no. I don’t think so?” Blanche had been burning to ask Morgan about what happened with Constance, but she figured that it was probably best to stay out of it. For now, at least. “Just the reminder that I’m - I mean, I’m new at this. And that this isn’t a sure-fire thing. She might not be on this plane anymore.” She sat at the top of the circle, crossing her legs as she pulled the book into her lap. “Are you ready?” Blanche asked.

The silence bristled between them. No doubt Blanche knew about what happened in the woods with Nell and Jasmine and Adam, if she had been advising them on it beforehand. Thinking on it now, the ploy was enough of a gambit to have maybe involved her from the background. But Blanche hadn’t tried to stop her yet, and Morgan didn’t really want to know that her choices meant so little to someone else too. She sat down on the floor opposite Blanche, knowing her energy would not give itself over to help. “Kinda hoping she can’t come to the phone right now, after all the bitching we’ve done about her over the last hundred-odd years. But, that would be a nice thing for the cursed family so--” she smiled ruefully, barely a performance of joy or humor at all, and then caught herself and softened for Blanche. She deserved better from Morgan, no matter the circumstances, and if Morgan felt herself being ground up a little too finely, she could still summon up the will to be better for her sake. “Anything’s worth a shot, and I have plenty of faith in you,” she said. “Let her rip.”

The bitterness in Morgan’s tone didn’t escape Blanche. It was hard to miss, even as Morgan tried to cover it up. She wanted this to go well - she desperately wanted this to go well. Blanche didn’t necessarily have any high hopes, and she wished she had asked Jasmine to help her. After what had happened, though, she was fairly certain that would be out of the question. So Blanche went over the Sanskrit ritual over and over again, having recorded the pronunciation exactly so she wouldn’t mistakenly say something wrong. “Alright,” Blanche said quietly. “I’ll begin then.”

Blanche spoke the words as confidently as she could manage, but slowly. It took a moment to feel the ritual work, and it was a similar feeling to sensing a ghost. The feeling originated under her skin, spreading until her whole body was tingling with the sense of magic. For once, it actually felt good. And it felt better as the room’s temperature dropped ever so slightly, the flames from the candles swaying and flickering from a non-existent breeze. It felt even better when she saw the form appear before her eyes in the middle of the circle. Breathing a little heavier, Blanche sucked in a deep breath. “Agnes?” She asked. “Is that you?”

Agnes was old, deep set wrinkles on her face enhanced by the twisted scowl of her expression. She was, clearly, not happy. Her eyes narrowed on the small blonde girl and the smaller brunette sitting around some foolish circle. She sneered. “Who the hell’s asking?” Angels snapped, crankily. “I don't answer to some pasty, pierced hooligan with a bare middriff in October!” The blonde looked down at herself, pulling at the muted pink fabric of her shirt in some discomfort. “Where the hell am I? I was in the park watching the birds!”

“Uhhh...Blanche?” Morgan asked. She hadn’t memorized all the family history in her search, but every one up and down the family line knew that good ol’ great-great granny Agnes died at the fine age of forty-five and lived in dread of that year and everything that might come after.  This very unpleasant old woman was not her. “Blanche, this is definitely not the right--” The woman launched into a grumpy tirade before Morgan could finish. “Hey!” She snapped. “Do you wanna be stuck in this circle all day or do you wanna be nice for a second! We’re sorry for any inconvenience, but you’re not gonna get out of this by shouting to see the manager, okay?” She gave Blanche a sidelong look full of cringe. She did know how to throw this...whoever she was back, right?

Agnes rounded on Morgan, ghostly eyes blazing. “Is there a manager here? Because all I see is a foolish little girl and her babysitter sitting around playing with- with- with-” Agnes threw a haughty glance at the old book in Blanche’s lap, as well as the ones stacked neatly on top of the side table pushed up against the wall. “That!” she settled on, her tone indicating it was just as acceptable as a dog having explosive diarrhea in the middle of a public area. “Why don’t you -”

Blanche sprang to her feet then, hurriedly trying to do damage control. The ritual hasn't ended, she could still feel the energy glittering under her skin, except instead of feeling good, it felt like it was mocking her. This clearly wasn't the right Agnes. Oh, hell. “Ms. Agnes,” Blanche put on the sunny smile she used when providing customer service at Mooseventure. “There’s been a small mistake--” Blanche’s tone was as soothing as she could manage, but unfortunately, Agnes wasn't done.

“A mistake?!” She shrieked. “Clearly! Honest to goodness all of you young people are the same! Sticking your nose into other people’s business and then just mucking it all up! How dare you -”

“If you just let me end the ritual, you can go back to the park and watch your birds!” Blanche’s voice rose an octave, looking at Morgan apologetically as she scrambled for the book. “Just let me -” except Agnes wasn't letting up. She started going in on Blanche, mostly about her clothes and various piercings, and Blanche was so flustered she couldn't even think about wrapping the tail end of the ritual up. Sanskrit was hard enough. “Now, now, let’s just-”

“I am an adjunct thank you!” Morgan’s temper was rising. She tried to breathe slowly. “Ma’am--” But without anything to regulate the whole thing was barely more than a placebo. Overhead, the lights flickered in spasms, enough to send sparks against the glass. The furniture rattled, trembling at the ghost woman’s ire. Enough was enough. Morgan got up and unhooked her iron rod from her bag, leveling it at the Wrong Agnes as best she could. The ghost was tall, probably formidable in life, given how casually she descended into the antics of a spoiled brat. But Morgan wasn’t afraid of her. She’d meekly served and accommodated women like her in life when she shlepped from one shitty customer service job to another to make ends meet, and she had suffered so much worse in the time since then. “Listen!” She snapped. “You can shut up and let this girl do her fucking work or you can be stuck here for eternity!” Her cheeks tingled as she spoke. It was delicious, not having to play nice with someone like this, to say exactly what was on her mind. “And you know what, Not My Agnes, have you ever considered that the reason you’re not on some heavenly yacht playing shuffleboard with your loved ones is because you choose to be so unpleasant?” Yeah, didn’t think so. “Now pipe down before I make you.”

“Oh, you’re an adjunct,” Agnes sneered, the sarcasm dripping from her words. “Color me impressed. And such language!” Agnes rounded on Morgan and Blanche let an audible wince. It was sort of funny, Blanche had a mouth on her 95% of the time, but she was strangely dry mouthed when getting chewed out by a bratty, old as life itself Karen. Agnes, however, had turned her verbal berating of the girl onto Morgan, starting in on her as well. “How dare you. You don’t know anything about me, you horrible, nasty woman! It’s none of your concern where I chose to spend my after life and may I remind you that this is your fault we’re all in this situation to begin with. I wouldn’t even been here if it weren’t for you and the little shit with half a sweater -”

“Okay!” Blanche practically screeched, mostly so she could be overheard by the raising voices. “This is getting us nowhere!” Agnes whipped back to her, but she just bulldozed right over her before she could go in again. “I can fix this, and no one needs to yell at anyone anymore and we can all pretend we never met each other in the first place and we can all live happily ever after! Okay?  Okay??”

“Let me tell you something, girl -”

“.... Morgan, just hit her. Please.”

Morgan didn’t need to be told twice. She swung the rod right at the Wrong Agnes’ head as if she could lop it straight off. The woman dissipated mid-word. The room went silent. Morgan deflated and flopped slowly to the floor, fighting back a snigger. At this point, she should’ve come to expect something like this, right? She let the rod clatter to the floor and pushed back her hair, smiling and shaking her head at the same time. She didn’t know how, but the shit show of the afternoon was just...funny already.

“You okay there, Blanche? She didn’t get any of your nasty heathen piercings on the way out, right?” She snorted in spite of herself as she spoke, giving her friend an apologetic look.

Blanche relaxed slightly as the woman dissipated in the middle of the circle, and very clearly chanted the end of the seance ritual. The glittering feeling stopped and Blanche let out a breath as she hurriedly rubbed the circle on the floor with her foot so it could be broken. “Oh, my nasty heathen piercings are rattled, but I think they’ll hold up strong.” Blanche breathed, glancing at Morgan. What a nasty woman… Blanche felt the guilt creeping up in her, looking at Morgan’s smile and listening to her snort. What a nasty ghost. Blanche couldn’t believe she hadn’t poltergeist yet. She didn’t know where it came from, but a slightly hysterical giggle erupted from her, and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “S-Sorry!! Sorry! … Sorry!”

Blanche’s laugh was the last block keeping Morgan from cracking up. Her laugh was breathless as first, but as she remembered how to get air into her lungs, it grew louder, shrill with delirium. “Oh, no, you’re good,” she said between giggles. “Come on, sit, eat on the floor, I don’t know!” She wiped at her eyes, gasping as she laughed. “Oh, Stars, I have no idea why this is so funny! Are you sure you’re okay? I know that was really…” she waved her hand vaguely in the air. “...Really bad. But there’s always next time or whatever, right?”

Blanche’s laugh was strong as she carefully went around to smother the few candles that stayed aflame while Not The Right Agnes was having her temper tantrum. She couldn't help it. “She was so mean!” Blanche marveled. “I didn’t know they made ghosts like that.” Blanche had gathered all the candles up, and not knowing what to do, she dumped them onto her kitchen table carefully so she didn’t get hot wax everywhere. “I - I -” Blanche was a little breathless from all that laughing, her giggles turning into something else. Before she realized what was happening, a hard lump in her throat appeared and tears had pricked her eyes. “Fuck -” Blanche rasped, disgusted with herself. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry Morgan. I didn’t -” Blanche looked at her somberly. “I didn’t mean to make such a mess.”

“Oh, honey…” Morgan’s laugh pettered off into a deep sigh. Her limbs were numb and heavy, so getting to her feet was more of a process than she wanted it to be, but she managed to get up and reel Blanche into her arms. “Hey, I’m not mad and you don’t have to be either. It’s okay. I am the queen of making a mess, and this isn’t much of one at all, okay? For your first seance, I think this went okay. Becca would be so impressed, and you handled that old lady ghost’s assholery pretty well. It’s okay, Blanche.” She tried to walk them down towards the couch where it was cozier and a little away from all the supernatural stuff. She itched to throw some salt around them or put the wards back up, but that would probably come later, after dealing with this. She blocked the bare walls and the sight of Constance from her mind, focusing instead on the young woman in her arms. “What’s this really about, huh?”

For once, Blanche accepted the contact without complaint. In fact, she sort of craved it. She numbly hung her arms around Morgan, letting her lead to the couch, away from the ruined chalked circle on the floor. She sank down into the couch’s cushions, leaning back as she tried to formulate the right words. “I’m sorry…” Blanche said, her face twisting into a grimace. “People keep having to clean up after me,” Blanche said softly, remembering Kaden’s words. “And it’s shitty, no matter what my intentions were.” She didn't want to make anyone have to clean up her messes. “With Nadia. And Cordelia… and then I made this stupid promise to Regan…”

Though she didn't say it, Blanche thought of Constance too. She pulled away from Morgan, her head dropping into her hands. How could she be so stupid? There was a part of her, larger than she would have liked, that gnawed at her, telling her to run far away. Move away without a word, transfer school, be an accountant where she didn't have to worry about werewolves or ghosts or hunters or murders… Blanche was miserable back then, but at least she was miserable by herself. Her depression and her ineptness hadn't impacted anyone else's life but her own. Blanche looked around her apartment, and while she had thought she practically scrubbed the damn place so it was sparkling, she pinpointed imperfections with an eagle eye. Regan has been here not long ago when Winn has died. She comforted her and they watched bad television together. She highly doubted that it could be like that ever again. She sighed, closing her eyes. Her eyes had dried, and she felt some semblance of a relief. “I'm sorry we didn't get to talk to the right Agnes,” Blanche said quietly. “I know you want answers.”

Morgan went quiet and let Blanche cry the way she needed to. “First of all, no one really knows exactly how anything they do is going to turn out. You can try as hard as you can to figure out what the consequences are gonna be, but… You’re doing the best you can, Blanche. As best as anyone can. I don’t know anyone who cares as much for everyone as you except for Remmy. You are always so ready to jump in and help and that is so much better than doing nothing just because it might come out wrong. Your intentions are so important, and so is the way you try. And maybe you could stand to get into things a little less so you can spend some of that energy on yourself, but not because sometimes things happen that you didn’t expect. Never for that, Blanche.” She reached over and gave her a squeeze, hoping it would be accepted. “It’s okay. I don’t need an explanation that badly, and I can try other ways.” It would have been nice to have been able to finally meet Agnes. Aside from her mother, who was still too fraught of a subject to consider speaking to for real and probably gone for good, Agnes was the one Morgan believed who could understand her the best. She had been just as young as Constance was when her lost her friend. And three years later her world fell apart. And three years after that. Morgan could imagine how terrified, how desperate she must have been to flee so far from home she wound up on a dinky island on the gulf coast, as far away as geography and her money could take her. Only to lose her new home and everyone she cared about in the world’s worst hurricane. Then be blamed for everything by her kids, her grandkids, and for what? Trusting the wrong person when she was twenty-one? Agnes would know what it was like to be alone, to be afraid of every kind, normal impulse in her. Agnes wouldn't tell Morgan to stop and let it go when she told her what her intentions were with Constance’s ghost. And maybe just knowing would give her peace. It was never her fault, and soon everything would be okay. But that would be too easy, at least on the first go. “I’ll figure things out another way. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

Blanche wanted to give up, to just put it to rest and to keep her nose out of it. Morgan telling her she could do just that, however, felt like a slap to the face. Blanche’s fragile insecurities in her screamed in her head as her father’s voice mixed with the cruel voice that dwelled in the back of her mind whispered that she was pathetic. Wasting her life. Wasting her gift. Selfish. Aren’t you the girl who wants all the answers? Isn’t this what you want to do with your life? Blanche was frozen a moment, leaning forward on her knees as she stared at the ground as the voices and imperfections grew louder and louder. She fought the urge to clamp her hands over her ears and instead took in a deep breath. And again. And again. And again. Anything to keep from spiraling totally out of control. Finally, Blanche pushed herself to sit up straight, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. Blanche turned her head to look at Morgan solidly. “Let me try again,” she said, definitively. “Not today, I need more… I need more practice. But I want answers too, and I want to help you in the way that I can.” And maybe it could shed light on Constance - shed some light on the reason she was so damn stubborn. “Please, Morgan.”

Morgan counted the length of Blanche's breaths in a whisper, bracing herself to watch another friend collapse under the weight of this cruel, awful place. One, two, three, four five. Good. One, two, three, four, five… She knew the drill as well as Morgan did, and she craved her control all the more when she was down. Watching her pick herself up so quickly, still threadbare and stressed, Morgan’s stomach twisted. She didn’t know which was worse, forcing Blanche to sit down or letting her stay in this, knowing what it might do to her. “Are you sure, Blanche?” She tentatively reached out to brush back her hair. “I’ll be okay. I can do some more earthly plane digging, check out my Scribe-y resources, stuff like that.” But before the words were out, she could already see on Blanche’s face that she needed to do this. If not for Morgan, then for herself. She let out a long sigh and withdrew her hand, nodding. “But you can look too. And when you’re ready, next time, we’ll get this right.”

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@harlowhaunted​

[pm] Me. With channeling my power properly.

[pm] Oh. That’s good, right? What did you find? 

I uh, forgot to tell you, with a bunch of weird, awful things happening, but I went home and got one of her bones. In case, you know, the problem was the object I picked. Hard to get more personal than that, right?