#thank you for the gore XD | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dont-offend-the-bees · 17 days ago

Text

Oh, Lonely Bones, Have You Forgotten? Chapter 3

*Rolling in six months late with Starbucks* Did y’all say you wanted another 15k of angst? No? Well, I got you another 15k of angst. Sorry for the wait on this one folks! There’s been a lot going on in life and a lot of other projects and prompts! Next update should be quicker — plan is to finish this fic by the end of the year! Thank you @dear-monday for reading this over for me and assuring me that it was not 15k of utter nonsensical self-indulgent angsty wank, as usual she and the horny whatsapp group are saving my sanity xD And an ENORMOUS thank you to @kieren-fucking-walker for talking to me about Edwardian burial customs and cemetaries and giving me lots to go on when writing this! I still wouldn't got expecting bulletproof historical accuracy but it was truly so enlightening and inspiring and really shaped some elements of this story and made it more than intially planned, so thank you my love 💛 This is, as my opening bit suggests, mostly more angst. Heed the warnings of the tags/previous chapters, plus this chapter has a little more of a focus near the end on the sadness/circumstances of Edwin’s death and how his family handled it. So refs to teen death, to homophobia and hate crime, to family shame. There’s a section that switches up the format a bit, and which contains brief but supernaturally grisly instances of gore and body horror. There’s also a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it instance of ghostly suicidal ideation. Everything is sad and the chapter ends on more angst but I swear to you that there will be one more chapter, and all with be right. I am knocking Edwin down hard but I WILL give him a soft place to land. More commentary afterwards. In the meantime; are you sitting comfortably? Then we’ll begin 💛 Also on Ao3

"Oi, Edwin," said Charles, gaze affixed to the letter in his hand. "You speak ancient Babylonian?"

Edwin hummed. "I have a smattering."

"That'll do. Letter from Tragic Mick — says he's got a book might help, but there's no translation."

Edwin looked up from his well-thumbed copy of The Arcane Physician's Desk Reference. Over the last few days he'd read it so often he could quote large tracts of it verbatim. "You contacted Tragic Mick?"

"Thought we should pull whatever contacts we had," said Charles, picking his way over the chaos to give Edwin the letter. "Tried our magic shop, but Flimsy Steve wasn't picking up the phone."

"Unsurprising."

Charles snorted. "Leave off. He's a decent bloke."

"He's perfectly agreeable, Charles. I merely wouldn't trust him with anything time sensitive."

"Alright, he's a bit flaky." Charles had a visible mental debate on the best way to navigate around a teetering book stack, before rolling his eyes and phasing through it. "Not his fault about the hex, though, innit?"

"Hm, yes. The hex. Convenient excuse..." Edwin muttered. "If I could explain away my abysmal punctuality with bouts of vaporousness I'd certainly consider it."

"Heh. Yeah, does pull it out a bit much, doesn't he?" Charles chuckled, finally succeeding in his quest to reach Edwin. The office was in a dreadful state. Tidying up after the self-contained paranormal monsoon hadn't been a high priority. Nor had re-shelving the books, given they were bound to be pulled out again for double, triple, quadruple checking. Edwin was only grateful that the blizzard had been a spectral plane phenomenon. The thought of his entire library subjected to water damage was almost too much to bear.

Edwin himself was in a rather sorry state as well. He'd set up operations on the floor beside the trunk, after their discovery that proximity lessened the noise and the cold. At first he'd sat upright and cross-legged, to maintain some comforting sense of professional decorum. But as they had continued to hit dead end after dead end, he'd taken to lying on the floor. In part so he didn't have to keep seeing the sickly blue glow of his own skeleton every time he turned his head.

It shouldn't have felt uncomfortable, not to him. But in such close range to the bones, he was above averagely aware of his surroundings, even the hard floorboards at his back. Edwin wasn't sure which he disliked more; the discomfort, or the indignity. At some point in the proceedings Charles had dug a large, cuddly shark from his bag — acquired during the case of the Swedish poltergeist, if memory served — and propped it under Edwin's head like a pillow. It had helped with the comfort issue; though it had rather exacerbated the dignity one.

But comfort and dignity were among the least of his problems. More concerning by far was the fact that the bones, despite quieting down, had not in fact ceased to speak to him. Instead all their past phrases, the look at me see me don't leave me's, had been replaced by just one simple refrain. Quiet, soft as silk, neither demanding nor insistent. Merely persistent...

Edwin took the letter as Charles offered it down to him, skimming it quickly. The bulk of it, as usual, was a lengthy, hand-written tangent about Mick's woes and the majesty of the sea, but he soon found the section pertaining to their predicament. "Hm. I'm not sure we'll find anything of use in that text. I had the chance to peruse a copy some years ago. But at this point I'm willing to try anything. Beggars can't be choosers. Perhaps if we're opening inquiries with our Port Townsend contacts, we might consider asking Thomas."

"Who?"

Edwin re-folded the salt-stiffened paper. "The Cat King."

Charles' eyebrows arched, hands landing on his hips. "Oh, he's Thomas, now, is 'e?"

"Rolls off the tongue rather more easily, don't you think?"

"Since when d'you still talk to that tosser?"

Edwin rolled his eyes. For such a personable fellow, Charles could hold a grudge with the best of them. "We've a long-running game of correspondence chess in progress. Man's dastardly with a rook. But he is a rather seasoned magic user, not to mention his... intimate experience with witches. He could be a valuable source of information in this case."

"Let's try a few more things before we get Whiskers on the phone, yeah?"

Edwin sighed, passing the letter back up between two fingers. "Very well."

Charles tucked it under his arms as he crossed them, cocking his head to regard Edwin from on high. "Comfy down there?" It was said in a tone light and teasing; a tone that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Oh, yes. I'm luxuriating," said Edwin, dry as a bone. "I should do more of my thinking on the floor. Stimulate the little grey cells."

"Look at things from a different angle, yeah?"

Edwin peered up at him, his line of vision beginning directly beneath the point of Charles' chin. This shouldn't be a flattering angle for him, but alas, he looked as handsome to Edwin's eyes as he ever had. Must he never know a moment's peace...? "Yes, something along those lines. Although so far it's offering precious little in the way of fresh insight. And it —"

Charles gave him a pointed look.

Edwin sighed, and corrected himself. "He is... not helping."

Frowning, Charles squatted down beside him, bringing their faces closer together. His knee rested lightly upon Edwin's abdomen as it bent. With the illusion of awareness afforded to him, Edwin could almost feel the weight of it. Almost.

"He's still talking to you, then," said Charles, voice low; as if he didn't wish for the bones to overhear.

"On occasion," said Edwin, with equal caution. "On... fairly frequent occasion."

"What's he saying now? Still on the 'stay with me’?"

Edwin shook his head, before letting it fall to the side. Peering across the length of his whimsical pillow at the dark leather siding of the trunk. He let his eyes drift closed, let the soft susurration of the voice creep back into his mind unimpeded by distraction or resistance.

"He wants..." His fingers flexed on his chest. "He wants to be held."

Distantly, the phantom weight of Charles' hand alighted upon his shoulder. All the more frustrating for possessing the barest edge of tangibility. As if Edwin was allowed to sense the shape of him and nothing more.

"By anyone?" Charles asked.

A short, stabbing pain flared behind Edwin's eyes. He winced. "No. No, not just anyone will do, I don't think."

A door clicked, and a new voice chimed in: "Do you think you should hold them?"

Edwin and Charles both looked up at Crystal, who was propped wearily against the doorjamb leading to the small water closet. Aside from dealing with whatever human activities she'd had to carry out in there, she'd also clearly splashed her face with cold water. A few glistening droplets clung to her neck, and she had that touch of mania in her eyes that oft accompanied a minor shock.

She shrugged, arms crossed. "I mean. He told you to look at him, and that helped. Maybe you just need to do what he asks you to do..."

"It's... possible," Edwin hedged.

Unfortunately, Crystal did have a point. Based on prior evidence, there was every reason to believe that giving in to the bones' demands would alleviate Edwin's suffering. But for reasons he could neither name nor explain, he had the distinct feeling that to do so wouldn't end well for him. A feeling he suspected he wasn't alone in; raising the subject had caused Charles to tense up, his shoulders a rigid line of stress.

But they were rapidly running out of alternatives.

Edwin hitched himself up, sitting with a wince at the shadow of an ache in his spine. His shoulder bumped up against the open top edge of the trunk, and a small surge of anticipation from its resident rippled through him. Edwin raised his hand and, with a dry, apprehensive swallow, reached out —

It was stilled before it could get within three inches of the skeleton.

"Let's — let's keep digging a bit, yeah?" said Charles, fingers flexing visibly around Edwin's wrist. When Edwin looked up he found Charles with his eyes wide, and his ghostly countenance paler than usual. "Bet we'll stumble on something soon."

Edwin offered no resistance. "Yes. Yes, I daresay you're right."

Crystal seemed neither surprised nor overly upset that her idea had been rejected. Perhaps she shared their concerns after all. "I still have a few more magic shops to hit up," she said. "I can go try and shake down that Steve guy in person."

"Don't count on it," Charles warned her. "Slippery customer. He'll be under the door and away in two seconds flat."

"...Right. And, uh, I figured maybe Emma might have some ideas..."

"Emma?" asked Charles.

"The little girl," said Edwin. "With the squid."

"Oh!"

"Good idea, Crystal," Edwin mumbled, rubbing his brow. "She's been dead a long while, clearly has a working knowledge of the occult. Perhaps she's seen a curse of this ilk before."

"Jesus, I'm gonna go," she said, gravely. But she gave his shoulder a companionable squeeze as she passed him to claim her jacket. "Freaks me out when you're too nice to me."

Edwin scoffed. "Honestly, Crystal, you liken me to some sort of wicked stepmother. I'm not a drill sergeant."

"No," she said, shrugging into her jacket with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. "You're just a bitch. Look after him, Charles."

She sloped out of the office without a backwards glance, ignoring Edwin's protests and Charles' giggling. When Edwin turned his displeasure on Charles he was met with crinkled eyes and unrepentant cheer.

"What?" said Charles. He held his thumb and forefinger close together. "You are a bit."

Edwin scowled, toppling back onto his pile of blankets with crossed arms and poor grace. "Perhaps it's best we read in silence for a little while."

Days passed, and still no breakthrough.

Crystal was consuming inadvisable quantities of coffee on a daily basis, and had taken to pacing the hall outside the office. Her hair had ballooned to twice its usual volume under the stress of her fretful tugging and twisting.

Even Charles was showing the strain through his erstwhile bulletproof veneer of optimism. Edwin kept glancing up at him, and catching him staring back with a haunted look. As if he half expected Edwin to vanish in a puff of smoke before his very eyes. There was a marked increase in the frequency of grounding hands upon Edwin's arm, chest, shoulders; holding Edwin down lest he flutter away in the breeze.

Edwin, it had to be said, wasn't coping all too well, either. For the first time in a hundred sleepless years, he felt truly exhausted. He was burning the candle at both ends; as far as he was concerned if his eyes were open, he could be reading something. Though book research, generally something he found intriguing and invigorating, now had his weary eyes sliding off the page. And onto the trunk.

Always, always to the trunk.

Hold me hold me hold me please hold me...

Its calls never ceased. They waxed and waned, and at times softened to barely a breath, but always they remained; pestering, pattering, pleading. Crying out in the corners of his skull for him to come closer, closer, closer, to hold me please hold me —

As their research dead ends stacked up and desperation grew, so too did the temptation to succumb. It was, after all, as Crystal had said; if giving into the first demands had eased the way, surely there was something to be gained from giving a little more.

And yet somewhere, in the back of his mind, under the droning rattle of pleas and demands, it persisted. The niggling notion that if he were to give in, he'd surely come to regret it.

He wasn't alone in his apprehension. Just once or twice, his hands had strayed closer to the bones than usual — and each time they did, Charles' eyes snapped to them, wide and wary. If Edwin's own instinct to pull back hadn't sufficed, the dread on his best friend's face would have stayed his hand.

But every passing hour represented another frayed nerve, another chip in his resolve. Every whispering plea a grain of sand pouring down upon him, suffocating him slowly. Though he didn't wish to, he could feel himself beginning to buckle under the strain. Not even the small relief that came from facing the problem head-on, looking the remains of himself in his hollow eyes, was enough to mitigate the mounting horror of prolonged exposure. It was incessant. It was inescapable.

To be frank, he wasn't sure how much more he could take. If they didn't find something...

"FOUND SOMETHING!"

Edwin jumped — which, from his position on the floor, caused his body to lurch in a rather unpleasant jackknifing motion. Gathering his wits, he propped himself up on his elbows. "What?"

"Here!" Charles babbled excitedly, jabbing his finger to the page of the battered leather-bound book in his hands. "In this old apothecary's journal. Must've looked right past it first time, it's dead small."

He cleared his throat and read aloud, affecting — in Edwin's opinion — a needlessly exaggerated upper crust intonation. "'My 'esteemed' colleague in the mortuary magicks' — that's magics with a 'k', by the way. Proper old arcane stuff."

"Charles, the point," Crystal prompted.

"Right, yeah. 'My 'esteemed' colleague in the mortuary magicks recently positioned — no, wait — recently posited that in the event of sudden, traumatic demise in the presence of powerful magic, a soul might be rent asunder. A colourful theory, though I find his speculations on the ability of the same spirit to commit multiple hauntings dubious at best."

Charles grinned up at them, fairly bouncing on his feet in his excitement. "Author's a snooty git, but sounds like his mate might be onto something!"

"Holy shit," said Crystal, bounding up from the sofa to lunge for the book. "Charles, I think you might be onto something!"

Edwin likewise sprung into action, leaping from the floor and elbowing in to flick through the pages with Crystal. "Charles, that is brilliant. We must find the identity of his colleague. Perhaps he's done further study into the subject..."

"Name's gotta be in there somewhere — this bloke writes almost as much as you do," Charles teased. "Flip back a bit, might've missed it earlier in the entry..."

The pages grew rather busy with all of their hands pointing at them, poring over them, riffling restlessly back and forth. Edwin found himself at the centre of a rather tight huddle; Charles and Crystal half draped across his shoulders and conversing over his head.

"This guy's writing is the worst," Crystal complained.

"Apothecary's sort of a doctor, innit?" Charles nudged her — or rather nudged Edwin, who transferred the proxy-nudge to Crystal like the central ball of a Newton's cradle. "S'pose doctors have just always had shit handwriting, eh?"

"There!" said Crystal, jabbing the page. "That name."

Edwin followed her finger, squinting. They were both quite right — the handwriting was atrocious. "Let's see... Johnathan Harrington — oh! I'm familiar with him. Or her, I should say. Harrington was the nom de plume of one Sybil Crombie. I'm given to understand she frequently adopted a male alter ego to carry out her research undeterred. Her writings are supposed to be quite radical for the time, but they're wretchedly hard to come by..."

"Must be able to find 'em somewhere," said Charles — with a confidence implying that were it not possible, he'd go to great lengths to make it so. "Maybe Tragic Mick knows someone? Could hop through the mirror and ask him."

"No need," said Edwin, closing the book with a decisive snap. "I believe I know where we might find it."

"Charles, you must be quiet!"

Charles winced, straightening up the book pile he'd rather loudly upset with the toe of his loafer. "This place is bloody booby trapped. What kind of bookshop keeps half the books on the floor?"

"The kind that isn't overly interested in making sales," Edwin muttered. "Keep your voice down. The proprietor bears an inane grudge against me for some reason."

"Maybe 'cause you nicked his book, mate," Charles chuckled.

"I borrowed his book. I had every intention of returning it, he's quite unreasonable. Now, if he has any regard for organisation whatsoever —"

"Wouldn't bloody count on it."

"Then it must be somewhere in this section. Look for anything by Johnathan Harrington — quietly!"

Charles resumed his search, tiptoeing about the treacherous shopfloor with a wincing expression. He was, unfortunately, not widely renowned for his stealth. But with Crystal unable to mirror travel and Edwin likewise tethered to the office, Charles was their only suitable spy.

Edwin scowled at the mirror, at his hand disappearing into it. So far, Crystal hadn't tugged his wrist, so he could only assume the bones weren't yet causing a scene. It would seem that remaining at least partially connected to the office lessened their separation anxiety. Edwin was growing rather tired of having to dangle through a mirror portal, half-in and half-out, on a metaphorical leash. Honestly, if he had a penny!

He couldn't aid much in Charles' search, but he scanned the one bookshelf within his reach while Charles pored over the reverse side. He could see Charles' efforts through the gaps above the books; see his brow furrowed in concentration, tongue poking out between his teeth as his clever brown eyes flickered over the spines. Something tight and anxious in Edwin's chest loosened at the sight. Despite the direness of the situation and the insistent voice tugging on his sleeve, he felt assured. Safe in the knowledge that neither of them would rest until this case was solved. Not even Charles, who hated nothing so much as having to read lots of words very quickly, was going to leave this bookshop until they had what they needed.

"Not here," said Charles. "Gonna check the other shelves!"

"Quietly!" Edwin hissed after him; to which Charles responded with a lip-zipping motion and a sloppy salute.

Edwin closed his eyes, attempting to slow his breathing. Attempting to enjoy the moment of slight distance between him and the voice, though he could still feel it under his skin, as if it were creeping through his fingers and into his brain. He could feel his tension ratchet ever upwards with every passing moment. He couldn't be sure what was more abrasive on his nerves; the stealth mission, his inability to contribute, or the whispering bones. When calming breaths proved to be a lost cause, he focused instead on standing sentry; keeping his eyes and ears attuned to any sounds from beyond the bookstacks.

"Gotcha!"

Charles' too-loud, triumphant cry startled Edwin. His eyes snapped back to find Charles dragging a book from a nearby shelf and holding it up for Edwin's inspection. The title: Connective Tissue: Osteopathy and the Human Soul, by Johnathan Harrington.

Despite his misgivings, Edwin grinned. "Well done, Charles!"

"I say — is someone there?" came a voice from off, prim and peevish.

They both jumped.

"Shit," Charles muttered.

"Mirror, now," Edwin hissed, seizing Charles by the hand as soon as he scampered within reach.

Hand in hand, two ghosts and a very old and valuable book ducked back into the in-between — leaving Soho and the cries of the irate bookseller behind them.

November 1st, 1832: A Case Study, and a Confession

William Stoker, my friend and colleague, passed away earlier this year. Too young; a mere lad of twenty-four when he was taken from us.

His father is (or perhaps was) a friend of mine. As long as I'd known him, William (or Will, as I would come to call him) had always had a keen eye and a scientist's curiosity. When his father suggested I take young Will under my wing, I leapt upon the chance. It was a valuable experience for him; and a much-needed helping hand for myself. Frequently, Will would aid me in my research endeavours, no matter how unsavoury. A strong constitution is required in our field, and William possessed it in spades. Not even the more grisly aspects of the job could dampen his cheerful whistling while he worked — nor could my insistence that it was bad luck to whistle inside. He was far from a superstitious lad. For several years, he acted as my research assistant and, more commonly, dogsbody, with good grace and no complaints. Pride was of no concern to him. His only thoughts lay with the work.

It was a tragic and violent incident that ended William's life; an incident for which I hold myself responsible, at least in part. I could not have known, and yet even now I feel I should have. Somehow. I worry that day, that incident like a loose, aching tooth. Wondering if I overlooked the signs, somehow. Wondering if his death could have been avoided...

I sent William to collect something for me. Some samples; a selection of assorted vertebrae, to be exact. With the help of a local hedgewitch, Sally Cubbins — a long time associate of mine — I had been preserving them in a variety of herbal and chemical compounds, in order to observe reactions of the marrow. It should have been a simple task. Little did I know as I gave him his marching orders that Sally was in the midst of a delicate situation. A summoning, to be exact. One of the women in her locale was being harassed by a malevolent entity, a demon. One more powerful and more bloodthirsty than my poor Sally bargained for. Her summoning and dismissal went badly awry.

When I went to investigate Will's prolonged absence, I found him and Sally both. What was left of them, at any rate. Rent asunder atop a similarly broken summoning circle. To this day, I've no idea what became of the demon. Perhaps, when my own time comes, it will be waiting to drag me to damnation.

That gruesome scene was the last I saw of Sally Cubbins, God rest her soul.

It was not, however, the last I saw of William Stoker.

William's father asked that I prepare the remains for burial. Perhaps he wanted to assure me that he didn't hold me responsible. Perhaps he was simply too deep in his grief to seek other arrangements. Either way, I accepted without a thought. There was little left of Will; needless to say, an open casket was out of the question. But I did my best to make him presentable. I believed it to be the least I could do.

And later that evening, in my mortuary, William appeared to assess my work for himself.

(No doubt, many of you reading this just scoffed. But I shan't sidestep the matter. I have encountered a number of spectres in my time; in my line of work they are practically an inevitability. I have seen them, often, and consider them to be a manifestation and demonstration of the fortitude of the human soul. Though my detractors will no doubt continue to insist that the embalming fluid fumes must have gone to my senses. If you, dear reader, are likewise unconvinced, I would politely recommend you seek alternative literature.)

I had met many a phantasm over the course of my career, yet Will was quite unlike any other I'd previously encountered. He was recognisably himself, at least. But I had always found conversation with spectres little different from conversation with the living. They are by-and-large sensible, coherent, rational folk, simply seeking their end life's purpose. If they were a person I had previously met in life, I generally found their spirit to be no different in personality or demeanour.

Will, however, seemed... troubled. Deeply troubled. He had adopted a number of tics and nervous mannerisms, and a wildness of eye. When he spoke he was prone to saying things which were unreasonable, paranoid, frantic. And despite my suggestion that he take a constitutional, bid farewell to his friends, family and favourite places, my prompting fell on deaf ears. He exhibited a powerful reluctance to exit the mortuary.

I soon realised it was not the room to which he felt attached, but his remains.

Though I myself was still grieving, I was nonetheless fascinated by the situation, and decided to investigate further. The funeral, after all, would not be for several days yet. Besides which, I must confess a desire for distraction, for purpose — and perhaps some small absolution from the guilt of his passing.

Over the next several days, I took careful note of Will's moods and movements as they occurred. Any dips and troughs, any manic periods. Any strange phenomena I could notice connected to either himself, or his remains. I asked him frequently what he was thinking, or feeling (insomuch as a spectre is able to feel), and I recorded all that I could. This amounted to dozens upon dozens of pages of notes, likely insurmountable to most given my particular manner of writing, but I shall attempt to summarise the key points:

William complained often of pain, largely in his 'joints', and discomfort at minor physical sensations he should not, by rights, have been able to feel at all. Discomfort which increased in proximity to his remains. He also reported itchiness, headaches, and nausea.

William exhibited acute episodes of psychological distress. When I was able to get any sense out of him he reported feeling dread, anxiety, claustrophobia, and a feeling of being ‘hounded’. On more than one occasion I witnessed him having what I can only describe as an attack of panic. What good rapid breathing serves to a ghost, I've no idea. Aside from his acute episodes, William also suffered a near constant low-level psychological turmoil. He was prone to listlessness, melancholy, restlessness, and frustration. He would often tell me, with a smile short on humour, that he 'wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry'.

William was hearing things. A voice, a whisper. Something, somewhere, was speaking to him.

As you can imagine, I found this last revelation alarming. And there was little I could do to glean more information, as Will only let slip of this voice once and then proceeded to bury the matter. No doubt he feared himself mad, or cursed. No amount of reasoning could convince him to open up to me about the voice or what it was saying.

By the time the day of Will's funeral was upon us, I was no nearer to answers. And so I made a choice, out of desperation. As I’ve every intention that this entry be published posthumously, I can confess to you my sin.

Reader, I did not bury William's remains that day. I sent the undertakers a closed coffin, nailed tight, and warned William's father that his son's remains were in no fit state to be observed. That despite my best efforts, there was simply not enough of him left to reconstruct. I advised him, please, to hold onto the memory of his son as he was, and let his body claim its final resting place sight unseen.

I ask not for forgiveness, reader. Only understanding. You must understand that I already believed myself hellbound for my part in William's death, amongst myriad other indecencies and indiscretions in my life. If I was to face judgement either way, I decided I would do everything in my power to find answers first. If it comes as any consolation, Will endorsed my course of action. Although looking back, I wonder whether he was truly of sound enough mind to do so...

But that too is a question only God may answer, and I'm sure He will let me know in due course.

The remains, of course, had to be reduced; there was only so long I could keep a cadaver in progressing states of decay lying about without causing suspicion or ill health. It was a grim and unpleasant task, but within the week Will's flesh had gone the way of the incinerator, and only his bones remained in the mortuary. And what peculiar things they were; they had about them some strange energy, though I had no opportunity to find out if this was widely-noticeable, except to those already with the Sight for the paranormal. To my eyes, they were in possession of the faintest glow; and to my ears, on occasion, a soft, susurrating rattle.

With Will's remains safely in my possession, and his spirit in permanent residence, I observed both over the following weeks. I did, of course, continue urging Will to take his leave, say his goodbyes, seek his own absolution. But he staunchly refused to do so. He became a shadow to my work, much as he had been in life — though by all accounts he was a mere shell of his former self.

In death, more so than any spectre I'd ever met, Will was short-tempered and morose. Though his old self, the lively young man I'd considered a close friend and worthy apprentice, clearly still dwelled within the spectral form. I glimpsed him from time to time, in fleeting moments of lightness and candour. Whatever it was which held Will in its grasp, it had neither erased nor altered the heart of him. He still had a smile on his lips for me, still whistled his jaunty tunes long into the night, albeit with a new edge of mania. He was not a man changed or possessed, but a weary soul under considerable strain. This I believe, even now.

I did my utmost to ease that strain upon him, but found there was little I could do. He was bedevilled by forces beyond my ken, and I felt powerless to aid him in any way that mattered. Though to the best of my ability I kept him company, lifted his spirits (if you'll pardon the play on words). I spent many a long night in the mortuary, playing cards with the deceased. I was deeply comforted to find that despite his quite alarming personality shifts, he was still an inveterate cheat. Always an ace up his ghostly sleeve.

Despite my best efforts, his temperament worsened. And though he continued not to confide in me, I knew that mine was not the only voice in his ear. Something was still speaking to him, whispering to him, things I could only speculate upon. And so often when he heard that voice, when his countenance drew tight and his jaw clenched, I would find his gaze drawn to the covered unit where his own remains now resided.

I became convinced that the bones had become possessed in some fashion. I suspected the demon that had slain Will and my dear Sally was to blame. Perhaps it had been too weak to step into the mortal world from its summoning circle, and had instead taken refuge in the remains of its victims. I called upon all of the occult knowledge I had amassed over the years to try and oust any such unwelcome guest, but to no avail. If only Sally had still been with us, perhaps... but no. No matter what exorcisms I conducted, no matter the counter-hex or cleansing spell, the thing residing in Will's remains held fast. Burrowed in, anchored to the marrow, as surely as if it had belonged there all along.

I explored other avenues, of course. Raided my library and my journals, passed the scenario as a hypothetical amongst my friends in occult circles. I explored the possibilities of paranormal parasites, of life echoes, of curses and corruptions, but no theory held water and no counter yielded results.

All the while Will, God help him, continued to deteriorate. Day by day he grew more frantic, more preoccupied. Often I saw him lingering near his bones with a strange, mad look in his eye. I might even go so far as to call it murderous. Whatever had taken residence in his bones, it had not granted him a moment's peace in weeks, and he was wearing thin.

I had formed a new theory, although to this day I have no true manner of verifying it. It is not, after all, as if I can secure Will or the thing in his remains for thorough interview or cross-examination. But it was, and remains to this day, my theory. The only cogent explanation for these wretched happenings that makes any sense with the facts. I theorised that somehow, perhaps due to the violent and intensely magical nature of William's demise, a part of him was separated from the whole. Perhaps a spirit can be propelled from a physical form with such ruthless immediacy as to leave a small piece of itself behind.

Well, I see no reason to beat about the bush. If you wish to call me mad, I'm sure you've already reached that decision with yourself. I believed, and continue to believe that William was, in effect, carrying out two hauntings at once.

The lion's share of his soul, the person most easily identifiable as the Will I'd known, lay outside his remains, as is the norm with spectres. He was still thoughtful, intelligent, able to follow and carry conversation. Able to reminisce upon his life, able to form complex arguments and hold nuanced opinions.

The piece he'd left behind was, I fear, severely lacking in any of these traits. It's debatable whether it could even be said to be in possession of a personality. Based on what little I'd managed to eke out from Will about its way of speaking, it seemed to me a shrivelled, stunted thing. An essence comprised merely of a single want, a single need. It did not have within it the capacity for reason, for comfort or conversation. It cried out in his mind like a hungry child, insensible to any and all things but that which it craved. There was no reasoning with it, no bargaining, no way to soothe it. Nothing, except to give it what it desired.

Now, here is where the tragic end of this tale writes itself. For you see, though Will was my friend, and confided in me about a great many things, he would not disclose the exact nature of the fragment’s request. I believe it scared him, or shamed him. Rendered him vulnerable in a way his scattered soul was simply not equipped to handle. I pleaded with him to tell me exactly what it is the voice wished, what it said, what it would keep saying, but he would not confess. Not even to me.

How I wish he had.

For all my expertise, all my tools and skills and hard-earned knowledge of the anatomical magics, I was powerless. Powerless to do anything to change his fate. Or at least, this is what I tell myself; but as I take responsibility for his death, perhaps I merely wish to absolve myself of his suffering thereafter.

As the days and the weeks wore on, Will closed himself to me. His world narrowed to a pinpoint; to the bones. Always the bones. I would see him standing beside the drawer where they lay, staring into it whether it stood open or closed. At times when I had them pulled out and resting upon a pallet, desperately seeking any clues I might have missed, he would circle them. Pacing, edging closer, closer, hand outstretched; ultimately pulling back with a hair's breadth to spare. I considered locking them away for good, removing them entirely from his sight, but what good would it do? To a spectre, wood and metal are hardly a deterrent. Though I considered the merits of building them a box of iron, something even a ghost would hesitate to cross.

I had no wish to hold his remains hostage, however, so instead I tried to talk to him. Tried to encourage him to different pursuits. But there was nothing I could hold his attention or interest with. There was nothing else, not anymore. All William cared about was those bones. He would stare at them with fascination, with yearning, with revulsion writ plain across his expression, his fine-featured young face now carved and haggard. He hated them; and he needed them.

And one day... he touched them.

I will never forget it so long as I live, and I will carry it thereafter into damnation. The scream that tore from him, violent and visceral, more animal than human. Nor will I forget the sight of his arm — his strong, steady arm, which had once fetched and carried for me without the slightest tremor — as it withered, liquified. As his spectral flesh loosened from his frame and dripped like hot candle wax down an invisible pathway; following the hollow shape where once resided the bones of his arm, his wrist, his fingers. Before I could act or react, the effect was spreading; shoulder, chest, neck. Face. Before my very eyes he melted, oozed, his liquid remains drawn to the bones like water to a spigot, like gas to a vacuum.

And before I could even think to scream, William Stoker was no longer.

Afterwards, the remains lay... well. I do not wish to say dormant. Evidently, they are no such thing. Energy still thrums within those bones, clear as day to those with the eyes to see, but it is of a more benign disposition now. It no longer wishes harm upon any who might come near; I suspect if it wishes harm, it wishes it only upon itself. I tried over the years to do my research, find a solution, to do everything in my power to draw poor Will out of his prison, but I never succeeded.

He never rematerialised. No more did he appear in my mortuary to fret or pace or cheat at cards. No more did I hear his whistling into the night.

But sometimes, from the dusty iron lockbox wherein his pitiable bones reside in the mortuary to this day, I can still hear his screams.

May God have mercy on his soul. And on mine.

Edwin's voice trailed off. It seemed to hang in the air like a curse long after the fact.

Hunched forward in the opposing desk chair, Crystal sat looking distinctly nauseous. "Oh, my god..."

Charles — perched, as ever, upon the desk itself — was white as a sheet and, for once, at a total loss for words.

Clearing his throat, Edwin closed the book with great care. "Well," he said, clipped. "That, at least, was... pertinent to the case."

"Edwin..." Crystal began, face pinched in concern.

In an explosive burst of motion, Charles was over the desk and on his feet in a metaphorical heartbeat. Three long strides had him over to the trunk, to the whispering bones; and a sweep of his arm had the lid slamming down upon them like a portcullis.

Edwin winced, gritting his teeth as the mild hum in the back of his head spiked into a distressed, cutting wail. "Charles, please —"

"You're not touching 'em!" Charles snapped, picking up the enchanted lock from the floor and slipping it through the shank. It rattled and grated; his hands were shaking. "You're not getting anywhere bloody near them!"

"Believe me, Charles, I've no intention of it," said Edwin, rising from his seat. His own hands felt rather unsteady as he braced them upon the desk. "But it does help to mitigate the effects if the trunk is kept ajar."

But Charles was shaking his head, hunching his shoulders. It was only when Edwin heard the sound of a slight sniffle that he recognised what was happening.

His heart clenched. "Charles..."

Charles swiped a hand angrily down his face as he lurched upright. When he rounded on Crystal, his eyes were dark with a shadowy smudge of dissolving kohl. "We nearly let him touch them," he barked. "Earlier, when we —"

"I know, Charles, I know," she said as she stood. "But we didn't. You didn't. Charles."

She walked over to him, bold as brass despite his bristling demeanour, and took his face in her hands. "He's fine. He's fine."

Edwin, feeling like an interloper despite being the subject of distress, hovered at the desk. Fists clenched, knuckles braced together; grounding himself against his own spectral solidity the only way he knew how. "Charles," he repeated, softer. He sounded altogether too close to weeping himself.

In a blink, Charles was back by his side — and his arms were around Edwin like a vice. "I'm sorry," he babbled, breathing the words in a rapid patter against Edwin's neck, voice choked with tears. "Fuck, Edwin, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Perhaps it was proximity to the remains or simply a rawness of emotion, but... Edwin could almost feel him. Trick himself into believing he could feel Charles' weight in his arms, rich and real.

"You've nothing to be sorry for," Edwin uttered, soft, yet stern. He returned the embrace, clutching the nothing that was everything in his arms. "You held me back, Charles. You saved me again."

He squeezed him tight, for all the good it would do. "Thank you."

Charles seemed in no hurry to pull away — and frankly, neither was Edwin. So he allowed himself to hold and be held a few moments longer, clinging to Charles like a port in a storm.

Meanwhile, behind Charles' back and in the corner of Edwin's vision, Crystal had begun to pace.

"Okay. Okay, so. So this has happened before. That's good, right? Means we're not totally fucking alone, here," she muttered, tugging at a flyaway curl of her hair. "We just — we just need to think about this. Sybil, John, whatever didn't know what the bones wanted because that guy wouldn't talk to her, but we do, right? Edwin, you've told us everything, right?"

"I've told you the whole of it," he replied. It came out slightly muffled in Charles' shoulder.

"Good. Great, okay, so we're not flying blind. We just — look, she said it was like, a haunting, right? Like his spirit was..."

"Split in two," said Edwin, quietly.

The look she cast him over Charles' shoulder was gratingly sympathetic. "Yeah. Yeah, so fine. It's a haunting. So how do you stop a haunting?"

"It depends," said Edwin.

"Unfinished business," Charles cut in. He inhaled through his nose as he pulled back, and pulled himself (mostly) together. "Sort out the unfinished business, sort out the haunting. More often 'n not."

"Great," said Crystal. "So we find whatever unfinished business the piece of Edwin trapped in those bones has, and we finish it."

Edwin snorted, scratching his cheek where it had been pressed to Charles' neck. Though he could scarcely feel a bit of it, he already missed the embrace. "You make it sound so very straightforward."

"I mean, isn't it?"

"It's not as if we can interview the client," he sniped.

"Oi," Charles mumbled, ever the peacekeeper — but his heart wasn't in the admonishment. His hand, however, was in Edwin's hand. As if he could no more bear to break the contact than Edwin could bear to lose it.

"No, but it can't be anything complicated, right?" She clicked her fingers. "She said that piece of his spirit was like, it was a fragment. Like it wasn't intelligent."

Edwin bristled.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not saying you're not intelligent. Idiot."

"How silly of me to think such a thing," he said icily.

"What I mean is — that you, the one in the box, it's like, base, right? That's what she said. No reason, no personality. It's barely conscious. Right?"

"Right," said Charles, nodding to himself. "Right, so he's — he's not gonna be wishing he'd composed a bloody symphony or anything."

"Exactly. Nothing complex. We've just gotta find whatever basic, boring, any-amoeba-can-do-it thing that he wants and... give it to him. And then he moves on and the haunting stops. Right?"

"In theory, yes, it could be as simple as that," said Edwin. "Although we mustn't discount the possibility that what it wants is..."

Though he'd absorbed the images as text on a page, they flickered through his mind on a vivid reel, crimson-tinted frames of celluloid horror. Images of his own arm twisting, warping, bubbling. Bleeding away from him in a roiling mass of terrible tallow, into the empty vessel of his howling bones.

He swallowed. "A reunion..."

"Nope," said Charles, flat, with a decisive shake of his head. "Nah. Nah, we're not. No. S'not that. There's gotta be something other than that. Hasn't there?"

"Yeah," muttered Crystal, answering his pointless tag question with an even more pointless platitude. "Yeah. Sure. Gotta be."

But she shared a look with Edwin behind Charles' back, a worried one. One he returned with a grim set to his jaw.

Neither one of them spoke another word for fear of upsetting Charles — or speaking the terrible truth into existence — but it lingered nonetheless. Lying unspoken between them, as large as the box of bones and all the more ominous a presence. The terrible elephant in the room.

Maybe there is no other way.

"So." Edwin turned on his heel to face the gathering as his chalk scraped a decisive line beneath the words 'Unfinished Business' on the board. "Let us have it. Any notion that springs to mind. At this juncture, there are no wrong answers. What could he want, what could he need?"

Charles and Crystal sat assembled on the floor, watching him and the board like tall, bedraggled schoolchildren with poor posture. Stationed dutifully between Edwin and the trunk — which had been propped open again, on his request. He needed to think, and it was damnably difficult with his bones having a tantrum.

"Gotta be basic, yeah?" said Charles, scratching his nose. "Right, so what's like, the most basic thing people can want?"

"Sleep?" said Crystal, on the tail end of a stifled yawn.

Edwin rolled his eyes, but dutifully jotted it down.

"Food?" Charles offered, hopping aboard her train of thought. "Um, water...?"

"Sex?" said Crystal.

Edwin, halfway through making note of the previous suggestions, gasped in indignance and turned upon her. "I absolutely do not consent to anyone attempting... that with my skeleton." He wrinkled his nose. "I'm not even sure how one would go about such a thing..."

"Bet there's a few people online who'd have ideas," she muttered.

"I dread to think. Hm. Perhaps there are some wrong answers, after all," he said curtly, deigning not to write it down. "Let's rule that one out for the time being. Any others?"

"Cash?" Charles suggested. "We could lob a few tenners at 'im?"

Edwin closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Let us call that Plan F."

"You know, there is a way we could get the answer straight up," said Crystal, voice quiet and eyes to the floor. "Straight from the horse's mouth."

"Crys..." said Charles, a gentle warning.

"I could read them," she blew past him.

"You heard what that journal said," Charles argued. "They'll melt the bloody flesh off your bones!"

"I'm alive — pretty sure that was a ghost special." She turned to Edwin. "You agree with me, right? It's the fastest, most bulletproof way to figure this out."

He did agree, and he opened his mouth to say so. But then he made the mistake of looking directly at her; at that now-familiar glint of reckless determination in her eye.

Edwin sighed. "I agree with your assessment. But I agree with Charles, as well. It's a risk. We must exhaust all other avenues, first."

He saw Charles let out a breath he'd been holding, a spark of gratitude glowing warm in his eyes. It was a suitable balm to the caustic ire of Crystal.

"We've been here days! How long did that guy last before he caved, like a month? I know you say you're fine, Edwin, but you're not fine! Look! You're doing your — your thing!"

She pointed to his hands — he followed her gaze, scowled, and pointedly unclenched his fists, letting them fall to his sides.

"And you're still twitching," she said. "They're still in your head, right?"

ClosercomeclosercomecloserlookatmeholdmeCLOSER —

"I have it quite under control," said Edwin. "And even if I did wish to succumb, I'll hardly find the chance with the two of you watching me like hawks."

"But I could —!"

"Crystal," he said, voice like a sharp rap across the knuckles. "You are of far too much value to us to risk when we haven't exhausted all other options, and that is final."

She blinked, mouth flopping in a flabberghasted, fish-like manner.

"Yeah," said Charles, softly. His hand found hers, cupping over her smaller digits upon the office floor. "What he said."

Crystal looked to him, then Edwin, with eyes that looked suspiciously damp. Oh, good heavens, no. He simply couldn't bear it if another person were to cry in front of him today.

Edwin cleared his throat. "Well." He brushed down his rumpled shirt. "Now that's dealt with —let us return to the task at hand, shall we?"

"Right, yeah. Unfinished business." Charles frowned, tapping his fingers on his knee. "Mate..."

"Yes, Charles?"

"I'm thinking, yeah... If we find out what his unfinished business is," he said, jerking his thumb towards the sealed trunk at his back. "And he moves on. Does that mean... Since, y'know, since he's you..."

"That I would move on with him?"

Charles exhaled, a ragged sound, and nodded.

Edwin swallowed. "We... mustn’t discount the possibility."

A possibility which hung heavy in the air between them, grey and charged like a storm cloud. Edwin could see the panic in Charles' eyes — recognised it intimately for it matched that rising in his own chest. A thin, taut thread of terror strung between their unbeating hearts. A thread which neither one of them wished to snip.

"We don't have a choice," Crystal cut in, quiet. Almost gentle. "Edwin's sick. And he's gonna keep being sick. If it gets bad, if his bones... absorb him."

She chewed on her lower lip, and looked Edwin solemnly in the eye. "Then we lose you either way."

He closed his eyes. "We have to try."

"Yeah," said Charles, the weight of the world in one little syllable.

Edwin waited to face the blackboard before he opened his eyes once more. He couldn't bring himself to meet Charles' gaze; he'd only want to run and hide in it. "So. What else have we —"

"Oh, boys!"

The three of them startled like gazelles, whirling on the new voice. That was no surprise appearance of the spectral postman — that was the unmistakable voice of —

"Ah," said Edwin, sheepishly straightening his back and attempting to do likewise with his rumpled shirt. "Good evening."

The Night Nurse stood, in all her crispness and cleanliness, at the heart of the veritable bombsite of their office with an air of horror. "Is it, Master Payne? Because it hardly seems to be the case from where I'm standing! What have you little delinquents been doing — I was gone for less than a fortnight!" She frowned, and consulted her watch. "I was certain I’d accounted for your terrestrial timezone…"

"Long story," said Crystal. "But we've got a situation."

"I can see that, young lady. Would one of you care to elaborate?"

"We found Edwin's..." Crystal's eyes flickered to him, uncomfortable.

Edwin sighed. "My remains. We found my remains." He gestured to the trunk. "Stashed and forgotten in the attic at the school where I... yes."

She leaned over neatly, knees and back unbending, and peered into the trunk. For just a moment, her stern expression softened somewhat. "Oh. Wee lamb..."

Edwin blinked, the gentleness of that designation altogether a little more than he was prepared for. He found himself unsure what to do with it, so he put it down on the floor and backed away slowly with a clear of his throat. "Yes, it's been a... trying few days."

"There's something about 'em," said Charles. "We think they're sort of... haunted."

"They're making Edwin sick — keeping him here, talking in his head," added Crystal.

"Found some notes about it happening to someone else." Charles picked up the book from the floor at his side and tapped the cover. "Basically, we don't sort them out, Edwin's fucked."

"Thank you, Charles," Edwin muttered.

"I see," she said, taking the book from Charles and flicking through it. Though she merely riffled through the pages as if she were shuffling a deck of cards, Edwin had no doubt the information found its way into her brain somehow. An enviable talent. "And how do you intend to 'sort them out'?"

"Unfinished business is our best bet so far," said Crystal. "But it's gotta be something super basic. Something unconscious."

"And I take it burial didn't work?"

Edwin looked at Charles. Charles looked at Crystal. Crystal, wide-eyed, only shrugged.

"We... have not attempted burial," said Edwin, carefully.

The Night Nurse stared at him, eyes slightly bugged, before they narrowed. "You haven't. Tried. Burial?" she said, voice clipped, stilted. Sharp and precise as the rhythmic snip of a pair of sewing scissors.

"Well, um, no — but, it was gonna be next on the list!" Charles lied.

"Children," she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with two immaculate fingernails. "In the event of cursed or haunted remains, proper burial is almost always standard protocol! Did any one of you think to read the Lost & Found Guidelines and Procedures manual that I gave to you?"

Edwin, abashed, shifted his weight and steepled his fingers. "I... gave it a cursory glance."

Edwin had read some dry texts in his time, often with interest and even some pleasure, but even by his standards that tome had been... a difficult read. He'd wished fervently, as he did most every day, that Niko had still been with them. How she'd managed to read that book at all, let alone absorb and decode its convoluted contents in a handful of hours, remained one of life's great mysteries. A truly uncanny affinity with the text, as if she'd written it herself.

The Night Nurse scowled. "Well. Chop chop, then — kindly locate a suitable, respectable burial site and crack on. And once you've got that sorted out, clean up this mess; we can hardly invite clients into this pig sty."

She cursed under her breath, in a language too old for even Edwin's linguist's ear, as she picked up the briefcase by her feet. It seemed to weigh a tonne — possibly a non-figurative one. "Now. If that's all sorted out, I've accrued a lot of paperwork from the conference. I'll be attending to that in my study and I would strongly advise you not interrupt me." She huffed a frustrated exhale through her nose. "I do hope that irksome landlady of yours hasn't re-ordered all of my pens, again..."

And with a sharp snap of her fingers, she was gone once more. Folding through space and time neat and sharp-edged as an origami crane, she teleported to the top floor, and the other disused apartment where she'd set up her own office to distance herself from 'the youth'.

The three of them left behind stared at the empty spot, where her stiletto heels had pinched small matching dips in the floorboard.

"Well," said Charles. "Seems as good a start as any, yeah?"

"Yes," said Edwin, tightly. "I'm amazed we hadn't thought of it."

"I was, uh. I was kinda joking, before, with the mirror and stuff, but..." Crystal furrowed her brow. "Are we like, actually stupid?"

Edwin jotted down burial on the board, and underlined it thrice. "Best not to dwell on it."

Edwin and Charles had become quite familiar with London's so-called Magnificent Seven. Unsurprising, given their line of work. Cemeteries and the engravings therein were a treasure trove of useful information when it came to helping the unquiet dead move on.

In fact, they'd visited the sites often enough to form extensive opinions and pick favourites. Edwin's preference was for the peace and quiet of Nunhead, or the fascinating architecture of West Norwood. Charles, on the other hand, had taken a shine to the overgrown, ramshackle remains of Tower Hamlets.

"Almost like it's barely a graveyard anymore, innit?" he'd said of his fondness once, as he bent to inspect another fragment. Many of the gravestones had become so broken, so weather-worn and algae-crusted, they were barely distinguishable from protruding roots in the undergrowth. "Practically a jungle. Like a proper adventure, yeah?"

Edwin let him have his fun, but truth be told, he took some dislike to their outings to that particular cemetery. He'd not attended a service there in life — few in his family would have deigned to be buried in London's east end — but he'd visited, on occasion. Usually at the behest of his aunt, who'd insisted a stroll through the grounds was good for the mind and soul.

"Around here, my boy, you're never more than a stone's throw from a dead person, a real person, or a parakeet."

At nine years of age, Edwin had found that statement rather perplexing. At a hundred and twenty, he'd decoded two of the three. 'Real' person, he imagined, referred to the working class in the area, the sort of people Aunt Florence spent the majority of her time with, despite her brother's best attempts. And after thirty years in the company of one Charles Rowland, Edwin couldn't agree with her more on that point. Edwin was, simply and unequivocally, a better and happier person for knowing him. As to the benefit of being among dead people, perhaps she'd been referring to the good psychological practice of acknowledging one's own mortality, in order to make peace with it.

He was, admittedly, still baffled as to what an invasive species of parrot could provide for his mental acuity. He suspected she'd just thrown them in the mix because she enjoyed the colours, and respected the rule of threes.

Memories of an aunt he wished he'd tried harder to understand set aside, the cemetery was still not an easy place for him. Unlike much of London, which looked so different from his day it could be mistaken for a new city altogether, the cemetery had few modern additions. The last hundred years were marked only in growth and destruction. The shellings of the nineteen forties had shaken the stones loose, and nature had crawled in through the cracks. It was a place where each long year of his absence from the world lay plainly marked, like chalk notches on a cell wall.

Fortunately, it was not to Tower Hamlets that Crystal's internet led them, but to Kensal Green. Edwin was rather embarrassed about being unable to recall the cemetery or plot location himself. But in life, he'd visited it only a handful of times, for funerals or family pilgrimages. Over the course of seventy years in Hell, he'd lost far more vital information from his life than a burial site.

To be truthful, which cemetery it was mattered little to Edwin. After a week of confinement, he was just grateful for the outing.

There was the question, of course, of what to do about the bones and their separation anxiety if Edwin were to leave. But Charles outright refused to leave Edwin alone with them, so a temporary solution was devised. An effective (if inelegant) workaround.

Charles gave a low whistle. "Mate. This whole bloody plot's yours?"

"My family's, yes. My great, great grandfather's investment, if I recall correctly." Edwin went to give his bowtie an anxious tug, only to remember he wasn't wearing it. Lost in the dreadful haze of the last week. He settled for adjusting the collar of his shirt. "He was always quite adamant about being buried away from 'the rabble'."

"'Course he was," Charles snorted.

"So, what are we looking for?" asked Crystal, rubbing her arms. The sky was heavy with the threat of rain, and going by her chosen attire the weather must have been fresh for July. "Like... just a big enough patch to start digging?"

Edwin tutted. "Crystal. The onus is on a proper burial; we can hardly tip my mortal remains into a hole in the ground."

"I'd dig a nice hole," Charles joked, nudging Edwin with his elbow. "I'm great at digging holes."

He had mastered quite a technique over the years, but that was by the by. "There might be a grave waiting already," said Edwin.

"Like an empty one?" said Charles.

Edwin nodded. "It wasn't strictly orthodox, but I recall a similar arrangement when my Uncle Cuthbert perished at sea."

"Okay," said Crystal, rolling her shoulders and switching on her torch. "Let's get looking. I don't wanna be the only visible person digging up graves when the sun comes up."

"Check them all, thoroughly," said Edwin. "I did die rather young. It's possible I share a headstone with... with my mother."

Crystal and Charles set to — but not before casting him another worried look or two. Edwin was rather tiring of those. Just because he was being plagued by malicious forces beyond their ken didn't mean he needed to be mollycoddled.

When Edwin lifted his lantern and took a step towards the nearest headstone, he winced. Then scowled. "Oh, shush," he snapped, giving the trunk a sharp kick with his heel. It skittered a little on the wonky wheels of the pilfered airport luggage trolley to which it had been haphazardly lashed. "I'm hardly going far."

"Careful, Edwin!" Charles called out in a panic.

Edwin rolled his eyes. "I am being careful."

"It's definitely closed, yeah?" Charles persisted.

"Yes, Charles."

"Got your gloves on?"

"Yes, Charles."

"What d'you want him to do?" Crystal chimed in from the next row. "Wear a hazmat suit?"

Charles left a worrying pause. Edwin couldn't see his face at a distance in the dark, but he could see it in his mind's eye. The raised brows, widening eyes, the considering dip of his head as he thought 'actually...'. Absolutely unacceptable.

"Charles," said Edwin, firm. "Less fussing, more searching, if you don't mind."

He grumbled, of course, but his torch beam flitted away and his crunching footsteps resumed.

Though it would be more efficient to aid their efforts, Edwin decided to hang back, standing vigil over the box of bones. He'd hardly be an asset to the search party with a migraine.

Besides, if he was being honest, the idea of stumbling across a familiar name graven into ancient stone was... troubling, to say the least.

And if was being genuinely honest, more troubling still was the idea of being untroubled. It had been so very long since he'd seen his parents, his aunts and uncles and cousins. What little he remembered of them existed in his head only as fleeting snatches of memory. He'd written down facts about them, names and dates and habits and views, but in the end that was all they were. Facts. Impersonal jottings on a piece of paper. Seventy horrific years in Hell, followed by thirty in a situation comparable to a personal heaven, had put all that came before quite out of mind. It was only their recent excursions that had begun to dredge up the past; hauling the pitifully small shipwreck of his mortal life out into the light of day.

Edwin sighed and leaned on the trolley handle. In the lantern glow, the silhouettes of his family's tombstones crouched dark and dubious. No names visible, no detail, only vague forms, pitch black and hunching like a murder of silent crows. He closed his eyes against them.

His bones whispered urgent, incoherent litanies; there was little to do but bob upon the tide, and watch the distant torch beams. At some point, the one denoting Charles scurried over to meet Crystal. They might have been whispering to one another, but Edwin didn't hear, Couldn't hear. Hard to hear much of everything beyond that insistent little voice, breathing its pleading words into his ear.

Hold me hold me hold please hold me...

"Edwin?" came Charles' voice, creeping closer behind twin beams. "Got a problem."

"That doesn't fill me with confidence," said Edwin, opening his eyes slowly. Feeling as if he was coming up from underwater. "The last time you said that in a graveyard, the problem was zombies. And quite a lot of them."

"No zombies," said Crystal, hustling into view side by side with Charles like a two-headed creature in the gloom. Charles' earring flashed in the lantern glow before his worried eyes had the chance to catch up. "But..."

"But...?"

Charles puffed, raising his arms in a sharp shrug before letting his hands fall to his sides with an audible slap. "We can't find you. Anywhere."

Edwin frowned. "Are you certain?"

"Yep. Found an Edward Payne," said Crystal. "But he died in 1909."

"My grandfather," said Edwin, absently. He went to the funeral. He thinks...

"Yeah, well. Closest we've got." Crystal crossed her arms uncomfortably. "There was... we found your mom's stone, but. Your name wasn't on it."

Edwin closed his eyes and exhaled, slowly. "Right. Well. I thought this might be an issue." He adjusted his coat. "If they labelled me a disappearance, it's possible they never had any sort of funeral."

"That's bollocks," was Charles' immediate and incensed response. "No memorial? Not even a bloody stone?"

"Could it be someplace else?" asked Crystal. "Do you have, like, family scattered across the country?"

"This was our plot for generations. We had a branch of the family in the north, but why they'd memorialise me there I haven't the faintest. We scarcely even visited." Edwin's leather gloves creaked, fist braced to fist. "However..."

"What?"

Edwin cleared his throat. "Well. There is, of course, the chapel annexed to St. Hilarion's. I seem to recall a small graveyard in the vicinity."

Even in the low light, Charles looked distinctly ill. "You reckon they buried you there?"

"Evidently, Charles, they didn't bury me at all," he said. "But if there's anywhere else a memorial might be..."

"Great," said Crystal, in a bitter, biting tone that communicated the exact opposite. She sounded about as happy about the lead as Edwin felt. "So. Guess we're going back."

"I suppose so."

"Do we have to?" asked Charles, plaintive. "I mean — no rule saying we have to bury you where your old man put your grave marker, is there?"

"Strictly speaking, no," said Edwin, peevish. "But in the absence of an alternative plan, I think it important we do everything in our power to execute this one flawlessly. It is as I said, only a proper burial will do — and regardless of your hole-digging technique, Charles, I doubt disposing of me in an unmarked pit in the woods is liable to solve anything."

Crystal inhaled sharply.

Charles stared at him, stricken. "Christ, Edwin. I'd fucking never. You know I'd never."

Edwin sighed — a dry, rattling sound. "I know. I... I apologise."

Silence hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. At least, Edwin imagined it did. For him, silence was a long-lost friend; he'd not met a silence these last days that couldn't be filled with the hushed, manic whispers of the dead.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, massaging his temple. "I'm... I'm not myself."

Dull, distant pressure brushed his hand aside; and Charles held his shoulders and met his eyes.

"You're fine, mate," he said, voice low, urgent. "Just under a bit of stress, yeah?"

Edwin took a slow, steadying inhale, and looked at Charles — even though a part of him wasn't wholly sure he had the right to do so. Charles' signature eyeliner was faded, the neat arcs reduced to dark smudges, making his eyes appear sunken and bruised. It was a little affectation of his, a tell, like misty breaths and uncontrollable shivers. The true emotions peeking through the cracks. He looked about as haggard and overstretched as their poor living colleague did.

And it was all Edwin's doing.

He gathered himself, insomuch as there was anything left to gather. "Well. Mustn't dawdle," he said, giving Charles' arm a brief pat before stepping back from his hands and taking hold of the trolley. "Let us hasten to that chapel while the night is on our side."

Crystal glanced between them both, then evidently decided whatever she wanted to say wasn't worth it. "Fine." She huffed as she collected up an armful of shovels and torches. "Jenny's gonna be real stoked about how many places her van's been seen loitering around tonight."

She tromped off towards the borrowed van in question, looking for all the world like a rather dejected and unsuccessful grave robber. Edwin supposed it did look a bit suspicious, from an outside perspective. Certainly Jenny would have had words to say, if she knew what they were up to. But Jenny was otherwise occupied tonight, and Crystal had a newly minted driver's licence, so there'd been little point bothering her. Crystal disappeared over the grassy verge, leaving Edwin and Charles alone with a couple more shovels and a restless cart of bones.

Charles gave Edwin another worried look, and reached for the pull handle of the trolly. "Let me take those for a bit, mate," he said.

Edwin shook his head and tightened his grip. "They'll make a fuss."

"Well, they can bloody lump it for a minute, can't they?" said Charles. Firmly, but with care, he pried Edwin's finger's from the handle and replaced them with his own. Edwin winced in anticipation of a flare of pain that never came. For whatever reason, for the time being, the temperament of the bones remained stable.

Exhaling slowly, Edwin flexed his fingers. "Thank you," he muttered.

"S'alright." Charles was watching him, all too shrewdly. Shrewdness bore a rather unique flavour when Charles wielded it. Neither cutting nor cruel; it was simply an expression which asked if all was well, and saw right through to the real answer. "Did you..."

"Did I?"

"Did you wanna..." Charles bit his lip, and shrugged. "See anyone? Say anything? Seeing as we're here." He nodded towards the hunching shadows. "With them."

Edwin looked at his feet.

"You don't have to," Charles hastened to assure him. His free hand landed, with that reassuring Charles-signature firmness that carried even through the intangible ether, upon Edwin's shoulder. "Just thought I'd ask, yeah?"

Edwin turned his head to the grave plot. Generations of his family, from before his time, and after. Each as dead as he, or moreso. He imagined Aunt Florence was here, somewhere, despite her cemetery preferences. Uncle Cuthbert. Grandfather Edward. Mother. Father.

The names rang clear as a bell, graven across his memory in his own hasty handwriting. Etched year by torturous year in Hell into the pages of books and the dust of the walls lest he forget; lose the familiar syllables to the sands of time.

The faces to go with them?

Edwin pressed a hand to his chest, to the outline of his notebook where it lay tucked against his heart. The impression of a family crest. A singular tether, a constant reminder. A tribute, like his frantic scrawlings, to the name. Nothing more.

"I... think I'd rather not linger," he said, shamefaced, looking at Charles' hand — if only to avoid his eyes. "If it's all the same to you."

He watched Charles release him. But not without a squeeze, and a slow trail of his hand down his arm. As if to prolong the non-touch as long as possible.

"Say no more, mate," he said, low and achingly kind, as he shored up his hold upon Edwin's mortal remains. "Say no more."

He followed in Crystal's footsteps, towing the trunk and its contents with care and attention. Edwin followed, and did not look back. Perhaps it was for the better, that they'd found no grave waiting to receive him.

He had no wish to be buried amongst strangers.

Returning to St. Hilarion's even once had been quite enough for Edwin's nerves. Twice was pushing it. But needs must when the devil drives. And with his own bones now found — and apparently happy to keep their interference to a low, droning whisper whilst being towed along in Charles' steady hand — at least there were no extreme supernatural weather conditions to contend with.

The chapel, as well, was an altogether less familiar area of campus. Edwin had spent his fair share of time there, of course, for Sunday service amongst others. But the headmaster in his time had preferred to conduct assemblies elsewhere, and so the chapel became an infrequent haunt. And a relatively peaceful one, considering his bullies had to torment him very, very quietly, lest they incur the wrath of this God fellow. Or, more pressingly, the wrath of the bishop with the sharp eyes and cutting tongue. He never raised a hand to them himself, but was always quite happy to recommend any ne'er-do-wells for punishment from the school staff. As a result, Sunday service was somewhat of a sanctuary in Edwin's week, which he'd enjoyed greatly; even if the boredom threatened at times to choke him. But he daren't attempt to hide more interesting reading material in his prayer book. Just because he was rarely a target for the bishop's ire did not mean he didn't carry a healthy respect for it.

Much like the rest of the school, the chapel had been well-kept since Edwin's day. Though he wondered if it saw as much use in these enlightened times. Did they still herd the boarders in the door every Sunday? The grass outside was short and freshly chopped. He experienced a moment's pure nostalgia for the fragrance that always erupted about the school when the groundskeeper had been out and about with his little push-mower. That bright, green, fresh scent that bled through the open windows of the classroom on a summer's afternoon, a stark contrast to the smell of books and bodies and the throat-clagging chalk dust. It wasn't often Edwin so keenly missed his sense of smell, but that had always been one of his favourites. Remembered with a vivid fondness not even afforded to his own immediate family.

Being buried on school grounds was certainly not ideal; but buried under fresh cut grass, that he could abide.

"Well," Charles muttered. "This shouldn't take long."

In contrast to the sprawl of Kensal Green cemetery — and even the relatively small subsection of the Payne family plot — the St. Hilarion's graveyard amounted to a mere handful of scattered stones. It seemed relatively few new additions had sprung up since Edwin's time.

"Good," he said, dryly. "They must not be haemorrhaging students at a breakneck pace."

Charles tossed him a wry grin. "S'pose we're special then, eh?"

"Wait," said Crystal. "Charles, is one of these yours?"

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm over Croydon way."

Edwin's gaze snapped to him. "You are?"

"Yeah. Found out a while back." He shrugged, but his expression had clouded. Somewhere behind his eyes, a distant rumble of warning thunder. "Should've been cremated, really. Always thought, 'cause of mum... but, well. Dad had to go and steamroll that, didn't he?" He kicked a clump of loose sod at the side of the cobble path. "Just like he always does. Can't not have it his way, can he?"

Edwin wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that rhetorical. If he were Charles, someone more at ease with the practice of offering comfort, he might have reached out to touch him. But he was no such thing.

"Charming man," he muttered instead, tongue dripping venom. And that, at least, coaxed a wry smile from Charles' scowling lips.

"Right then. Better get looking, hadn't we?" said Charles, as he gently passed the trolley handle back into Edwin's hand, fingers lingering in the changeover. "Be careful, yeah?"

Edwin smiled, tightly, and offered Charles a torch. "Of course."

Charles took it, and he and Crystal marched grimly towards the grave plots. Crystal, Edwin noticed, walked in close step, and gave Charles the reassuring squeeze that Edwin himself had failed to provide. He averted his eyes, glowering at the infernal trunk he was once more saddled with.

It didn't sit well with Edwin. Waiting. He liked to be pragmatic. Not in Charles' sense of the word, of course — impulsive decisions were neither his preference nor his specialty, and he was loathe to charge into a situation unprepared. But preparation in itself was a form of pragmatism, and Edwin had been feeling woefully understocked on both these past few days. When the only resources they had to hand were a single book and the odd scattered diary entry, it made it rather difficult to contribute in any meaningful way to the case. It hadn't even been his idea to fasten the trunk to the trolley — at most, he could claim credit for holding the tape.

Well. He'd had quite enough of waiting. Squaring his shoulders, he took a firmer grip on the handle. "Come along, then," he told his bones brusquely. "Let us see what we can see."

The wheels of the luggage trolley were not well suited to grass and dirt. Edwin wove a very slow, very stilted path across the green, full of routine stops to disentangle the axles from tangles of loose cuttings. But he made it, eventually, to the yard, exchanging a glance with Crystal as he went. She made no efforts to stop him, for which he was quietly grateful. As she continued to inspect the smattering of stones in the southernmost stretch of the small yard, Edwin surveyed the ones closer to the gate. Many of which were clearly too modern to be his, but it made sense to leave no tombstone unturned.

He was directing his gaze away from the carving of a lamb upon an older stone, when something caught his eye. A single name amongst a jumble of them.

His breath caught.

"Edwin?" Charles called, his voice very distant, rising in budding concern. "Edwin, I still can't see you anywhere, mate..."

"Me either," added Crystal.

Edwin didn't look at either of them; cold to his very soul. "I can."

He heard rather than saw their approach, Charles and his insensible loafers skidding in the dirt alongside the confident crunch of Crystal's sturdy boots. The noise stopped abruptly when they reached his side; and silence reigned as they read what was written.

"Shit..." Crystal muttered.

"Edwin," said Charles, quiet. "What's this about?"

"I don't know," said Edwin, his own soft voice roaring like a waterfall in his ears. "But I can make an educated guess."

The stone which bore Edwin's name was not a dedicated gravestone at all. What it was was a tall, distinctive structure, carved in the image of a celtic cross. A better word for it might be cenotaph. Beneath the most prominent engraving on the plaque, the fairly boilerplate 'IN PROUD REMEMBRANCE', a list of names. Edwin's peeked out from within it, almost timid. Eighth down in the roster, amongst a handful of others. All familiar, some more than others. The name Simon Fairfax stood out somewhat.

Charles took a knee in the dirt beside him, reaching out. His gloved fingertips traced Edwin's name in the brass. "Mate..."

It took Edwin some moments to find his voice again.

"Act of God," Edwin parrotted, dully. "Covers all manner of sins, does it not?"

Crystal squatted at his other side, arms folded on her knees.

Edwin wondered who'd originated this rather ingenious cover. The school, or his family. How long had his parents waited, he wondered. How hard had they looked. Did they know, from the moment news of his disappearance reached them, that this was how they'd explain it away? Or did this happy coincidence not occur to them until some time later?

It was rather easier to explain, wasn't it? No uncomfortable questions to be fielded about where Edwin was last seen, or with whom. About why he could have been a target for abuse at the hands of his peers. About what he and at least one other of the boys who'd disappeared that night had in common. An easy explanation; and an easy, expeditious route to a noble death.

He laughed, cut-glass sharp. "How convenient."

"Shit..." Crystal muttered. "Shit. Edwin, I'm so sorry."

"Oh, no, don't be. It's the kindest thing, is it not?" he spat, fingers tightening to a bruising grip on the trolley handle. "I should be thanking them, really. How thoughtful of them to spare me the embarrassment."

"Edwin..." said Charles.

"Really, what a kindness. What a gracious act of self-sacrifice to cover up the truth of the matter for my sake." The words were coming thick and fast, now, but he hadn't the wherewithal to care. He had dead lungs with no need for oxygen, and no shortage of acidic vitriol to burn. "It must have been so very difficult for them, to stand in front of all our friends, relatives, all of father's business associates and lie. Poor Edwin, ran away with his chums to join the front lines. Fought valiantly, or so we heard. How brave of him, that hard-headed, foolish boy. How tragic to see a fine young man cut off in his prime. Oh, but not to worry. At least he died a hero's death, him and all of his little friends. At least he died defending his country, and not in the school that we sent him to, screaming, begging. Pinned against his will, writhing on his back and sobbing like a wretched little Mary Ann!"

The hated words, like a bitter incantation, broke the spell. The red haze bled from his vision and soon, all that was left in its place was sorrow. So old, so aching it could be felt, quite literally, in his very bones.

Closer closer closer please closer...

He dropped the handle, uncaring for how they cried, how it hurt in his head and his heart. How a small, broken part of him wished, shamefully, to throw himself upon them and melt like wax just to make it all stop.

Hold me. Please hold me...

But he sat petrified, a statue among the stones, between Crystal's hand at his elbow and Charles' on his shoulder. Bound inescapably to the terrible moment and so he did the only thing he could think to do. The only thing he felt capable of doing.

He wept.

Minutes ticked, inexorably, into hours. A light rain fell, staining the weathered cenotaph a deeper, slicker grey. A stone effigy of a darkening stormcloud.

It was when the sky had wept its fill, when the rain had left behind only a glimmering beading upon the neatly trimmed cemetery grass, that Edwin's tears likewise subsided. He blinked up at the dawn's gloaming.

"Hey," said Crystal, quiet. He looked at her; her jacket was sodden and her curls had been tamped down by the persistent, penetrating drizzle. She hadn't complained once.

Edwin found, with a somewhat detached sense of surprise, that he was as drenched as their living friend. His blazer was heavy with water, his knees damp and grass-stained. A slick forelock of his hair had split from formation to curl, limply, in his vision. He looked to Charles and found he, at least, was dry. But the slight tremor of his hand, the soft puffs of vaporous air from his lips denoted a worry he was simply keeping a tight lid upon.

With a ragged exhale, Edwin wiped his eyes. How strange, to not feel the water, and yet to see his fingers come away wet. "I'm sorry."

Quick as a flash, Charles' hands were upon him. On his neck, cupping his jaw, turning Edwin to face him. Edwin had never so deeply craved something he couldn't have in his life; he wanted the warmth of Charles' hands. Wanted them to ward off the ice settling upon his very soul.

"Oi. You have nothing to be sorry about," said Charles, serious as the grave.

Edwin breathed in, slow and shuddering, and nodded. His hand found Charles', and held on tight.

"Are you okay?" asked Crystal. Then, with an audible wince: "Shit, of course you're not okay. I mean, like... physically, are you okay? You look..."

A droplet of water broke from the tip of Edwin's flyaway hair. "Like a drowned rat?"

"Uh. Yeah. Kinda."

Edwin shook his head. "They're — this near to them, it's like I can..." He shivered. "Everything feels very... close."

"Hey, now. You're alright. You're okay, yeah? Here." Charles shrugged out of his coat, and draped it over Edwin's shoulders. "It's alright, mate."

It made precious little difference, of course, being draped in a piece of ghostly wool. He'd much rather Charles have kept it for himself, to stave off his own spectral chill. But he clutched it tight to his chest, nonetheless.

"So what now?" asked Crystal, bleakly.

Edwin had no answer for her.

"Could try burying 'em with your family, anyway," said Charles. "Make a grave ourselves. A proper one."

"It won't work," said Edwin, softly.

"Why not?" asked Crystal.

Edwin wasn't wholly sure why it wouldn't, but it wouldn't. He'd felt the unrest of the bones at the very suggestion, in the back of his mind. As if an invisible hand had grabbed at his head and yanked it back by the scalp.

"They don't want to be there," he said, gathering Charles' coat tight around him. "He doesn't... I don't."

Crystal rubbed her face. If there was any of her eye cosmetic left behind from these frantic days, it had been washed away by the rain. "Would here work? I know it's not like, a real grave, but..."

Edwin, considering it, stretched out a shaking hand and sank his fingers into the wet, unresisting dirt beneath the stone. The pain was as immediate as it was pronounced. Less a pull of the hair, and more of an icepick to the frontal lobe. "No," he grit out through clenched teeth, falling back on his haunches in the grass. "No, no, here... here won't do, either."

"Maybe they don't even bloody want to be buried." Charles threw up his hands in frustration, before raking both through his hair. "Christ, not got much to go on, have we?"

Silence hung in the air following his outburst, taut and trembling; until Crystal snipped the thread. "But we could."

Charles' gaze snapped to her. "No."

"What choice do we have, Charles?" she argued. "If there's no grave, and if they don't want us to make one, then — then we've gotta find out what they do want. And I have a way to do it."

"It's too dangerous," he said, bringing his hands down to his thighs with an impact for emphasis. "Right, Edwin?"

Edwin looked at her, and she at him. She raised her eyebrows.

"It is too dangerous," he agreed, barely above a whisper. "And I cannot ask you to do it."

She hesitated, then put her hand on his arm. "But you want to ask me."

He nodded.

She nodded in return. "Then I'll do it."

"Crys..." Charles mumbled.

"Charles," she said, in a tone that took no prisoners. "Open the box."

He glanced between them, fists clenching fretfully on his knees. But one look at Edwin's sorry state, and he seemed to make his uneasy peace with the idea. "Alright. Alright..."

It was hardly a quick or elegant process, laying the trolley down flat and cutting through the yards and yards of heavy-duty duct tape with Charles' pocket knife. Some cursing was involved, and Edwin considered, briefly, that perhaps they ought to have adjourned to the office for this part. But it was too late now. The trunk's mummifying wrappings lay in mangled shreds about the grass, and Charles had the padlock in hand. He cast Edwin one more wary, terrified glance, before he willed it open with a click and let it fall to the ground with a damp and anticlimactic squelch.

The trunk swung open with its customary ominous creak. That faint blue iridescence from within shone upon the weathered planes of the cenotaph, and on each of their harrowed faces. Still vibrant in the pre-dawn light, not yet drowned by the encroaching sun.

Crystal climbed to her knees, shuffled closer, and propped her elbows upon the edge of the box. Her face was sallow in the direct glow of the contents, her eyes disconcertingly enormous.

"Careful..." said Charles, visibly twitching with the effort of not pulling her back. "Just..."

"Don't die?" she muttered.

He chewed his lip. "You've still got a life to lose," he mumbled.

She looked at him with a weary kindness, then. Tucked away somewhere in the wry uptick of her smile. "I'm not gonna." She glanced between him and Edwin as she reached out, tentative, naught outstretched but her littlest finger. "Guess you're both stuck with me."

Edwin's breath hitched. He extended his hand to her. "Crystal..."

But she closed the distance, first; her finger brushing like a kiss upon the crown of Edwin's bare, hollow skull.

The effect was instantaneous; her eyes clouding into perfect white pearls, her mouth falling open. Edwin half expected her to scream like a banshee, or start speaking in tongues but it was far, far worse.

She started crying.

It was a hideous sound, wet and wrenching; the sort of crying that had to escape through the mouth lest it force itself through the ribs instead. Edwin's blood ran cold.

"Crystal, that's enough now," he pleaded, trying — and failing — to keep his voice level against the rising panic. He reached to touch her, but hesitated — what if he only need touch the bones by proxy to fall into their trap? "Crystal, let go, please —"

Charles had no such considerations. "Crystal!" he hollered, throwing himself at her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "Crystal, stop it, now!"

He pulled, and her hand parted from the skull.

She inhaled sharply, her eyes flashing back to normal in the space of a blink. The tears, however, continued to roll.

"Crystal. Crystal, you alright?" asked Charles, frantic. He'd yet to release his hold upon her, rocking her back and forth with his own restless motions.

She sobbed, burying her face into Charles' arms.

Edwin swallowed, and inched forward. "Crystal. What did you see?"

"Oi! Give her a sec!" Charles defended.

But Edwin could feel it, already, the bones and their insistence creeping back into his mind. Maddeningly inscrutable. If Crystal had managed to get even a glimpse...

"Crystal, please," he breathed, hushed and intense, crowding closer. He took her trembling hands in his, letting Charles' coat fall from his shoulders to the ground. "Please, Crystal, what did you see? What does he want?"

When she finally looked at him, he wished she hadn't. Not even in his lowest moments had he ever felt such pity in her gaze.

"He's so lonely," she said, sounding very small and very broken, very little like herself at all. "That's all. There's nothing else he wants, nothing else he knows, he just." She sniffed. "He just doesn't want to be alone anymore."

Hold me please hold me...

Edwin slumped, a dead weight. Cold and heavy as the stones which surrounded them.

“How long… How long will I have to stay with him in order to make him… happy? Do you think?”

"It's been in front of us the entire time," he said, voice ringing out hollow in the cold snap of the graveyard air. "It was so obvious, we just..."

Before my very eyes he melted, oozed, his liquid remains drawn to the bones like water to a spigot, like gas to a vacuum.

"I just did not wish to see it."

He saw Crystal's hands squeeze his, unfeeling. She may as well be across the universe.

"Edwin..." said Charles, low and urgent. His hand reached out past Crystal, going for Edwin's shoulder, where it belonged.

Edwin flinched. "Don't."

Charles froze.

"I'm sorry," Edwin whispered. "But please don't."

He couldn't bear it, another empty embrace, another grip without weight or warmth. To touch Charles without feeling him. Not now.

His pitiful, cadaverous heart couldn't take one more drop.

Dawn crept up on them, a silent hunter; rosy claws touching upon three harrowed faces in a graveyard. Each as young, as open, as lost as the next.

Somewhere in the woods, the first blackbird of the morning began to sing.

Thank you to all who've bookmarked, subscribed, and especially commented, love you loads, until next time 💛

#dead boy detectives #dbda #payneland #edwing payne #charles rowland #crystal palace surname von hoverkraft #my fanfic #fic: oh lonely bones have you forgotten?#ITS FINALLY HERE #god i hope it's actually good jdfksnksfjdgdbnkjdgfdgnf

26 notes · View notes