I cleared my throat with all the self-importance of a cult leader at a budget cosplay convention, then threw my arms into the air like I was summoning thunder from the gods themselves.
"O ancient spirits!" I bellowed, the room echoing with mock gravity. "O unseen forces that whisper between the cracks of time! Hear us now and grant us thy cursed blessing!"
Raven, seated stiffly at the center of our very fake ritual circle—outlined with chalky crumbs from expired cheese crackers—looked like a man awaiting divine judgment and also possibly a colonoscopy. He was already sweating bullets, his hands clenched on his knees like he'd forgotten how joints worked.
"We offer you this vessel!" I cried, spinning dramatically. "Untouched! Unprepared! Unqualified!"
Raven, sitting stiffly in the center of the imaginary circle, was already sweating like a sponge in a sauna. His eyes darted from me to Mr. Witson—who was watching us with rapt attention, as if this were some sacred opera and not the world's most illegal improv act.
Raven threw his head back with a gasp so theatrical I thought he might spontaneously combust. "I… I feel her!" he cried, his voice warbling like a haunted kazoo. "She's… inside me! She's reaching into my soul—!"
I nearly burst into applause. Peak performance.
Mr. Witson, across the room, gripped his strange contraption like it was a wedding ring made of nightmares. His face was frozen in rapture, eyes wide, mouth agape. "Raven…" he whispered, voice trembling. "She's… she's here…"
I took a menacing step toward Raven, arms outstretched. "You are no longer who you were! Speak, O ravenous queen of shadows! Show us your wrath! Your beauty! Your…" I paused, "...your preference in breakfast cereal!"
Raven's eyes rolled back completely as he began to twitch. "You dare summon me, mortals?" he intoned, voice low and guttural—then coughed violently. "Sorry. Dust."
I nodded sagely. "The spirit is adjusting to this mortal coil."
"I am Raven," Raven continued, now with a strange accent that sounded vaguely Transylvanian via an old soap opera. "Bow before me, pitiful earthworms!"
Mr. Witson let out a tiny sob. "She's even more majestic than I imagined…"
I almost felt bad. Almost.
The candles flickered (thanks to a conveniently timed breeze), and Mr. Witson dropped to one knee like a knight before his queen, holding out the bone-and-gear abomination he'd created.
"My lady… I have built this to protect you… from witches who would harm your radiant soul."
Raven—possessed, allegedly—glared with regal disgust. "Witches? I am the witch, fool!"
Mr. Witson blinked. Once. Twice.
I froze.
Raven blinked as well, realizing—belatedly—that he may have just drop-kicked the entire charade straight into the abyss. "…Oops," he mumbled.
I cleared my throat loudly, stepping in like the responsible adult I definitely was not. "You see, Mr. Witson," I said smoothly, waving one hand through the air as though explaining the mysteries of the cosmos, "there are times—rare, cosmic times—when the spirit language and human language… don't exactly align."
Mr. Witson narrowed his eyes, suspicion creeping into his face like mold on bread.
I met his gaze with a deadpan glare and slowly raised my fist. "You want a beating?"
His survival instincts kicked in instantly. He took two careful steps back, both hands up in surrender, and shook his head with the fear of a man who'd seen the underworld and knew I could drag him back there at any moment.
I straightened my jacket with all the swagger of a con artist who'd just reeled in their biggest fish. "What Miss Raven meant to say," I began, flashing Mr. Witson a smile that could sell sand in a desert, "is that she is immensely grateful for the…" I glanced down at the device—still pulsing faintly like something that had escaped a haunted scrapyard—and audibly gulped. "…the present. Truly."
Mr. Witson looked at me with the eager eyes of a man expecting a love confession written in stardust.
"She is," I continued smoothly, "unfortunately unable to accept the gift, seeing as she is now… tragically… a spirit."
Raven, ever the helpful fake medium, leaned toward me and whispered, "That's a lot of words."
I elbowed him lightly in the ribs and kept going without missing a beat. "She's very grateful for your heartfelt gesture. In fact, she wanted you to know she was slain by a cruel witch, and your invention—had it reached her in time—might have saved her."
Mr. Witson gasped like a dying opera singer.
I layered on the drama with a soft, reverent tone. "Her only regret… is that she wasn't able to meet you sooner."
Raven looked at me, horrified. I gave him a little wink.
Sometimes, miracles are just lies delivered with enough flair.
Mr. Witson fell to his knees with a dramatic wail, clutching the cursed contraption to his chest like it was a dying child. His glasses fogged up from sheer emotional turbulence, and tears streamed down his cheeks in operatic waves.
"I—I failed her," he choked out. "My sweet, gentle Raven… slain by that foul, detestable, unholy witch!"
Raven had a sharp look that screamed, 'oh no.'
Witson's shoulders trembled with righteous fury as he rose slowly to his feet, backlit by a dusty shaft of light like a bargain-bin superhero ascending to his villain arc. "No," he whispered. "No more failure. No more hesitation. I—I will avenge her. I will dedicate every breath, every beat of my heart, to eradicating that monstrous creature who dared take her from this world!"
Raven tugged gently on my sleeve, voice thin as a dying candle. "Otto…"
"Shhh," I whispered, eyes gleaming. "Let me enjoy the drama."
Mr. Witson had already stormed to a cluttered corner of the room, flinging open drawers and muttering about "witch-tracking algorithms" and "holy silver syringes."
"I shall find her," he declared, spinning toward us with gleaming eyes and a screwdriver held like a holy relic. "And when I do, I shall strike her down with the righteous fury of a man in love! The flames of vengeance will guide my hand!"
"Please don't," Raven mumbled, shrinking into himself.
I crossed my arms, eyes fixed on the chaos unfolding before us with unholy delight. "If only I had popcorn," I muttered under my breath. "This would be perfect."
But the damage was done. The vengeance engine had roared to life.
Within thirty minutes, Mr. Witson had sketched out a complete blueprint, now holding it up with the trembling reverence of a prophet revealing a divine relic.
"With this… I shall avenge my love!" he declared. "Mwahahahaha!"
Then he vanished in a blur, blueprint clutched to his chest, off to build what was probably a war crime.
I blinked. "What was that laugh? Did we just turn him into a villain?"
"But Otto…" Raven's voice dropped to a whimper, his pupils shaking. "The witch he's talking about… isn't that… y-you?"
I stared off blankly for a moment, then turned to him with a bright, casual smile.
"Raven, my dear," I said sweetly, "I did kill her. But I'm not a witch, so technically, he can't kill me. Unless he's senile."
Raven paled. "But… he is senile…"
Silence.
The dusty room held its breath.
"…"
"…"
I grabbed both sides of my head and let out a strangled groan. "I never thought I'd be murdered by a man blinded by love!"
Then I turned to the side. "Wait a minute. How did the plan go hair wire? It was suppose to be a heart breaking ending not a vengeful one!"
I turned back at Raven and grabbed him. "What happened?"
"You said one sentence too much." Raven sighed.
"Curse this gorgeous mouth!" I screamed in agony.
"What do we do now? If we let this continue, it will end with a bloodbath!" Raven panicked.
"I don't know," I snapped, already storming down the hallway like my unpaid taxes had gained sentience. "But let's go after him and destroy whatever monstrosity he's about to create!"
Raven didn't even argue. He just nodded like a man who'd given up on sanity and sprinted after me.
We burst out of the house and into the town, a blur of flailing limbs, determination, and desperation. Two wildly underqualified heroes chasing after an emotionally unstable inventor.
And Mr. Witson?
To our absolute horror and awe… the man was fast. Unnaturally fast. Like a middle-aged cheetah with a doctorate in vengeance. His lab coat billowed behind him like a superhero cape made entirely of bad decisions and unpaid parking tickets.
"He's gliding!" Raven shrieked, pointing in terror as Witson zipped around a corner.
"I swear he's not even touching the ground!" I wheezed, nearly tripping over a trash bin. "Is he hovering?!"
"No—worse!" I gasped. "He's emotionally powered! Fueled by unrequited love and spite!"
We raced past confused townsfolk: a woman dropped her groceries in shock, a toddler pointed and cried, "Look! Flying human!" and one elderly man shook his cane at us and yelled, "Witchcraft!"
Mr. Witson skidded across the market square, knocked over a cart of cabbages, shouted an apology in a language that didn't exist, and launched himself off a fountain like an Olympic pole-vaulter with nothing to lose.
"He's airborne!" Raven shrieked. "HE'S AIRBORNE!"
"I'm calling the priest," I panted. "This isn't science anymore, this is spiritual warfare!"