Chapter 27: The Prisoner and the Puppeteer
WEDNESDAY'S POV
There was no air to gasp. No lungs to fill. I was torn from the familiar, quiet emptiness of being a ghost and thrust into something infinitely worse—a conscious, sensory-deprived void. This wasn't the afterlife; it was a prison. A tomb within a tomb. I was more than dead; I was erased, a whisper trapped in a sealed vault.
"Wednesday."
The voice was my own, but it came from outside of me, echoing in the absolute silence. I spun in the darkness, my formless awareness straining. There was no glow from my own spectral skin, no light whatsoever. Only a crushing, cross-hatched blackness that pressed in on all sides, suffocating what was left of my spirit.
"Wednesday, turn around."
I obeyed, a silent scream lodged in a throat I no longer possessed. And then I saw it. A single, shimmering circle of light, hanging in the void like a television screen. On it, I saw a face. My face. It was staring at me in… Spencer's bathroom.
A cold, horrifying understanding dawned, colder than the void itself. I wasn't looking at the reflection.
I was the reflection.
I moved closer to the glowing circle, this window into my own stolen life. I reached out, pressing against the light, but it was an unyielding barrier, cold and smooth as polished obsidian. I was on the wrong side of the glass, a prisoner in my own mind.
"We switched", the thought came, not from me, but from the entity wearing my skin. She smiled from the other side of the barrier, a satisfied, predatory expression I had never worn in my life or death.
"Let's go save my Spencer," she said, her voice a perfect mimicry of mine, yet laced with a possessiveness that made my essence recoil. "I mean, our Spencer." Her smile widened, a crack in the facade of my own face. "Don't worry, you'll get used to the view from in there."
A lie. A beautiful, terrible lie. The void wasn't just dark; it was an abyss that fed on hope, and it was already gnawing at the edges of my sanity. "Is this how dark my mind truly is?" I whispered into the nothingness.
She shrugged, a careless, fluid motion. "Don't worry. Once we're done saving Spencer, I'll return, and you can come back out. A deal is a deal."
Before I could scream my protest, she turned and walked away from the mirror. The moment she broke eye contact with her own reflection—with me—the circular window shattered into a million motes of dying light, and the void swallowed me whole. The total, suffocating blackness was absolute.
Wednesday, can you hear me? Her voice echoed in my mind, now the only sound in my universe.
"Ummm… is that you?" My own mental voice sounded small and pathetic, a child calling out in a cavern.
Yes, it is, she replied, her tone dripping with amusement. I can't see anything! I cried out, the darkness feeling like a physical weight on my consciousness.
Of course you can. You can see everything I see. You are my inner mind now, remember? So, stop fighting it. Close your eyes. Channel me.
Desperate for any anchor, any connection to the world I was losing, I did as I was told. I focused, trying to forge a link with the entity that had stolen my body. Suddenly, a brilliant, overwhelming light hit my senses. I "opened" my eyes.
And I could see.
It was a disorienting, terrifying experience. It was as if I were a passenger in my own body, peering out from behind my own eyes. My field of vision was whatever she allowed it to be—a tunnel of perception. If I tried to turn my awareness to the sides or behind, all I met was the impenetrable darkness of my prison. But straight ahead, I saw the world flying past.
She was no longer bound by walls or physics. She was a streak of concentrated spectral energy, phasing through the solid ceilings of the hotel as if they were mist, ascending in a blur of impossible speed towards the rooftop. The raw, untamed power she wielded so casually was breathtaking, and utterly terrifying.
Amazing, isn't it? her voice purred in my head. This is what we were always capable of. This is what you were too afraid to become.
I had no reply. I could only watch, a ghost trapped within a ghost, as we raced toward the boy we both loved, for two very different reasons.
---
SPENCER'S POV
Helplessness was a cold, metallic taste in my mouth. I hung suspended in the air, my legs finally still. Struggling was a futile waste of energy. Below me, Allen's screams over staring at the distant hum of the city, a sound that would haunt me for the rest of my life, however short it might be.
Mr. Thorne's grotesque face split into a wide, rotten smile. "So, you are the Spencer Postlethwaite," he began, his voice a gravelly rasp.
"Yes! It's me! And I did as you said, I came here. Now free my friend!" I demanded, my voice cracking with strain.
He gave a nonchalant shrug. "A deal is a deal, after all." He snapped his fingers.
The force holding Allen vanished. There was no dramatic pause. One moment he was there, the next he was plummeting into the abyss, his scream a dying siren down the twelve-story drop (a lethal 120 feet to the city below).
"WHAT?! NO! Bring him back! Hold him back!" I yelled, my panic erupting into pure, undiluted fury. This creature was insane! "I didn't mean release him to his death! I meant drop him on the roof!"
"But I've already released him," Mr. Thorne replied, his evil smile widening, savoring my anguish.
"HOLD HIM BACK! HOLD HIM BACK NOW!" I screamed, my voice raw.
He rolled his blood-red eyes with theatrical slowness. "Oh, very well," he said, as if I were a child throwing a tantrum. He snapped his fingers again.
Like a rewound tape, Allen's falling form shot back up from the darkness and hung mid-air once more, his body trembling violently, his breaths coming in ragged, terrified sobs. I let out a shuddering breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
"What's next?" Mr. Thorne asked, tilting his head like a curious bird of prey.
"Pull him closer," I commanded, my mind racing. The unseen force obeyed, moving Allen horizontally over the safety of the rooftop. "Closer!" I insisted, until he was a good ten feet from the edge. "Now, drop him. Gently."
Mr. Thorne snapped his fingers. Allen dropped the last foot onto the solid gravel, collapsing into a heap, clutching the ground as if it were a life raft.
"Are you okay?" I called out, my voice thick with relief.
He shot me a glare filled with pure, unadulterated fury. "How am I supposed to be okay?! I just saw my death a minute ago! First, a ghost haunts me because of you, and now a… a phenomenon tries to turn me into a stain on the pavement, still because of you!" he snapped, his voice trembling.
I rolled my eyes. "Here he goes, ranting. That's supposed to be the 'thank you, Spencer' I get for saving your ass?"
He just huffed, too traumatized for a coherent argument.
"By the way," I added, turning my attention back to the demon, "it's not a 'phenomenon.' It's a demon entity."
Mr. Thorne's smile returned, a horrifying sight. "So, you finally recognize me?" he said, his face lighting up with a twisted excitement.
"Isn't a demon supposed to be cruel? Of course, I do," I said, playing along, buying time for a miracle I couldn't imagine. "You are Mr. Thorne. The same guy who's been chasing me all around. I still can't believe you think I killed that bartender."
Mr. Thorne simply rolled his eyes. "The man you call 'Mr. Thorne' died some days ago. We consumed his soul. Now, I dominate this rotting shell." The words were chilling, but what came next was worse. The demon's head cocked, and he seemed to be listening to a voice I couldn't hear. "You have seen Spencer now… can I take his soul?" he asked, the question directed inward.
He was arguing with himself.
"Can I just… touch him?" he asked, his voice shifting, becoming almost pleading. He let out a long, rattling sigh. "Fine."
Slowly, I was lowered until I was standing, but my feet didn't quite touch the ground; an inch of air still separated me from true freedom. He walked closer, his rotten, decaying hand reaching out to caress my cheek. The touch was ice-cold and sent waves of revulsion through me.
"I have been waiting for this moment," he said, his voice suddenly thick with a sadness that didn't belong to a demon.
I was utterly confused. The internal battle resumed.
"You have seen him and touched him. Now, can I have his soul to complete my collection?"
"No.You can't have his soul. Take any other one, but leave Spencer."
"I let you do what you wanted.Now, I do what I want. I will take his soul!"
His voice broke into a guttural, hoarse roar on the last word. His eyes blazed like hellfire. In an instant, the conflicted creature was gone, replaced by a pure predator. His hand snapped from my cheek to my throat, choking me, lifting me higher off the ground. I gagged, my vision spotting.
He opened his mouth wide, and I felt a terrifying pulling sensation deep within my chest. A wisp of white, ethereal smoke—my very soul—began to stream from my parted lips, drawn toward the abyss of his own. I was being unmade. I saw my death, not as an end, but as an eternity of torment inside this monster.
"Leave him alone!"
The voice was a blade of pure silver, cutting through the broad daylight. It was a voice I knew, a voice I had longed for. The demon's grip faltered for a fraction of a second, and I gasped, drawing a precious breath of cold air into my burning lungs.
I turned my head.
It was Wednesday.
She stood at the edge of the rooftop, but the air around her crackled with visible energy. Her form seemed more solid, more real than I had ever seen it. Her eyes, usually pools of luminous sadness, now burned with a ferocious, ancient light. This was not the gentle ghost I knew.
"Look who we have here," the demon mocked, releasing my throat but keeping me suspended. "Wednesday McClair. The ghost King Hades himself turns head over heels for. Here to protect a human from me?"
"I said, leave him alone," she snarled, her voice layered, echoing with a power that seemed to shake the very air.
The demon laughed, a sound like grinding bones. "Try and stop—"
He never finished. Something massive and metallic—a chain links thick—swung out of the daylight and smashed into his side with the force of a freight train. The impact was thunderous. He was flung across the rooftop like a ragdoll, crashing through a concrete ventilation pillar, shattering it into dust and rubble.
I stared, dumbfounded. Wednesday stood, feet planted, a heavy, rusted chain wrapped around her forearm. At its end swung a monstrous, butcher's knife, caked in a rust that looked suspiciously like old blood. I was sure I, in my mortal life, couldn't even lift one end of it.
The demon stood up, shrugging off the chunks of concrete as if they were confetti. He looked at Wednesday, his expression one of genuine shock.
"You are not this powerful," he hissed, his red eyes narrowing. "Or else… you are her.. reflection."
Wednesday smiled, a cold, sharp thing that didn't touch her burning eyes. "She had no other option to stop you."
Who was "she"? And who was the "we" the demon had mentioned earlier? The pieces were there, but I was too terrified to put them together.
"You can't stop me!" Mr. Thorne roared, his form beginning to shimmer and distort.
"But I can give it a spectacular try," she stated, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper.
As she charged, a second chain materialized in her other hand, both whirling like deadly helicopter blades, filling the air with a terrifying whoosh that promised violence.
Mr. Thorne responded with a guttural growl that seemed to tear from a dozen throats at once. His body began to contort and expand, muscles ripping and swelling, tearing the remains of his suit to shreds. He grew taller, broader, until he was a hulking, eight-foot-tall behemoth of pure muscle and rage, his skin splitting over the new, pulsating tissue. The very concrete beneath his feet cracked under the newfound weight.
He charged.
This was no longer a confrontation; it was the dawn of a war between titans on a mortal stage. And I was suspended in the middle of it, a butterfly pinned in a hurricane. Allen had already scrambled behind a large air conditioning unit, peeking out with wide, horrified eyes.
I looked up at the cold, star-dusted sky, a prayer for a miracle I no longer believed in forming on my lips. But the only answer was the deafening whistle of spinning chains and the universe-shaking roar of an ancient demon.
The two forces collided in the center of the rooftop not with a sound, but with a vacuum of silence that sucked the air from the world, before erupting into a cataclysm of light and fury that threw me back against the invisible wall of my prison...
To be continued...