Chapter Text
Jack knows he isn’t in Santa Fe, even before he opens his eyes. He’s wrapped up in something warm and every urge tells him to bury deeper into this first glimpse of comfort he’s had for - how long? He can’t even remember. It feels like years since he left his home behind. This blanket is softer than he knew was possible; he feels safer than he realised he was able to feel. After being on guard, on edge, afraid and overwhelmed and dying, the slow rhythm of his own heart is a stranger to him. The lack of adrenaline coursing through him makes it feel that something is missing - he’s grown so used to the constant panic that sitting down and doing nothing feels dangerous, like some luxury he shouldn’t have.
The blanket is soothing against muscles that have been tensed for so long. Jack remembers driving. He remembers the rain slamming against the windscreen and the empty roads away from Santa Fe, the urgency with which he left behind that cursed place. If he broke the speed limit, Davey didn’t complain; he too seemed eager enough to ignore laws when it meant getting away from whatever level of hell they’d been trapped in. Waking up, he can feel something easing its way into his body, something gentle and quiet and relaxing - and it feels so amazing. Jack finds himself reaching out for Davey, as if to ground himself, or convince himself it’s real, and when his fingers brush against hair, he finally sinks. They both made it out. He can breathe again, and it feels wonderful.
Dark. Warm. Soft. It’s everything Jack never thought he’d feel again. Every breath is easy and smooth; every breath sings with relief and the dull surprise of shelter and such a sudden, swift end to all the horrors of his so-called holiday.
A weight drops on the end of the sofa, light and cautious, preceded by even, measured steps. The blurry world of flickering orange and drawn curtains swims before Jack’s eyes, but even through the layer of exhaustion, he recognises Crutchie. He would recognise Crutchie by the sound of his heartbeat alone, even if he was on the other side of the planet. And every part of Jack yearns to snap into action and launch himself at his brother, to bask in the presence and feel close to the person he thought he’d said goodbye to for the last time, but he finds that his body just can’t move that fast, and that his head is full of air, which isn’t any good for telling his limbs what to do.
Paralysed somewhere under a blanket, tears coating his eyelashes, Jack listens to his brother sobbing quietly, unaware that he’s being heard. The frustration is excruciating, being this close but still useless, knowing that Crutchie has been put through so much, that he was woken up at some ungodly hour to see a bloodied, battered, moments-away-from-death Jack and Davey - this pair of corpses was just thrown his way and he was somehow expected to take it all in his stride and deal with it. Jack wants more than anything to hold him, to apologise, to say something, but he’s so tired. He’s so tired.
God, Jack thinks his heart is breaking all over again. His little brother, crying in a dim room. Crying over him. Crying because Jack was stupid enough to think he could have a fun couple of weeks with his boyfriend without it almost costing their lives. He should be grateful, but instead he’s furious. Furious that it’s wrecked whatever was left inside of him, furious that he had to see Davey cry, furious that he’s now having to see Crutchie cry. These past few weeks, Jack has been exposed to more crying than ever before, even in the foster homes, where the little boys asked him when their parents would come back for them.
And it isn’t just the tears. There’s been so much pain, so much loss. Jack thinks of the price it took for him and Davey to survive, of those irritating, imperfect, beautiful souls that he met within the walls of the house that he will forever wander through in every nightmare that follows such an experience. He thinks of Katherine and her books that she never got to read, the ones that he was going to read to her, that she’ll now never hear. He thinks of Race and the headphones that he couldn’t use; how he would’ve loved to bring him back to this house and let him choose whatever music he wanted. Elmer, who didn’t have a childhood, who had no idea what was happening and then was suddenly gone. He wonders if anybody hugged him in those last moments, if anybody lied and told him it would be okay, if the little boy screamed or went silently, or whether Race finally let him know the truth.
Jack hides his face in the blanket and weeps. They were so much more than ghosts; they were friends to him. He can see the place they would’ve filled in his future. He can see the futures that they deserved. Stupidly, he loved them. And now he’ll never see them again. All because he wouldn’t leave when they warned him to, because he was too stubborn and thick-skulled and insufferably pathetic. He couldn’t even fight off Leah Jacobs; he couldn’t even save them. Spot had to do that for him. And if Jack is no good at saving people anymore, what’s the point in him being here? He wishes Crutchie could hear his thoughts - he wishes he could find it in him to vocalise them - so that he could reassure him and stop these destructive notions.
But he can’t. And he doesn’t. And every second that Jack is still alive, the ghosts are still dead.
He wonders whether they died hating Spot, or whether they forgave him. He wonders if they knew what he did, or if they think he ran away as a coward. He hopes they know. He wishes that Spot was still here, that he didn’t have to die just as he’d begun to change for the better. He wishes that nobody was dead, that he was dead.
That’s a cruel, selfish thing to wish for. He looks at Davey, peaceful and unaware, looking rested for the first time in too long, and that’s enough to make him feel like a monster for wishing such things, for being so miserable. Davey does everything to help, to silence those thoughts - if he knew that they were still there, he would cry again.
Jack’s seen enough crying to last a lifetime.
And it’s not that he wants to be dead, exactly. But if he was given the chance to trade his life for that of the ghosts, to give them a real, beating-heart, breathing-lungs life again, he wouldn’t hesitate. Sometimes it’s just hard to see the point to your existence, to why you were given a space on earth, especially when other people, better people, are robbed of theirs.
When he shuts his eyes, he sees crying. Davey with his delicate, pearl-like tears; Elmer’s confused, terrified tears; Katherine’s broken, yearning tears; Miss Medda’s nostalgic, lonely tears; Race’s anxious, frantic tears. So many people, all of them crying for different things. All of them are haunting Jack now, even if they aren’t here. And there’s no escaping. Cructhie’s tears are in this room even now, and the traces of Jack’s own tears can still be found if he searches far enough.
Maybe Spot was the only one who didn’t cry. Maybe Spot just did his crying in private, or maybe he was crying on the inside the whole time. Maybe he’d forgotten how to cry and held his tears in his heart like a plug. Jack wishes he could’ve helped him reconnect with that human part of himself, wishes Spot had been around long enough to remember how good it could feel to let it out.
Suddenly, Jack’s aware of a noise, a low droning sound, like the hum of electricity. Crutchie is muttering to himself, his head almost in his lap, his eyes squeezed shut. He’s chanting. With a rush of cold that spikes right to his stomach, Jack realises where he recognises the sound. Miss Medda. It reminds him of Miss Medda in the basement. Her magic.
He wants to jump up and scream, to force Crutchie out of the chair, to slap a hand over his mouth. A bright, flashing panic races through him as the words float into his ears. Not Crutchie. Hasn’t Jack’s life been ruined enough by all this supernatural bullshit? He can’t lose Crutchie too, not after all this, not after only just making it back home by some miracle.
But he can’t move. His body simply doesn’t respond. He listens to Crutchie and he balls his fists, digging into his palms with the nails, leaving tiny pink dents shaped like crescent moons. Instead of light, they seem to illuminate the world with red, filling the sky with blood, tainting Jack’s vision a sickly colour. The frustration is a flame inside him, licking against his sides and heating him internally until he feels he’ll implode, engulfed in a muffled cloud of smoke that is hidden within. He thinks that his heart is being burned, like this is the final straw tipping him into something so painful that he’ll never return.
After everything, after thinking he was going to die, what finishes him off is the sound of Crutchie’s desperation, the sound of something eerie and familiar that scratches at his brain.
The words stop quickly, the room swallowed by silence for a second, before these great, wracking sobs fill the air. These are followed by a shaky voice repeating the same phrase over and over: “It isn’t working, it isn’t working, it isn’t working.”
Isn’t that just the story of Jack’s life? No matter what he does, it doesn’t work. He couldn’t even save a group of lonely ghosts. He truly is good for nothing; all these depreciative thoughts are exhausting, and he’s running low on energy as it is.
He wants to see bright, smart Katherine again. He really did trick himself into believing he could be friends with her, with these people who were never quite people. It was completely fucking stupid, when he looks back, to have actually thought that a dead girl could be the best friend he’d never had in his childhood. He can still see her smile, an ever-fading impression left on his eyes, one that he tries to focus on, as if that will make it stay forever, so that he’ll never forget her face.
Somewhere, he has a notebook with the pictures he drew of the ghosts in. Somewhere, there are pieces of paper that hold the key to strengthening his memories. He realises with a sickening jolt that in the rush, in the fight, when he charged out of the house, he left the notebook. Jack wants to cry all over again, his stomach turning with nausea; the drawings are still in Santa Fe.
It’s only a matter of time before he forgets completely.
He could draw them again. He tries to remember the precise facts - they are facts, logical and right or wrong; crucial facts that Jack can’t let himself forget - of their features, but, with rising panic, he realises that he can’t. He can’t remember where exactly Katherine’s hair curled or where the freckles on Elmer’s nose were or what type of flowers were pinned into Miss Medda’s hair. It’s already disappearing and no matter what threads he tries to grab, it’s all slipping away. Was Katherine’s eyeliner black or brown? Which side of his chest was Spot’s gunshot wound on? What brand were Race’s trainers? All such small things, but the very details that distinguish between fictional characters and real people, that prove he really lived these moments with them.
How many bracelets were on Katherine’s arms? Where were the scuffs and threadbare patches on Elmer’s cap? How is Jack supposed to ground himself, when it feels like everything is floating away? He could ask Davey what he remembers, but Davey’s asleep and Davey’s hurt and Davey’s been through enough. If anything, Jack’s being his usual selfless self, thinking about people who are dead and gone instead of facing his own pain.
But what is he supposed to do, when his own pain stems from other people’s pain? As long as the ghosts are gone, he isn’t able to see why he’s here. Why he of all people is still alive, yet some people die for no reason, without deserving it, he will never be able to understand. It will gnaw and plague him forever.
Memories fade. Jack falls into the darkness, his arms around Davey. He breathes in Davey, feels his warmth so close, tells himself over and over that Davey is here, that Davey is going to disappear like the ghosts did, that this won’t be another hug that feels like the last - there will be more mornings after this one when he can wake up to Davey’s face. There will be a future for them, one that he can still build, that hasn’t burned down yet.
“Jack.” Crutchie’s voice is light. Jack’s first thought is that something awful has happened, that someone else is dying, that he’s about to be hurt again - he rises with a sharp jolt that shoots through his chest like a needle and watches as Crutchie’s face scrunches with worry (worry that shouldn’t be there, that should have no place in this safe house, miles away from any traces of ghosts and death).
Crutchie’s hand brushes his, a small smile creeping onto his face. “I think you should see this, Jack.”
There’s hope on the horizon, coming from Crutchie’s weary eyes and encouraging smile. It feels odd to have such a warmth in him, as Jack’s gotten so used to the cold. But that smile is every bit as golden and sunny as it was before he left and it feels like going back in time to a place where Jack didn’t know that he was about to have his heart broken. It feels like comfort and home and he trusts it entirely - he trusts Crutchie with his life, not that his life feels particularly valuable anymore, now that he’s realised how quickly and thoughtlessly life can be taken away.
Jack nudges Davey gently, who is still lying so close that he struggles to see where he ends and Davey begins. There’s light in the kitchen, filtering through a crack in the door and casting the room in gold; it all looks so pretty and perfect that it’s easy to forget how bleak and grey the days have been recently, how bitter the hopelessness of surrender tasted in his throat.
“Good morning.” Jack whispers. For some reason, he finds his voice catching on something tender, pulled a little from the beautiful softness and domesticity that this moment brings, a kind of homely comfort that he never thought he’d feel again.
Davey’s eyes open. They look so relaxed, so at ease, so completely different from the wandering, frightened eyes he’s gotten to know. And the urge is too strong - Jack gives into it and lets himself kiss Davey, knowing this is not the last time, but the first of many more. He kisses him, knowing that there is once again a future for them. And it’s sweet and a little desperate and he sinks into it; he wants to drown in Davey’s arms, knowing that as he goes down, he is not alone. He will never be alone.
“Get a room.” Crutchie says. There is nothing but love in his voice.
It feels like everything is okay again, like the shaking has stopped and the world has fallen still. Here, with Davey, he can pretend nothing happened, that they’re just a normal couple who dream of normal things like marriage and buying a better car, instead of haunted houses and the ghosts of people they wish they got to know.
But Crutchie is waiting and Jack still feels that pile of lead resting inside him as he remembers what’s been lost. As he stands, he realises he’s still in the same clothes that he wore on the last day in Santa Fe, the same necklace pulling him down into the dark memories of the blood and the pain and the way his knuckles turned white as he gripped the wheel. And just like that, it’s all real again, and he isn’t normal at all, but someone who will never be able to sleep again without seeing dying faces.
Davey’s hand in his is calming. Davey leads the way. Davey, who Jack has been trying to protect all this time, is now the one guiding him. He doesn’t want to move, but Crutchie is still smiling and Davey is helping him and he’s getting closer to the kitchen, where he’s sure he can hear voices - though he’s probably just in shock, probably hallucinating - and then -
“Crutchie.” He whispers, “How?”
Because they’re here. They’re…well, not alive, since they were never alive to begin with, but they’re not dead. Not completely, anyway, because his kitchen is colder than the other rooms and there are flickering, translucent bodies standing right in front of him. The people that he thought he’d never see again, that he’s spent so much time crying over, are back. And they’re in his house.
“They were hidden.” Crutchie says, “It was just a matter of looking in the right places.”
Miss Medda rolls her eyes. Seeing such an easy, effortless movement from someone who was gone goes straight to his heart, tugging at something fragile that has been left behind in the wake of tragedy.
“Your brother is too humble,” She says, “He’s quite the little witch.”
Jack tries to laugh, but he chokes. On tears, on surprise, on the overwhelming feelings that are flooding his mind. He clamps a hand over his mouth, biting down on his tongue and looking at them. Examining them. Memorising the details of faces that had begun to fade, faces that are so alive even if he can see right through them. He sees that Davey is frozen, transfixed with shock, and when their eyes meet, a loud mess of sobbing and laughter forces its way through Jack’s throat.
And he’s running, his arms reaching out for Katherine, whose gemstones are clattering as she brushes her fringe behind her ear; whose lonely, miserable eyes are filling with tears. He doesn’t even think, ignoring the awful streak of cold that races through him when he comes into contact with her, not caring that he feels nothing in his arms. Because he lost her once and here she is, crying with him, finally out of that prison of a house.
There’s a small noise behind him and Jack turns to see Elmer - little Elmer - taking off his hat and smiling with all the sweetness in the world. In his eyes, Jack sees the boys in the foster homes, the ones he failed, the ones who hid, the ones who asked him every night when their parents were coming back, the ones he lied to and the ones he tried to save. Elmer is one of these, one that Jack thought he’d failed, one that was too innocent for the darkness of his life, and it takes everything he has not to try and scoop the boy up and hold him in his arms.
And it’s then that he notices something’s wrong. He sees Race, standing to the side, a smile on his face - but a small one, a subdued one. He looks like he’s waiting. Jack realises that Spot isn’t here. He goes to ask, but Race knows. He knows what’s coming and his eyes glisten as he swallows hard.
“He ain't comin’.” Race says, “He’s gone.”
Jack can’t believe it - won’t believe it. Spot can’t be gone. He sees that Race is grappling with the same thoughts, that he also thinks it unfair that the others should all get another chance, while Spot stays gone. If anyone deserves life, it’s Spot - he sacrificed himself. He died for the hope that it would save others.
But that was what he chose, wasn’t it? Spot knew what he was doing. He knew the risk and he still made his decision. It may seem cruel and it may hurt, but this is what Spot wanted, to redeem himself and secure such a wonderful legacy by saving people he cared about. And it’s clearly taking its toll on Race, but it’s okay. Remembering Spot as a good guy is what he would’ve wanted, and having known him at all was an honour. But getting to see him grow into someone who would die for his friends, that was the greatest gift of all.
Miss Medda pats Race’s arm gently. “He loved you so much, Anthony.”
Race smiles, but it’s tainted with pain. “I know. That’s why it hurts.”
“It’s not fair,” Davey whispers to Jack, “That we’re all here without him.”
Jack nods. The room has grown sombre, what was initially exciting turning sour. There’s something missing - a person who is loved by everyone in this room, who should be here right now, who never got a chance to become what he hid on the inside and prove the world wrong.
But Spot didn’t die for everyone to spend their lives mourning. He died so that they could live. He wouldn’t like the heavy silence that settles like clouds of smoke over the kitchen. He wouldn’t like the misery in Race’s eyes. Jack hated Spot for so long, but now he wishes he could see him again. It makes no sense. And the reality is that Spot is never coming back and that the least Jack can do is preserve him in his memory and make sure others know what a good person he was. He can let Spot have the peace he deserves.
“What are you gonna do now?” He says.
The ghosts aren’t tied down anymore. They can go wherever they want. A jealous part of him wants them to stay here forever, but he knows that’s cruel, and that after years in one place, they’ll be ready to explore the world.
“I want to read again.” Katherine says, smiling wistfully. Her eyes catch the light, glowing inside delicate strokes of eyeliner.
There’s an inexplicable lump in Jack’s throat when he nods.
“I don’t have a library,” He says, “But there’s a bookshelf upstairs.”
“Oh, Jack,” She says quietly, her words full of gratitude and compassion and pure happiness, “Could you read some to me?”
“I’d love to.” He says.
He wants to hug her again - hug her and never let go. There’s something so gentle in her eyes, something heartwarming in the way her face lights up. She doesn’t look like the skulking figure who haunted a library, all alone for eternity, staring at books and reliving her death. Jack sees her joy and he wants so badly to believe that it is him who has saved her, but it’s not. He can’t take all the credit. It is Spot who gave her this extra chance at life, who is to thank for this unexpectedly happy ending.
It is Spot who is the hero. And Jack will never forget him or stop being grateful.
“What about you?” Davey asks Race.
“I dunno.” Race says. His eyes are distant, like he’s waiting, “I guess I thought that…I thought he would be here too, and we could be together.”
Miss Medda takes his hand and smiles. “You can come with me, Anthony - until you find your way, at least. I’d be grateful for the company.”
“Where?”
“To the theatres. I want to see if there really are women onstage.”
Race exhales, seeming to relax into skin he’s getting used to all over again. And he nods and smiles tightly at Miss Medda - it’s genuine and Jack can see it’s full of gratitude. Of course, it will be hard for Race - but everyone will miss Spot in some way, and there’s no point wasting this miracle wishing it could be different and meaning that Spot died in vain. By taking this chance, his death can be worth something.
“Do you want to stay with me?” Katherine asks, crouching down so she’s at Elmer’s level, “Or go with Race and Medda?”
“I want to find my mommy.” The little boy says.
“Oh, Elmer.” Katherine glances at Race, her eyes alight with tears.
And Jack’s expecting Race to come apart, to crumble into pieces, but this seems to make him stronger and he pulls himself together, putting on a brave face for Elmer and maybe for Spot. He holds out his hand and when he speaks, his voice is firm and certain.
“Come on, kid.” He says, “Let’s go see the world.”
Race’s arms are around Katherine - a tight and powerful hug, a result of years trapped together, of caring for a small child together, of dying together and escaping a curse together. She cries as she holds him, saying words that Jack doesn’t hear: perhaps a goodbye. Or perhaps goodbyes are too hard for people who have known nothing but each other for so long and are now preparing for a world without them.
And Race smiles one last time at Jack and Davey, hoists Elmer - who wails gleefully - onto his shoulders and runs. Running still, just like he has been all along - except this time he’s not running from something, he’s running towards it.
“Thank you.” Miss Medda says.
Jack isn’t sure what she’s thanking him for and he doesn’t want to see her go, but he knows that he would be as bad as Leah if he kept the ghosts locked up here. They have their freedom now, which is all they ever wanted, and he is happy to know he played some small part in it. So, he smiles - because that’s all he can do, because he can’t hug her like he wants to - and he watches as she walks out the door.
The room is ten degrees warmer. Davey’s hand traces soft lines up his arm. Crutchie smiles tearily from a corner. And Katherine is still crying, but the tears trace her lips, which are turned up to the sky - perhaps they are aiming for Spot. And perhaps he sees what is possible thanks to him. Jack hopes that he is resting and that he's happy and that he knows that no one will ever hate him again, that he succeeded in proving himself to people who will always remember. Jack hopes that Spot knows his wife would be proud of the man he's become.
“I know a book you’ll love.” Jack says.