A Scripta

Suicidal Wombat, in his old robes, stood before the door of the store in the haunted Isle of Croatoa. Witches glared at him, but he ignored them all. You can’t hurt me anymore. I’ve lived with what you’ve taken, and I don’t miss it anymore.

yesyoudo

Wombat whirled, claws bared, hackles raised on the back of his neck. He thought he heard a whisper, like the whispers he’d heard when the cursed spirits hung onto him. He learned to eventually use their power, and could control them. He trained them to do his bidding using his own blood or the blood of his enemies, until he overstepped his bounds and got the spirits wrenched out of his very soul.

I use my own spirit now. It’s not as strong, but it does the job.

He pushed open the glass door. It parted silently, not creaking like the old B-grade horror movies would normally do. He heard the hiss of the neon sign over the general silence of the store. Keeping his claws open, he padded quietly down the cereal aisle, eyes warily looking side to side but more sensing with his aura.

you missusyou we missyou

This time he didn’t whirl, but stopped in surprise. The whispers were clearer but still overlaid, garbled. A ghost appeared before him and he slashed, gathering his auras. It screamed in pain and went at him, but didn’t even touch him. More ghosts appeared.

no humans needwe miss youtake ushold uscomfortmake us wholeyouheld us keptus safe needhelp holdcomfort whole

Wombat fell to his knees, holding his head. “Stop, stop!” Spirits converged on him, he could feel them battering his auras.

Safe saveus help saveus keepushold –

Mark.

His eyes flashed open and he looked on a woman, her hair cut short like an Initiate in the Cabal, a gentle smile on her face. Wombat stared up at her, his mouth parting in disbelief. “R…Rachel?”

Mark. Then he noticed that she was encased in green, translucent, just like the others.

“Ray, Ray, no, no, no!” He reached for her, but his hands fell through her. He lost his balance initially and stumbled, but righted himself immediately. “Rachel, not you, too!”

Rachel’s apparition followed him. Mark. I’m all right.

“You’re dead!”

I’m all right. She reached out to him. You release us.

Comfort wecomfortmake uswhole make youwhole release safewholelove quieteasemakequiet

You are in pain.

“No, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Human paincomfortrelease comfort helpwhole make wholemissus you miss

Release me, Mark.

He raised his head, his eyes full of tears. “Rachel…”

Her ghostly hand pawed at his claws. Release us.

Comfortpainhelpus

He looked up at her eyes. “God'a mercy on yer soul, sheila." He slashed deep inside the apparition. Nothing happened. Not a scream, not a cry of anguish, nothing. But he felt something travel slowly up his arm, like someone anesthetizing him, and then he turned to the next ghost and did the same. The same thing happened. Soon, he was going through the store, slashing at ghosts, feeling more and more heavy, more and more sleepy, more and more at peace. They didn’t whisper, demand, cajole, or even talk. They only covered him like a warm blanket.

The next thing he realized was waking up, sitting in a mess of spilled cereal boxes in the corner of the store. Diffused light came in from the window, and the clock registered three hours had gone by. The ghosts were still with him, no longer angry, no longer hurtful. He no longer wanted to control or use them either. He lay back, comfortable in the embrace of spirits, like a man who's taken enough opium to be down for a week.