soaking up the growing fear and becoming more and more powerful and active the longer that goes on. It's not your fault... by the time you could have realized what was really going on, it was already too late to do much about it. He fed on your daughter's night-time terrors, getting stronger and stronger, until it was enough for him to just basically do whatever he wanted. And in this case...”
“What it wanted was pain. Pain and blood,” Lydia said dully. “The old man always was a monster. Not just in business... many of the factories in the big cities treated the workers like vermin, that wasn't rare. Just the price of making a profit. But Stanfield... he was worse. Sick inside. You could tell when you looked into his eyes. He ate dinners at our home more than once, to discuss business with my Edward, and I could barely stand to speak to him. He was like... like a serpent wearing human skin. He always wanted pain. Dying himself just made him more open about it.”
“Yeah, I'm getting that,” I said, glancing around the room, at the bottles, and boxes, and albums. I wondered, vaguely, how many girls' photos were in there. “And he got that pain, didn't he? From... you. And yours.”
“My Edward was the first. He tried, he did, but he was a delicate man. He broke. He fled. He...” she trailed off, casting her gaze meaningfully towards the door we'd made our desperate dash through to get into this closet.
“Right, the kitchen. You already remembered that much, at least.”
She shuddered. “So many knives...”
“Lydia, when that happened, you and your daughter were still alive, yes?” I asked. “Do you... do you remember what came next?”
“My skirts were torn. My limbs were heavy. Blood. Pain. Cold. But I had my Madeline in my arms, and I had to protect her. We fled. Room to room. The doors wouldn't open, the windows wouldn't break. We tried to leave, it wouldn't let us. Beasts and blades, blood and ice. Torments, until we could not even walk. And then, after what felt like forever, he came. Silent, and masked, and covered in blood and rot. He was done playing, you see? He could tell we wouldn't run anymore, that we were on the brink of giving in. It was no fun if we didn't run. So he came himself, to bring the game to the only end he cared to see.”
She turned her face toward me, and she was actually smiling. It was an expression with absolutely no joy in it. “And of course, he brought his favorite hook,” She said, with a bitter chuckle. The fear was gone from her eyes, the confusion, the annoyance, everything. She just looked... well, dead inside, appropriately enough. “I'd never known Mr. Stanfield to be sentimental about such things in life. Perhaps death helped him re-connect with the things he'd once loved? I imagine he had to give up this... hobby, as he grew older and his health declined. It must have been rather pleasant for him to be so strong once again.”
I stayed silent. There are times when even I have realized it's best to just keep my damn mouth shut, thank you. But apparently I needn't have bothered, because Lydia's Macabre Story Hour seemed to be coming to a sudden stop. She seemed to deflate, almost; eyes closed, shoulders drooping, head sinking. The aura of depression was almost palpable.
“I don't remember what happened next,” She murmured.
“You remember,” I said. “You just don't want to.”
Tears were starting to flow far more readily from eyes that logically shouldn't be capable of it. Damn. “I don't want to.”
“Well... I have my suspicions, but I can't confirm anything. Not yet. I'm very, very sorry, but I really do need to hear it from you. Please?”
Silence. Damn.
All right, then. There is more than one way to skin a cat. Or a ghost. Or, if you were really in a very odd situation, a ghost cat. “If not to save me, then because this might help me make him suffer. Because I'm a monster hunter, Lydia, and the most important weapon I can have for getting that job done and done well is knowledge. Every piece of data is another nail in that psychopath's coffin, Lydia. Every memory you share gets me one step closer to the knowledge I need to send him to Hell where he belongs.
“If you won't talk for me? Do it for Edward and Madeline.”
Lydia took a deep breath into lungs that didn't need air. Old habits are hard to break, and living is the oldest habit of all. She opened her eyes and something was burning in them that I hadn't seen there before. Sometimes, the only way to pierce fear is to use rage as a weapon. Sad, but true. “He raised his blade. My little Madeline. My little girl. He swung his weapon down at her, and I...”
“You leapt between them. Like your body was moving on its own?” I guessed. I hoped. I prayed. Please, please, pleeeeeeeease let this guess be right, God? You owe me one, I think, after the business with the priest and the succubus in Costa Rica? I never got paid for that, and my favorite shoes still smell like pineapple to this day. So throw me a bone here you Divine son of a bitch!
“... Yes,” Lydia said softly.
“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees!” I said, pumping my fist. Oh, it was totally wrecking the dramatic mood we'd gotten built up, but I really couldn't have cared less at the moment, because dammit, this was what I needed to hear. “Oh, we are back on top, baby! Just you wait, Stanfield, I am gonna wreck your ghostly shit in a minute here, right after I do my victory strut! Uh-huh, uh-huh!”
Lydia hauled back her arm and slammed me across the face in a fairly decent right cross.
“...Ow.” I said, rubbing my nose. Dammit, I thought she was a turn-of-the-century girl, weren't they supposed to be more ladylike than that? “What was that for?”
“How dare you!” She snarled. “I... my family! My child! I'll...”
“Sorry, sorry!” I said, raising my hands in a gesture of placation. “I... well, I went a little overboard, yes. In my defense, it's because I just put together the tiny little piece of the puzzle I was missing, and everything just fell into place like the most perfect artwork you've ever seen. And you, sweet darling Lydia, are the central theme. Have I told you lately that you are awesome? You are. You are awesome.”
“Elaborate.” She said. It sounded a bit icy, I think. Probably just my imagination, I think. She was really quite fond of me, I think. Probably.
“You're not a ghost.” I said, smiling my most wicked smile.
She punched me again.
“OW! Would you stop doing that?” I asked.
“You are the one who said I was not alive! Who forced me to relive the worst moments of my existence! Have you been torturing me for no reason, then?” She roared, full of more fury than I'd ever seen in her. Not that I had seen much of her other than her quivering terror, granted.
“You aren't alive, you're just also not a ghost!” I said. “Jeez, there's more than one kind of undead, you psycho!”
“... Continue elaborating.”
“Well, think about it. I just told you how ghosts work, right? They manifest slowly. Need to feed on the building fear for awhile before they can affect the world. But you were here, and solid, and doing such a convincing humanity impression that even you didn't realize you were dead, long before anyone in the house was afraid of anything,” I said, rubbing my nose again. She hit like a horse. Which was weird, because she technically didn't have fists, or... no, down that path lay madness or at least confusion. “So you don't feed on fear. It's not emotion that makes you manifest. You are not a ghost, but you are definitely dead.”
“So, then, what am I?” She asked, seemingly curious despite herself. I had to admit, she was taking this news rather well when she wasn't hitting me in the face with her pointy little spectral fists.
“I couldn't be sure, until you confirmed how you... um... passed.” I said, then jumped back and held up my hands.
She sighed. “I shall not strike you again, sir.”
“... okay. Well, the gist is... you died protecting someone. Gave your life heroically,” I said. “That's a pretty damn powerful thing, metaphysically speaking. I mean, would it sh
ow up in so many movies if it wasn't true?”
“Would it?”
“... Okay, yes it would, because seriously sometimes I think those writers have never actually seen a monster,” I said. “Seriously, you would not believe some of the absurd werewolves I have seen in film. And don't get me started on zombies! Vampires, I can't confirm or deny, granted, since I've never actually seen a vampire in the flesh. Isn't that weird? They're all over the place in fiction lately, but you almost never run into one. And I think that's a shame, because they're one of the classics. I've always wanted to do vampires, but you never see a real one these d-”
“Focus.”
“Bah, I think I liked you better when you just gibbered in horror,” I muttered. Louder, I said, “Look, it's not just modern stuff. Myths about this sort of thing go back forever, you know? Guardian spirits, protective deities, the works. I think you're one of those. The Romans called them Lares, so let's go with that for convenience's sake,” And because it's the only one I know off the top of my head, but it isn't my fault I don't have any way to look things up right now. I didn't say this last out loud, of course. One must maintain one's dignified image.
Her nose crinkled. “And you truly believe me to be one of these spirits?”
“Well, it makes sense. They don't work on the same rules as ghosts, because they're... well, Lares