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At this moment, Eric Green was in a state of panic.

As he knelt on the living room floor amidst shards of broken glass, staring down at the unrolled piece of paper in his hand, one thought was repeating in his mind.

"This can't be happening," he whispered out loud. If the situation weren't so dire, he might have chuckled. For months, he had been insisting that strange things were indeed happening, as bizarre and unbelievable as they had seemed. Now, in the face of all that he had predicted coming to pass, he could only reel over how strange and surreal it all was. "It's not happening," he said again, hearing the pathetic tone in his own voice. Hearing only his own voice and the rage of the storm outside. The house had become eerily silent again. He was suddenly aware of how alone he was.

He slowly stood. He took a few steps across the room, uncertain of where he was going or what move to make next but unable to stand still. As lightning lit the room, his eyes rested on the fireplace. The fire had gone out, and he could see the dim outline of the iron poker beside the log pile. He considered reaching for it, and shook his head. What good would it be against a ghost?

Suddenly, he heard the sound of the laughter echoing across the house again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, but he remained silent. He began walking, slowly, wanting to avoid the sound but not knowing what action to take next. He could go out and try to get help. But where? Who was going to believe him when he told them that everyone at the Greens' Halloween party had mysteriously vanished? He didn't believe it himself, and he was alone in the living room, shuddering at the sound of a ghostly laugh.

Crossing the threshold between the living room and hallway, he peered across the hall. There were no signs of movement in the darkened house. The path to the door was clear, and he could walk out of this horror story in a few seconds. He knew, even as he thought it, that it wasn't an option. His mind was on Mary, and his mother, his brother, their friends. There was no way he could leave them. He would have to find them.

Slowly, he inched along the wall, his hand brushing against the wallpaper, vaguely reminded of the cops and robbers games he'd once played with Jake and their cousins from Cedar Run. He'd always been the best at sneaking up quietly to break his teammates out of 'jail' in the den. His younger cousin Kara had always given herself away, clomping down the hallway, and was always furious when everyone pointed it out. He couldn't help but think a ghost was going to be harder to avoid than clumsy Kara, but he did his best to be silent as he made his way through the main level.

He tried not to imagine what horrible things might have happened to them. What did a vengeful ghost do to the people she spirited away? He wished he'd paid better attention to those scary movies he and Jake used to watch when their parents went out, though, when he thought about, he figured a real life ghost probably wouldn't behave like the ones in the movies anyway. As he frantically searched the familiar shadows of the kitchen, dining room, and den, he couldn't see any signs of struggle. "Jake?" he called in a faint whisper, glancing nervously over his shoulder. He couldn't hear anything, but the dread-filled anticipation that held him in a vice grip was making his heart pound. "Kenchy?" He doubted they'd be able to hear him, but he didn't want to speak any louder for fear she'd appear. "Mary?" he whispered, feeling a lump in his throat.

A sound coming from upstairs startled him. It wasn't the musical laughter from before, but a thumping noise. He reluctantly followed the sound, back into the hall, and stopped at the foot of the stairs, glancing upwards. No signs of life, again.

"Mimi?" he called cautiously. His voice sounded loud now, in this empty hallway. "Is that you?"

He stood in the deafening silence until he couldn't bear it any longer. Taking a breath, he gripped the banister and took a step up. He'd never realized his mother's stairs were so creaky before this evening, but each step he took seemed to be excruciatingly loud. When he reached the upstairs landing, he stopped. "Mom?" he called quietly. "Emily?"

A sudden movement near the top of the stairs caught his eye. He jumped, but breathed out in relief as he saw that it was a piece of paper fluttering down. He reached for it, even as he felt sick to his stomach. There were only three words scrawled across it. Go back down.

Shivering as another crack of thunder sounded, he turned around. He was aware that he was playing into her game, a game that he didn't even know the rules to. He didn't have much power in such a game, but he was determined to keep going, to not stand still while they were all missing. He walked, trying not to shake, trying to show his determination. He resisted the urge to call out for them again as he came back into the living room. He knew by now that they wouldn't answer.

He didn't jump this time he heard her laugh, though the sight that met him as the lightning lit up the living room window sent a shiver up his spine. Scrawled across the window, in what seemed like lipstick, was the word "Outside". The arrow pointed towards the hall, the direction of the back door. It was clearly a message.

Hearing her laugh again from somewhere in the house, a panic seized him. He picked up into a run, through the hall and to the back door. To the last place he'd known Mary had gone. He grabbed the door handle, opened it, and went outside.

The storm seemed even louder than the first time he'd gone out to look for her, and he could barely see through the rain as he stepped off the porch. Though he knew it was useless, he shouted her name again. Again, she didn't answer. Wandering further off the porch, he turned around, searching the night for whatever clues he'd been meant to find. His feet suddenly slipped and he found himself sprawled on the wet grass.

Struggling to sit up, he lifted one of his hands. It was covered in a sticky substance. He held his hand to his face, sniffing. Pumpkin. Just like when they'd carved pumpkins the night before. He looked down, and found he was sitting in what seemed to be the squashed remains of a pumpkin. He reached in the dark, and lifted a piece of the large squash. And another piece. Someone had smashed another pumpkin out here. Not just a pumpkin, he realized as he traced along the carved edge of a particularly large piece. It was the remnants of a jack-o-lantern. The jack-o-lantern he'd last seen Mary admiring on the porch when they'd first arrived. Holding the piece of pumpkin and blinking furiously, he looked out into the night. "Mary, where are you?" His voice, like before, blended into the sounds of the storm, but it hardly mattered. The only screams that answered were the mournful calls of the wind.


Twenty minutes earlier, Mary had awoken in a haze.

Shaking her head and lifting herself up off the floor, she was suddenly aware of several things at once. The first was that she found herself in a small, dark room, but she could hear the rain pounding down on the metal ceiling. The back yard shed.

The second was that her wrists were caught in a knot of what seemed like a plastic jump rope, tangled into a funny shape in the darkness.

The third was the pale face, framed with red hair, staring down at her.

She let out a quiet groan.

The figure with the familiar face was watching her carefully, smugly, shifting the shovel in her hand. Finally, she spoke, in a voice that was both familiar and strange.

"Didn't think we'd meet again, did you?"

Mary squinted up at the face that was lit, she slowly realized, by a camping lantern balanced on the floor nearby. "What?" she asked, scrunching up her face as a wave of dizziness passed over her. "We haven't."

"What do you mean, haven't?" asked the figure, her voice rising in annoyance.

"Met," said Mary, struggling to pull herself into a more upright position. "What did you...what am I..." She tried to reach a hand to her pounding head but found she couldn't move her arms very far. "What the hell's going on?"

"Anyone ever tell you you have a hard head?" asked the mysterious woman in white.

"Was that a pumpkin?" asked Mary, feeling anger rising inside her despite the fact she was still adjusting to her surroundings and situation. She peered up at the face, through the fog that was just beginning to lift from her mind.

"Yeah, had to get you here somehow. Now why do you say we haven't met?" The figure took a step towards Mary, dragging her shovel across the floor of the shed. It made an ominous scraping sound.

Her voice held an uncanny warning tone, and though Mary's instincts told her nothing good about the woman towering over her, they also couldn't stop her from answering "Because we haven't. I don't know who you are."

The stranger shook her head, the annoyance on her face growing, and let out a strange laugh. Mary willed herself not to shiver, as there was something off in that sound. "You're meaning to tell me," the stranger began, pacing across the tiny room, "that you don't recognize the face of the woman whose life you stole?"

Mary stared back at this stranger for a long moment. "I never stole anyone's life," she said finally.

"Oh no?" asked the stranger, her voice rising again, a strangely, maniacally cheerful tone. "Not even April Green? What's the matter, don't recognize me when you see me?"

Mary attempted to pull herself up again, wincing. The jump rope, she vaguely registered as she looked down, was tied in a series of intricate knots. "You're not April Green."

"Excuse me?" squeaked the figure.

"Well, I knew April and you're not her," said Mary, feeling emboldened even though the menacing ghost impersonator was staring her down. "First of all, I never saw April Green without perfectly groomed fingernails." They both glanced at the other woman's chipped, grubby fingernails. "Second," Mary continued, "She took that Hippocratic oath thing, and she stuck with it. She'd never do harm to anyone. Even me," she smirked despite the grim situation in which she found herself. "Third, April's dead."

"Well, hello!" sing songed the stranger, waving the shovel around as she held out her arms.

"A ghost wouldn't need a lantern, would she?" asked Mary, glancing down pointedly. "And wouldn't need to hit me on the head with a pumpkin. And wouldn't you need to be wearing clothes that didn't age with you? Or at least didn't look like they'd been run over by a truck?"

The dress the stranger was wearing did indeed look like it had seen better days. Stains covered the skirt, which was frayed and torn along the hemline. This was apparently the wrong thing to point out to the stranger, who scowled and leaned over menacingly. "You shouldn't be thinking about that. You should be thinking about what you can possibly say to me. How you can explain what you've done to me."

"I don't know you," insisted Mary. Before the stranger could go on, she added, "I'd know if you were April Green. You know what the biggest difference between you and her is?"

The stranger said nothing, only stepping forward and gripping the handle of her shovel in her hands with her eyebrows raised.

"She'd never sneak up behind someone, or...keep them in a shed, like this. No matter what happened, April Green always had class. And well..." she glanced up and down the person towering over her. "You're no April Green." The non April had obviously caught her meaning, as she was seething with even more ire.

"You wanna say that a little louder, bar wench?" she spat out.

"Seems like you heard me," said Mary, staring defiantly back. She couldn't resist smiling just a little at the look of fury the other woman wore at her words. Her triumph was short lived, however, as the woman turned and smashed her shovel into a flowerpot a few feet from Mary. It shattered, and Mary suppressed a shout, biting down on her lip instead. Outside, the thunder was roaring. Inside, the non April was doing the same.

"Next time, Mary Magdalene, it's your head." She glared at Mary for a moment longer, and turned, pacing angrily across the small floor.

Mary sat in silence, hearing her own heart pounding in her ears, watching the April lookalike who was so obviously not April, and though she could admit to herself by now that she was afraid, she still couldn't help the words that came out of her mouth. "It's you, isn't it? Who's been doing all this, all this time..." She trailed off, knowing it was true before the other woman nodded. Something about that smug smirk made Mary bold again. She glared up at the stranger with the familiar face. "You made Eric think he's going crazy...made him think I...I didn't believe him." She suddenly felt her eyes growing hot, and blinked furiously, determined to stare back up at the stranger.

"Well, you didn't, did you?" asked the figure. Mary was for once completely speechless. The woman laughed now, practically prancing around their small hideaway.

Mary tried to ignore the stinging in the back of her eyes, tried to ignore the nausea washing over her and the dizziness surrounding her thoughts. She wanted to say that it wasn't her fault, that she'd been technically right when she'd said it wasn't a ghost throwing her favourite shirts into treetops. She wanted to say that she loved Eric and would've stood by him no matter what. She wanted to lob at the pumpkin throwing lookalike some words that she didn't usually use in polite conversation. Before either of them could say any more, a faint sound cut through the stormy night outside and the walls of the shed.

Mary strained to hear, but she didn't need to. She'd know his voice anywhere. Before she could call out in response, the April imposter made a cutting motion with her hands, glancing pointedly down at her shovel. "Don't think about it. Besides, he won't hear you."

Mary kept her gaze on the imposter, sending her the fiercest look of disdain she could muster. The imposter held a finger to her lips, and after a moment, after Eric's voice had disappeared again and all that could be heard was the wind and the rain, punctuated now and then by a clap of thunder, the imposter stepped towards the door.

"I'll be back in a little while. Don't go anywhere," she said, letting out a giggle at her own joke. She turned her back on her captive, reaching for the door handle.

"Hey!" Mary attempted to get up again, suddenly seized with renewed energy. She realized, as she yanked on the jump rope, that it had been wound around and around the closest wheel of the lawn tractor. Pausing in her struggles, she glared back at the fake ghost. "If you hurt him," she said, pulling again on the jump rope, "If you touch him, I swear -"

"You'll what?" asked the double, with a quick giggle as she stepped sideways out the door and into the stormy night.

As she slammed the door, Mary scrambled, trying to stand again. As she finally managed to get to her feet in an almost crouch, only to be pulled back by the opposite force of the jump rope stretching from the lawn tractor, she heard the sound of the lock turning. Sliding down on the floor again, the thin but tightly tied plastic rope smarting against her wrists, she suddenly found herself unable to fight the waves of dizziness that had come over her again. She leaned back against the wall as the tiny room slid out of focus and the darkness closed in.


As Eric crouched over the remains of the jack-o-lantern, rain pouring down his face and through his hair and the mournful winds matching his own thoughts, he pictured each of their faces. All of his loved ones. The ones he cared the most for. He didn't know what had happened to them, what she had done with them, but it was all because she was angry with him. Their problems, that they'd both kept from interfering with their duties to the town in life, had exploded and swallowed his friends and family members now, in her death. And all of them were in danger, were missing, and all because of him. At least, because they were associated with him. He felt the guilt inside him like a knife. His mother. Mary. His brother. Stanley and Mimi and the others, who really hadn't had much to do with April, and Kenchy who'd barely met her. All being forced to bear this ghost's wrath.

As he despaired over the possible fates of all his dear ones, another feeling began to intermingle with the guilt and despair. Anger. Anger that she would go after them, these people he loved, because she was angry at him. Anger that she'd punished him for months, after he'd done his best and, he felt, paid a certain penance, and it still wasn't enough. He decided, as he clutched the destroyed pumpkin, that it was enough. Squeezing the pumpkin flesh so that the juice dripped through his fingers, he clenched his hand into a fist and stood.
He marched steadily towards the house, holding a piece of pumpkin in his hand. He stopped at the porch, and stood, looking up at the house with grim resolution. For a moment, he merely waited, tapping his foot and narrowing his eyes up at the house. He turned and flung the pumpkin against the wooden pillar of the porch. It smashed into smaller pieces, pumpkin juice dripping down the wood like yellow-orange blood, staining the steps below. "April!" he shouted.

He crossed the porch and opened the door, shouting her name again, this time into the house. "April!"

His footsteps sounded loud as he stomped inside, but he no longer cared if he could be detected. He wanted her to hear. "April, come on out! I'm done playing this game with you. You want me, come out and get me!"

He rapped his hand along the stair railing as he went by, and then knocked his fist against the wall as he crossed the length of the hallway. He wanted to make as much noise as possible.

"Come on April, you know I'm the one you really want!" he shouted in the doorway of the kitchen, slamming the door shut and then opening it again. He stepped into the empty kitchen, noticing vaguely that his heart was pounding in his ears again, that his hands were sweaty, that he was breathing hard, and that it didn't bother him at all. There was nothing left to lose, and there was no more running, and no more hiding, and he didn't care at all.

As he waited for something to happen, his mind racing and his body coursing with adrenaline, he restlessly looked around the kitchen. What did one do to prepare oneself for an encounter with a ghost? It was April, of course, and he didn't want to hurt her, if that was even possible with a ghost. But how did one protect oneself, or possibly barter for the return of one's family and friends? His eyes wandered from the whisk laying on the drying rack to the wooden spoon collection on the wall. He chuckled to himself. His eyes finally rested on the abandoned pot on the stove. Stanley's popcorn. That he'd promised Mimi he would check on. Pausing for a moment in his determined stand, he touched the handle and thought of his friends. Where the hell are you guys?

Where the hell they were was this:

After the lights had gone out and Mimi had volunteered to look for more candles, she had carefully groped her way up the stairs, congratulating herself at the top when she realized she had survived and hadn't needed the help of any of those native townspersons, who often made jokes at her expense in other instantly-plunged-into-darkness situations. True, darkness had meant something different when she had lived in the city, where she couldn't even see the stars through the street lights, but she'd lived in the country for over a year now, and despite all the inconveniences, she liked to think she'd adapted enough to see in the dark.

Finding the upstairs closet in the dark didn't prove to be very difficult either. It was at the end of the hall, as she'd remembered from her trips to the bathroom during other get-togethers at the Greens' house. There was a window in the hallway, so a tiny amount of moonlight filtered in through the clouds. Mimi glanced outside for a moment, watching the sky light up. She nearly jumped as she thought she saw a shape move on the lawn, but a second later, as she blinked, there was nothing. She chuckled to herself, even as a shiver ran up her spine. It was shaping up to be a pretty spectacular storm. Her friend, she decided, was probably watching the storm. If Mary didn't come inside soon she was going to catch a chill or something. Mimi thought to herself that she was certainly glad to be inside the house as she opened the closet door, shivering again and hugging her arms across her chest.

It was a generous walk-in closet, it turned out. Mimi chuckled. No wonder Gail Green was always unearthing so many treasures. She left the door open, so that she could see by the small amount of light, and stepped inside.

Just as she was feeling around for candles amidst the boxes and blankets on the back shelf, the door slammed behind her. Once again, Mimi was plunged into darkness.

She spun around, letting out a gasp, and going straight to the door. She tried to push against it, but it didn't budge. It must, she decided, lock from the outside. Or something. She pounded on the door. There wasn't a sound coming from outside.

Noticing she was breathing quickly, she took a moment to calm herself. The door had swung shut and she was trapped in the closet. In the dark. It wasn't a big deal. The wind had probably blown the closet door shut. It had been strangely cool in the hall, a few moments ago. So there had been a draft. And sooner or later someone would notice she was missing and come looking for her. They would laugh about it later, and someone would make a tasteless joke about Eric's ghost. And they'd say that's where Mary had been, somewhere with the ghost. And that's where Emily had gone. And Gail. And...

Mimi wouldn't let herself think it. Not after all the times she'd shaken her head over the ghost she'd heard Eric was seeing. Not after the times she'd complained about Stanley's wanting to tell ghost stories around the bonfire. Not after she'd told Mary it was normal, that they all get a little crazy around the full moon. It was just the full moon.

Mimi waited five more seconds, and began pounding on the door. "Somebody!" she shouted. "Can anybody hear me? Stanley? Stanley!"

Stanley had been filling the pot on the stove when he'd noticed, sitting on the counter, the tray of candy apples Gail Green had made for the evening's festivities. They had looked so delicious, and reminded him so much of his childhood, and how he'd often gotten candy apples in his loot that had sat out on the table for a week as his mother told him about razor blades and poison. How he'd watch longingly until his candy apples turned rotten and he would finally have to throw them out. How his mother would insist it was for his own good. How much he'd always longed to just take one bite of that smooth, sweet candy surface and see how the flavours of the crisp apple and brittle sugary sheen collided in his mouth. The only exception had been Gail Green's candy apples. His mother had reluctantly allowed him to have those, since they'd come from a family friend, and each year, he would put his Green candy apple on the counter and stare at it, trying to put off biting into the forbidden fruit for as long as possible, knowing it would be his only taste of it for the whole year. Usually this only worked for a few seconds.

Of course, now he was a grown man, and had developed some self control. He knew the candy apples were for later, that he was supposed to be providing party snacks now himself. But it was so tempting. Their smooth, shiny red surfaces teased him from their cookie sheet on the counter. Surely he could taste just one apple. It could be his apple, and he wouldn't get another later when everyone else did. That would be fair, and people would be annoyed he hadn't waited but what could they do? He didn't even have to eat it all. He could save some to eat with them. They would make jokes, but when were they not teasing? Why did he care what they would think anyway? They didn't know how it was to be stuck staring, mouth watering, not allowed to take even one small bite. He would just take one bite.

One bite became another, and another, and soon Stanley had polished off the sticky treat, and was not quite certain it had been a good idea not to wait. He could already feel a sugar rush on the way, and his teeth were sticking together when he closed his mouth. His hands, he noticed when he looked down, were stained red, and his fingers were sticky. Thinking about how Mimi would react when she noticed, he made his way into the small downstairs bathroom.

He was rinsing the sugar off his hands when he heard her shout. It was faint, but he knew it was her, and she sounded panicked. He raced up the stairs, following the sound of her voice down the empty hallway and to the closet door. Wondering if she was playing a joke on him, he asked hesitantly "Mimi?"

After a moment's pause, he heard her voice again. "Stanley? Thank God!"

He smiled. She didn't sound too panicked.

"What are you waiting for? Open the door!" she shouted.

He laughed, wondering why he had panicked. She definitely sounded her usual self.

He opened the closet door, and there she was, looking at him with a flustered expression.

"Mimi, what are you trying to do, start a game of sardines or something-" he started to ask, stepping towards her and reaching playfully for her shoulders.

"No, the door-" she began, gesturing wildly. He spun around in time for both of them to see the figure in white, the flash of red hair, and the door slamming shut. Mimi closed her eyes and moaned.

The grin had finally vanished from Stanley's face. "Was that...?" he glanced at the door, and back at her.

"Eric's ghost?" asked Mimi.

Stanley chuckled nervously. "Come on, there's no such thing as ghosts. That was...I didn't even see who it was, probably someone playing a trick on..."

"Someone? Know any other redheads at the party?" asked Mimi, raising her eyebrows.

"No, there's no such thing as ghosts," said Stanley. "I think I'd know a ghost if I was face to face with one."

"So you don't think there's anything weird going on? Someone just locked us in this closet, just after the lights went out." Mimi put her hands on her hips.

"Someone's playing a joke," Stanley began, trying the door himself. "We're really locked in here?"

"I called for someone to come help me out," she said. "And you were the only one who answered."

The smile was gone from his face by now. "I didn't see anyone else around...they're probably just...maybe someone did want to play sardines."

Mimi sent him a look of incredulity he could barely see in the dark, but he could hear her worry in her sigh.

"It'll be okay," he said, trying to be bracing, reaching his hands to encircle her waist.

"I hope you're right," said Mimi doubtfully, reaching her arms and letting herself lean against his shoulders, glad that if she had to be in the dark, cramped place, she wasn't alone anymore.


As Eric prepared to face the ghost alone, he felt a strange sense of calm coming over him. Finally, after months of playing the game, as he realized it was a game now, it was going to come to an end. He didn't know how it would happen, but she wouldn't vanish, he knew, and he wouldn't hide. They would finally be face to face, and once and for all, something would happen, instead of just the threat of something, slipping through the air like smoke on a breeze.

He quickly looked through the kitchen drawers, but there wasn't much that would be useful in putting together an arsenal of weapons for protection from a ghost. He tried to think again about what people used in those stories he and Jake used to tell with their grandfather, out at the hunting cabin. A crucifix? Vampires, he thought to himself. Silver? No, silver bullet, and that was for werewolves. Holy water? He snorted to himself, imagining trying to find that in Jericho. In his search of the kitchen counter, his eyes rested on the salt shaker. Salt. It always seemed to come up in those stories. Reaching for it, he shook his head again, feeling ridiculous. He heard a sound then, coming from the living room. A high, clear, sing song voice, calling his name. "Er-ic," it came through the door, through the walls. "Eric!"

It was the same voice he'd heard before, singing that strange song by moonlight. And it was like the voice he'd heard many times before, when she'd been alive. But now there was a new quality to it. Something otherworldly and ominous. He clasped his hand around the wooden salt shaker and began to walk determinedly.

"Er-ic!" He followed the voice into the living room. He stopped and stood still. In the shadows, on the opposite side of the room, stood the figure in the white dress. It seemed a surreal moment, even as he held his body as stiffly as he could, clenching his fists and staring back at her. For a moment, neither of them said anything and neither of them moved.

Eric took a step forward. He took a few more. He stopped near the middle of the room.

She watched for a moment, and then she began to come towards him. As she stepped out of the shadows, her dress, arms, and face seemed to reflect the pale moonlight filtering in through the big window. The lightning flashed across the room again, and she smiled that horrible grin of hers. It should have sent shivers up his spine, but he held completely still, staring back into the eerily glowing face.


Mary's eyes were closed, her features still as the light first fell upon her face, her hair, and her encumbered arms. She stirred and lifted her head very slowly, blinking as soon as she'd opened her eyes, realizing what had woken her. The shed was filled with soft light, light that illuminated the whole room in a way a camping lantern never could.

Squinting at the brightness and ignoring the dizzying waves surrounding her again, she sat up against the wall, her instincts overwhelming her suddenly, warning her to be still and look up.

She breathed in sharply but didn't make a sound. Reflecting light illuminated her expression of shock as she stared, wide-eyed, at the figure in front of her. After a few moments in which the only sound in the shed was Mary's breathing, she sputtered out one word in a whisper. "You?"


"You!" The ghost's voice was less a sing song and more dangerous as she glared at Eric.

"April," he said.

"Not running away this time?" she asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

"I want my family. And my friends," he said.

The ghost glared at him, and he swore, if shooting fire from one's eyes were a ghostly power, he'd have been incinerated on the spot. A moment later, she let out a loud laugh. It seemed to ring across the house. "You do, do you?"

"Come on, April. You know it's me you want, not them." He spoke in a calm, even tone, and stared steadily back at her.

"You don't know anything about what I want," she said.

"Okay, maybe I didn't know what you wanted, or couldn't give it to you. But this isn't you," he said, holding up a hand cautiously.

"What, am I too good or something? Saint April, not allowed to fight back, not allowed to get back at people who ruin everything?" she looked angry again, but she let out another strange laugh.

Eric lowered his hand, and realized it was nearly shaking, but he steadied himself, taking a breath. "It's me then, alright? It's not Mary. It's not her fault. Please," he paused, going into a territory he hadn't planned but feeling his words going that way before his mind could stop them. "Please, let her go. I'm the one you want. Not her. And not them. Don't take it out on them."

The ghost threw back her head as she laughed this time. She took a step towards him, staring him down. "They're all a part of it. Especially her."

"No," protested Eric. "Just me. Leave them alone."

"Too late for that," she said, stepping beside him, beginning to circle him.

"It's not too late," he said shakily, turning as she continued her path. "Where are they? Where's Mary?"

"She's somewhere you can't get to. And the rest of them won't be bothering us either. But you should really be worrying about yourself right now."

"Why would you hurt Mom?" he asked. "She was there for you. And Jake. Kenchy, he tried to save you."

"Well, it didn't work, did it?" she asked, her voice rising in anger.

"And Stanley, Emily, Heather," he continued. "And Mimi. You barely knew her!"

"She's friends with your bar wench. And they're all friends with you," said the ghost, stopping to look at him. "That's the problem with you people. You're all so damn interconnected."

"Well, you were part of that too," he said, unable to keep the dismay out of his voice. "You were an important part of this community." He looked back at her. She was glaring menacingly. He felt suddenly, as he stared into that menacing grin up close, that he didn't recognize her. "What happened to you?"

She laughed again, but he looked back with a serious expression. "You're not the April I knew. I never would've imagined you could be like this."

"Is that so?" she asked, her eyes flashing in annoyance.

"You're not," he continued, narrowing his eyes. "I don't know what you've become, but it's not you."

"Well, you only have yourself to thank," she spat. She began circling again.

"It's not my fault," he said quietly.

She stopped and stared, her mouth open in surprise. "What?"

He took a breath, and spoke. "I'm sorry for hurting you. Sorry you died. And not a day goes by I don't think about Tracy. But it wasn't my fault you died. I have my share of regrets, and I accept the blame for those. But I've learned we're all responsible for what we choose to do next. After we've been hurt. It's not all my fault, if this is what you've chosen."

"Tracy?" she asked. He looked at her in confusion. "How can you say it's not your fault?" she asked in a louder voice. "You made me this way!"

"I didn't," he said. "If this is who you've become, it's you. But you're not April. Not the April I knew."

She was silent for a moment, and then without warning, she grabbed for his neck. Her hands encircled him, choking him, and he struggled, his eyes wide in surprise. In a moment of desperation, he held up the salt shaker in his hand, flinging it wildly in the direction of her face.

In the flurry of activity they were caught in, he wasn't sure why she'd let go right away. He continued to shake the shaker in her direction, but as he did, his heart sank. It was pepper he was sending her way, not salt. It would do nothing to protect him from a ghost. He watched in surprise, though, as she took a step back, waving her hands frantically in her face, scrunching her eyes. His eyes widened in surprise as she let out a loud sneeze. She sneezed again, stepping backward, and stumbling as she bumped into the coffee table in an entirely non ethereal way.

For the first time, Eric found himself not thinking about Mary, his mother, his brother, or his friends. He found he wasn't thinking about April's face in that hospital room, or Tracy, the name he'd never repeated to anyone else after she'd died. He wasn't worrying about what supernatural powers of punishment were about to be unleashed upon him. He was noticing instead, in sharp relief, the ghost's torn and stained wedding dress. Her grubby fingernails. Her shadow on the floor as the light from outside the window hit her. As she regained her balance and looked back at him, he cleared his throat and asked what he realized was the question of the evening. "Who are you?"


Mary was staring, her own eyes gleaming in the light, at the face illuminated before her, barely breathing. "Is it really you?" she whispered.

The figure nodded. Mary exhaled quickly, almost in a small laugh, though her eyes were wide with amazement. Her expression became more solemn, her eyes more brilliant, as she spoke her next words. "I'm sorry."

The figure with red hair and a glowing white dress nodded. "I know. Thank you." She smiled a small smile. "And it wasn't your fault."

Mary gave a small nod, blinking rapidly. "Thank you."

A moment passed in silence as the two continued to look at each other. Mary let out a shaky breath, and another, as she looked from the glowing face of the figure standing above her over to the smaller figure floating beside her. The little figure wore a white dress too, and her cherubic face was framed with red curls. Mary found herself smiling at her, but turned back to look at the taller figure. "Are you - are you okay?"

The radiant figure nodded, smiling gently.

"Is she yours?" asked Mary, nodding towards the little white clothed spirit.

April nodded again.

"She's beautiful," whispered Mary.

April smiled down at the little redhead. "I think so." The little one looked up at her and smiled, before looking back over at Mary.

"They grow faster there?" asked Mary.

April nodded again. "And deep fried Twinkies are fat free."

Mary let out a small chuckle, and seeing that April and the child smiled too, she continued to smile cautiously herself. "So you're really okay? Where you are?"

"I'm happy," answered April. As Mary's smile grew, April added, "And I've met someone."

Mary raised her eyebrows. "He's a doctor, and a mystery novelist," April continued.

Mary raised her eyebrows even further and let out a small laugh though her eyes were serious. "You've got a whole life going on, huh?"

"I do," she answered, smiling steadily. "And I wanted to tell you, because I know you've thought about it."

Mary nodded, not saying anything but smiling again, relief on her face.

"I also wanted to tell you," continued April, "not to be afraid. I know, given the circumstances..." she glanced around, and then down at the small child, who seemed to be sending her mother a significant look. She laughed gently, giving a nod at the little girl, and looked back at Mary. "I'm going to make sure you get to go on doing what you have to do, in your life that's going on here."

Mary raised her eyebrows, staring back solemnly again.

"You've got something coming up, and you might have your doubts, but you're going to do great." She stopped as the child sent her an even more pointed look.

Mary caught this exchange but her mind was too full already with so many things to sort out at once. She nodded, blinking rapidly again, and shook her head, trying clear it of the haze that still seemed to linger.

"Are you okay?" asked April.

"I - yeah," said Mary, "I just - how hard did I hit my head?"

"You don't have a concussion," said April. "The dizziness will get better. Just take some deep breaths."

Mary tried to take her suggestion. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" she asked.

The mother and daughter exchanged a glance, and both turned back to smile at her. April shook her head.


Eric held the pepper shaker in his hand, still staring at the woman he realized now was not April and was not a ghost, and his mind was reeling. Everything he had believed to be true for months, even as it had seemed crazy to him, was wrong, and he couldn't begin to fathom what might actually be true now, in this moment, as he stood face to face with someone who had, it seemed, done something to his loved ones. "Who are you?" he repeated.

She had managed to find her balance again, after the pepper upset, and was glaring at him just as furiously as before. She swiped a hand to her eyes, which were red now, and stepped towards him again. He stepped sideways, holding out the pepper shaker. She stepped sideways too, so that they seemed to be engaged in some kind of strange circling dance.

"Who are you?" he repeated for the third time. "What the hell do you want?"

She didn't answer for a moment, curling her lip as she continued to circle, a crazed look in her eyes. "I'm someone who's going to make you pay."

"Pay for what?" he asked, continuing to step in a circle himself, facing her with as much defiance as he could.

"For April," she said, narrowing her eyes as if daring him to say anything else.

"How's this supposed to make things right for April?" asked Eric. "You really think this is what she would've wanted?"

"She doesn't get to want anything, does she? She's dead!" growled the lookalike.

Eric tightened his grip on the pepper shaker, sensing something wild in her that could spring at any moment. "Look, no one here ever wanted her dead. I wish she hadn't died, wish I could've done something. But it's not my fault she died. So what are you trying to accomplish?"

"Trying to make things even," she said.

"But I didn't -" he began.

"You've been keeping your bar tender warm at night while April lies cold in the ground!" she shouted.

Eric took a slight step back, but continued to stare at her. "So this is how you make things even? By going after her, and all our family and friends? By going after me?"

"It's a start," she said with a small smile.

He gripped the pepper shaker in both his hands. Her eyes followed his movements but he continued to talk, drawing her attention to his face. "You really think this is what April would want?" he asked in a whisper. "Think this does any kind of service to her memory?"

"I think someone should be thinking about her," she countered, scowling at him as she stepped forward.

"Well, you know what?" he said, backing up a little more and feeling his heel hit the edge of the cabinet against the wall. "I don't think this is for April at all."

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, her voice even, though her eyes held a look of fury.

"If you think April would want someone hurting other people in her name, you can't have known her at all. You're not doing anything honourable in her name. You're a disgrace to her memory." He set his jaw determinedly and stared back at her.

She glared at him for a moment, leaning towards him, and suddenly lunged. This time, he was expecting it, and he moved quickly. He flung the pepper shaker towards her, holding the lid in his other hand. The entire contents hit the imposter in the face, a cloud of pepper. Eric stepped sideways and ran to the other side of the room as the sinister non April bellowed and swiped at her eyes.

Still not entirely convinced she wasn't dreaming, Mary was following April's advice and taking deep breaths, taking note of the hard floor of the shed, the tightly wound jump rope binding her wrists, and the sound of the storm still pounding against the ceiling.

"So I heard what you said, about having class," said April, a slightly amused smile on her face now. "Thanks."

"Yeah, well," said Mary, "I knew it wasn't you." She paused, and looked up at April. "So if it wasn't you..." She raised her eyebrows.

"Long story," shrugged April. "Long lost evil twin."

Mary wore an expression of incredulity but smirked. "Talk about your nature versus nurture, huh?"

April laughed. "Tell me about it."

Mary laughed too, and sighed. "You know, I've never been hit in the head with a pumpkin before."

April became serious again. "The pumpkin's in pieces out there, so I'd say your head won that one."

Mary smiled but it didn't quite meet her eyes. "What's she going to do?" she asked quietly. "She said she'd be back."

"She has plans to come back," nodded April. "But I won't let her come in here."

"But..." Mary began in a pained voice, glancing in the direction of the house, though they were inside the shed.

"Don't worry about him right now," said April calmly. "Just start thinking about how you're going to get out of that." She motioned down at Mary's wrists. "You've got plenty of time. I'll keep her out."

Mary still looked troubled, but she looked down at her wrists. The plastic rope was thin, but wound and tied in the most intricate series of knots she'd ever seen. She gave a tug on it again, but it was just as tightly wound around the lawn tractor's wheel. She stretched one of her hands so that her fingers could begin working on the knots. It was a strain but she reached a starting point.

"How did she do this?" she mused out loud.

April grimaced sympathetically. "My sister's always been good at trapping people in weird ways. She once tied three of her younger siblings to a tree with only fishing line." She paused. "But you were always good at getting out of these things, weren't you? Like that time your older cousin chased you into that briar patch and your hair got caught in the thorns."

"You know about that?" asked Mary, working away at the knots.

"Omniscience. It's one of the perks of the post-earthly-living state." April smiled.

Mary nodded thoughtfully, looking up a few moments later. "Is the war going to be over soon?"

April laughed softly and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I'm not that omniscient. It's limited to my purposes for this visit."

Mary gave a slight shrug, holding up a short length of freed jump rope. "Thank you," she said, looking up to smile at April.

April nodded, smiling back at her. "And I didn't just come for you. Or for me."

Mary peered up at her questioningly. April smiled down at the little girl spirit. "Tracy?"

The little girl smiled up at her, and then turned. She came towards Mary, her gown not touching the floor, and reached a dimpled hand to the side of Mary's face.

Mary's breath caught at the strange feeling of the otherworldly being's hand against her cheek, but she stared back at the little girl, waiting.

Tracy raised her own eyebrows, her little face questioning and Mary gave her a small nod. Tracy leaned towards Mary's ear, cupping her hand against her mouth as she began to whisper.


The woman whom Eric had just called a disgrace to the memory of April shouted a wordless, angry shout as Eric stepped to the other side of the couch. Shaking her head furiously, coughing and spluttering, she stomped angrily on the floor. Searching wildly, she reached for the first thing she could get her hands on. It happened to be a small, decorative broom hanging above the fireplace. Swinging it wildly, she advanced towards Eric.

"I don't want to fight you," he said, holding up his hands. "I want to know where my people are."

She swung the broom and hit the couch. A cloud of dust dispersed into the air. "Too bad we don't have the same goals!" She swung the broom again, and Eric backed out of the way. She stepped up on the couch, climbing over the cushions. She was surprisingly adept at balancing on furniture at the same time as going in for the attack with household decor. She jumped up on the top of the couch and leapt over.

Eric searched for something to protect himself with. He'd been in fights before but he didn't like the idea of hitting a woman, especially one who so resembled his late former wife, no matter how different they were in personality. But he wasn't going to let her get to him, or get away with doing away with his friends. In desperation, he grabbed the only thing he could reach - a sweater Mimi had left draped over the arm of the couch. He backed up, holding Mimi's sweater. She came towards him, swinging the broom. He found himself standing up against the window, and out of habit, glanced outside. It was dark, and raining still, but as the lightning flashed, he thought he could see a shadow making its way up the walk.

"What are you looking at?" she demanded. He blinked. There was no shadow, but he could take advantage of her distraction. In one swift movement, he surged forward, flinging the sweater at her, wrapping the sleeves around her head, and grabbing her broom.

She stumbled, tearing at the shirt, yelling angrily again. He crossed the room backwards, facing her, brandishing the broom.

"That's all you've got, huh?" she shouted. Her face was bright red now, and staring him down, she stepped sideways, to the cabinet. "My sister Scrawny could fight better than you."

"I don't want to fight," he protested, but he kept the broom in front of him.

Fumbling for the cabinet door, she opened it and her hands closed around one of the china plates. Eric winced, and for a horrible frozen moment, he realized what was going to happen next, and hoped that if his mother ever turned up again she wouldn't be too crushed.

The infuriated woman flung the plate in his direction. He ducked and it sailed over his head, shattering against the wall behind him. She flung a second, and a third, and a fourth. Each one, he managed to deflect with the broom, like a bizarre game of baseball. With each crash, he imagined his mother's horror. When she flung the fifth, he reached up and caught it.

She laughed, and seemed like she was searching for a witty comment, but instead flung a sixth. Eric caught it, and he caught plates seven through twelve. "Aren't you getting bored?" he asked.

"Aren't you getting cocky?" she returned as the thirteenth sailed through his fingers and shattered at his feet. He looked down. That plate had been a keepsake his parents had brought back from a trip to Maine. He glared back up at her.

"Come on, haven't you had enough yet?" he asked, putting down the stack of plates and holding up his hands. He stepped forwards. She tossed a tea cup in his direction as he came closer, and he caught it, putting it down on the couch.

"I'm just getting started," she retorted, throwing a glass pitcher. He dodged it, and didn't look back as it shattered, hoping his mother would remember how she'd always complained about having to bring it out when Great Aunt Silvia came to visit.

"Just tell me where they are," he said calmly, catching the silver creamer she'd flung at his abdomen.

She shook her head, preparing to hoist a beer stein Johnston had brought back from Germany. He grabbed her wrist before she could lob it at him. She struggled but he held on, stepping closer. "If you hurt them," he said in a quiet voice, "If you hurt her, I swear, I'll - "

"Funny, that's what your wife said," she smirked. He paused for a second, and she took the chance to push forward with the arm that was in his grasp. He stepped aside as she escaped and he slammed the cabinet door closed. Turning to face her again, he noticed they were both breathing hard. "You won't see your friends again," she said, panting and smiling in his direction.


Kenchy could hear strange sounds through the walls. He didn't want to know what they were.

When he'd first woken up in the cramped space in which he now found himself, he'd wanted to get out. He'd frantically looked around at the walls that were close on either side of him. He'd struggled to sit up amidst what he realized, in his rather sluggish daze, were boots. When he had pulled himself into an upright position, his head and shoulders had been assaulted by coats all around him.

He wondered how he had come to be on the floor of what seemed to be a closet. The last thing he had remembered was going into the den to get himself more of that whiskey Jake had offered him at the beginning of the night. He subsisted on Mary's home brew most of the time, with some of the imports she occasionally had to offer, but there was something altogether soothing about sipping at that whiskey. It was like stepping back into another simpler, less painful time, where he only had to worry about whether patients had coverage, not whether they had access to basic nutrition. He remembered sitting down on the couch, cradling the whiskey glass, sipping thoughtfully and meditating on the finer points of American culture as he'd experience it during the holidays since he had arrived in Jericho. He had supposed he must have dozed off on the couch, seeing as his mind had been feeling rather heavy. But that hadn't explained how he had gotten from the couch in the den to this coat closet.

He had looked up then, and all at once it had become clear. He found himself staring into a ghostly face. She was grinning.

He had passed out, and had only woken later to the strange sounds coming from somewhere outside the closet. As he sat on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, he tried to ignore each crash. Tried to pretend it wasn't there, in the hopes it might all go away.


As the battle wore on the living room, Eric tried to ignore each act of destruction he and his opponent were inflicting on the place. After he'd managed to get her away from the china cabinet, she'd proceeded to employ several Green family heirlooms as weapons. She'd used his mother's angel figurine until he'd gotten close enough to wrestle it away. The side of his face bore an odd looking cut, from when she'd lobbed a small ornamental bird cage at him. Dirt scattered the floor near the door separating the living room from the hall, from a tug of war over a potted plant that now lay dismembered near the scene of the crime.

After she descended on the area near the old record player, Eric found himself jumping in another odd game of catch as she sent records flying towards him like Frisbees. At one point, she seized the guitar case from behind the buffet, and cornered him near the fireplace. He avoided the case as it nearly squashed his head against the fireplace ledge, grabbing the bucket from beside the fireplace. He dumped the cold ashes on her, and darted away as she screamed.

Whenever he seemed to have gained the upper hand, he would threaten and plead for his family and friends. Whenever she had the upper hand, she would mock and tease with taunts about all of them.

"You think you'll just be able to walk away from this?" he shouted, carefully avoiding the coffee table as she advanced towards him. "People in this town look out for each other. What do you think the town will do when they hear what you've done here tonight?"

"Who's going to blame me? Who's going to blame a ghost?" she answered, reaching for one of the pillows on the couch. Lunging forward, she smacked his shoulder with it.

Leaning back, he grabbed a pillow himself. As she struck again, he deflected, using his own pillow as a shield. "Who's going to believe that?" he asked, holding his pillow against hers, directing all his energy into it and pushing her backwards.

"You did," she panted, trying to push back.

"Well, I had more reason to than most," he strained, pushing with all his might. She backed up. "How was I supposed to know you were - I don't even know who you are."

Without warning, she stepped sideways, and without her to push against, he found himself falling forward. Caught between the couch and the coffee table in a half crouch, he held up an arm to shield himself as she continued to hit him with the pillow. "You don't want to know who I am!" she shouted between blows.

"I - I do want to know. I deserve - to know!" he shouted back, meeting her blows with one arm and grabbing his pillow with the other. He stood, bringing his pillow up to meet hers.

"You don't really want to know who I am!" She continued. "No one does. No one ever has!"

"Can't - imagine why," he grunted. He finally landed a blow against her shoulder. She leaned back with the impact, but furiously darted forward, aiming for his head.

"I will make you pay. I will make all of you pay, and you'll wish you were never born -"

"That's enough." At the sound of another voice in the room, she suddenly stopped talking. Both of them turned quickly to the door.

Gail stood at the threshold, her face the picture of a dangerously calm fury. Behind her stood a tall man with dark hair sticking out from underneath a baseball cap, who was taking in the situation with a worried expression. For a moment, everyone stood absolutely still. Eric looked from his mother to the April lookalike. She was staring at Gail Green, a strange look on her face. She turned and swung her pillow at Eric again.

"Sunday!" Gail shouted.

She turned to look at Gail, her expression one of genuine shock. Again, for a moment, no one moved. Eric seized the opportunity to attempt to tackle her. He nearly had her at first, but she was fighting with a new zeal, the kind of energy that comes upon an escaped animal as the zookeepers close in. She grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking, and he winced as he tried to keep struggling. The newcomers came into the room, quickly trying to assess how they should intervene.

"Sunday, I'm talking to you," said Gail in a firm voice. "Let go of my son right now!"

Sunday let go of Eric's hair but reached for a broken piece of plate that had been lodged between couch cushions. She held it towards him.

"Sunday, it's over. Put it down," said Gail, holding up a cautioning hand.

"How - how did you get out?" asked Sunday, still wielding the weapon but with a hint of desperation in her voice.

"I had an idea of what was happening as soon as I found this," she answered. Eric was wary of the sharp piece of china inches from his throat, but he turned to look. His mother was holding out a half of a locket. It looked faintly familiar.

"I was going to come downstairs to warn the kids, but you locked me in," continued Gail, speaking quickly. "I tried to get out. And then I tried to get the window open. I saw Heather's brother coming up the walk." She nodded to the man standing nearby. "He was coming in from New Bern, I remembered, for the party."

He nodded awkwardly. "Hi, Eric."

"Good to see you again, T," Eric answered, eyeing the china again.

"I waved him down, and he came to the rescue," said Gail. "He climbed up the trellis."

"How...gallant," said Sunday in a flat tone.

T shrugged.

"So I told him what was going on," said Gail. "And we figured something out."

"How to pick the lock from the inside?" asked Eric. Sunday pushed her weapon closer to his throat and he inched backwards.

"That," nodded his mother, "And..."

"And, I'm your brother," said T.

Sunday's expression remained unchanged for a moment. After a moment, she let out a strange laugh. "What?"

"He is," said Gail.

Sunday laughed again. "What the hell are you trying to pull?" She turned back to Eric, fixing him with her most menacing glare.

"Nothing," said Gail. "It's the truth. Let go, Sunday, and I'll tell you the whole story."

"I don't have a brother!" exclaimed Sunday. "I had a sister, and she's dead."

"Born on the twenty third of April, nineteen seventy two, in a hospital with good care standards but lousy record keeping?" asked T.

"That's what April said," Sunday said quietly. "But how would you know about it?" she asked, looking over at Gail.

"You'd be surprised," said Gail with a smirk. She fixed Sunday with a stern look. "Let them go. Let them all go, Sunday, and I'll tell you. I'll tell you your story."

Sunday was evidently torn. She stood for an eternity, holding the broken china up against Eric's neck, looking back and forth from the man who'd been the object of her wrath, the woman who'd once protected her own sister from her, and the stranger who claimed he was blood. After a painful silence, her grip on the makeshift weapon loosened. Eric quickly knocked it out of her hand, and T came forward to help him subdue her.

She said nothing as they tied her hands behind her back with one of the rubber snakes Gail had used to decorate the table, and as they led her to one of the chairs. She sat, staring patiently back at them, and the three of them looked at her expectantly.

"Well, what's my story?" she asked finally.

"Where are our family and friends?" asked Eric. She looked away from him.

T leaned forward. "Sunday, you've got to tell us where they are. His wife," he said, nodding at Eric, "and her son," he continued, gesturing at Gail, "and my little sister and their friends," he finished. "Where are they?"

"Relax." With a look of utter annoyance, Sunday reached to lift her skirt slightly. Around her ankle, she was wearing a ring of keys. "They're all there."

"Those lead to everyone who's missing?" asked Eric.

Sunday nodded, sending him a look of contempt. "Going to tell me now?"

"Keys first," said Gail. "Then story."

With a sigh, Sunday stretched out her ankle. Flashing a murderous look at Eric, she turned to Gail, who tactfully grabbed the key ring. She handed it to Eric who clasped them in his hands and closed his eyes. Sunday looked back at Gail.

"I'll start from the beginning," said Gail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



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