A/N: yes, as you will see in the prologue below, Doc Anderson only has one arm. There is a reason for this. I wrote her like this simply because that's the truth of the real Doc Anderson's life. I did not invent this person; if you read the description, you will know that I base these stories on as much truth as I can, and Doc actually did lose an arm due to diabetes. No, it's not a plot point. No, you shouldn't take it as such. I won't even mention it that much, because I, as a person with a whole, healthy body, am not qualified to write a story about a disabled person in a way that digs into how she deals with it and how this affects her life and, similarly, her afterlife. It doesn't affect the story at all, so please, take it as a simple fact of this story rather than a singular plot point to focus on. 

TLDR; yes, Doc Anderson is disabled, yes, the actual Doc was disabled in the same way, no, I won't mention it that much because being disabled should not be used as a cheap plot.

Anyways, with that out of the way, enjoy the chapter!

"No . . . no, no, no, NO!"

Doc Anderson tears away from him and kicks out with all her strength, landing a sharp blow onto his rib cage. She can hear him cry out, but there is no time for satisfaction; she grapples with the door and rips it open, stumbling through, swaying so badly her shoulder hits the tin walls.

As she trips and drags herself through the house, coughing and wheezing, tears streaking her grey, drained face, she reflects that it's rather a shame that her house is not bigger. Perhaps she would have a window that she could crawl through, or a basement where the smoke would not reach her.

This is not the case, however.

Her house is a small one, just a shack, really, made of tin and cardboard and anything else she and her husband could find. The shingles are long gone-- they had made them out of bark originally, but food was hard to find, and their animals are hungry enough to eat anything. Apparently, 'anything' includes bark.

She collides with a piece of flat board and cries out, her hand flying to her face. She can smell blood, and it quickly begins to pour out of her nose, staining her hand and her lips a shocking shade of red.

A maniac laugh echoes through the room, and she flinches back, her head twitching up and around to see if he is anywhere near. The cackle bounces off of the tin ceiling and sinks into her ears, clawing at her skin. Ripping her hand off of her nose, she presses her bloody fingers against her ear, streaking her hair with scarlet, and lets out a high-pitched wail.

"Quiet down!" he yells, and a crash accompanies his words. Doc can hear the moment his fist meets the tin walls, rattling them until they almost fall down around him.

"Go away!" she screams in reply, trying to weave her way through the narrow space, trying to get to the door. It seems so close . . . she can see daylight through the narrow slit underneath the door . . . but he's smart. He's put lumber between her and the door. He's moved the couches, he's moved the tables, and he knows she can't move them back.

For the first time, she realises that she had no way of escaping.

She tries not to cry and yet utterly fails, tears escaping her eyes, sobs escaping her lips. She whimpers, trying to climb over the couch, but the tangle of rough, unpolished lumber slices through her skin with hot splinters, raking bloody rivers through her arm and neck.

"Stay right there," he hisses. He sounds frighteningly close.

Doc Anderson is going to die.

She lets out a despairing wail, trying to force her way through the blockade, dragging her hands down the wall of wood. Splinters slice into her skin, digging long, bloody wounds through her palm, her fingernails ripping at the edges.

She can hear footsteps behind her, and the tinny, rough sound of someone wrenching the door open. Her head swings around, her eyes going wide. Her blood thumps along through her body, carried by a pounding heart, going too fast to be healthy.

"Get away from me!" she shrieks. Blood drools from her nose and mouth, mixing with gobs of saliva and tears that still stream down her face. Sawdust fills the air, her shoes cannot find secure footing on the tin floor, she can smell . . .

Smoke?

Her eyes go wide. "You didn't," she whispers, and he grins, exposing a set of cracked teeth.

"I told you, didn't I? If you insist on hiding like a rat, I'll just have to smoke you out like one."

Doc's entire body goes hot, then cold, then numb and paralysed, stricken with terror. She can feel herself shaking, but can't bring herself to move, can't bring her body to defend herself, even as he steps forward. His silhouette is lit from behind by a growing golden light, flames leaping and licking at the door frame that looms behind her.

The room slowly begins to heat up. Tin, she remembers, captures heat marvellously.

"You wouldn't," she says, again and again, chanting it over and over, like some sort of prayer. He shakes his head.

"Oh, I did," he whispers, and he's grinning, a laughing madman surrounded by flames. His eyes are bulging, too wide, surrounded by a pasty white crust and shot through with red. His veins are visible through his pale skin, red and blue and green, winding through his neck and cheeks.

She gulps in the air, already hot and choking as the smoke pours in like a thick liquid. "You're insane," she stammers. "You're going to kill us both. And for what? Why?"

He leans closer, and she can feel his hot breath against her cheek. It smells sour and she cringes back, trying to get further away, though her back is already pressed against the blockade that she cannot escape.

"Because, my darling Doc . . . I wanted to."

Her breath catches in her chest and she whirls around, a new sense of urgency seizing her. "Well, I don't want you to!" she screams, and her arm shoots up, grabbing hold of something sharp-- what it is, she couldn't tell you, but it's heavy enough to help protect her, and she swings it through the air.

A scream erupts from the man in front of her.

Doc's arm, built up by years of tugging animals around where they did not want to be tugged, is much more powerful than she ever gave it credit for. The metal rod-- a crowbar, now that she looks at it-- flies straight through his cheek, shattering the bone and finally shaking to a stop as it reaches the spinal cord.

Blood is everywhere. Doc is covered.

A metal rod is implanted into a man's face, a man who is screaming, alive even as he dies, and she can't even see his features anymore for all the blood gushing from the wound, but she can see the bone--

Doc drops to her knees, her hand shaking so badly it drops the bar from her fingertips. Her eyes are glazed over, her limbs frozen and numb, stuttering movements bringing her hands to the sides of her head, raking her fingers through her hair. She can barely blink.

And then she starts to scream.

The man dropped down into a kneeling position, trying to get the rod out, still howling that pained scream, and now Doc is joining in. What else can she do? He's dying! She just killed a man!

They screamed and screamed, and finally, only Doc is left screaming.

He lays on her floor, surrounded by a pool of blood, his hands covered in red-black goo, fingernails twitching helplessly at a stick of metal forced into his skull.

Her voice runs hoarse, her throat rubbed raw from all the swallowed tears and blood, but she can't seem to stop. It's a whispering sound now, she's barely making any noise except for a rasping, coarse wail, choked and interrupted with sobs.

The fire, meanwhile, is getting closer.

Her vision is obscured by tears. She reaches out a shaking hand and touches her fingers against the man's face. The screaming finally dwindles, and she starts to cry.

She can hear the fire. It bursts through the door, eating up everything in its wake. The other room is a blaze, the tin walls blackened, smoke so thick she can't see the ceiling.

There is no way out for her. And she knows it.

"Is this what you wanted?" she whispers, her fingers trembling as they stick to his bloody cheeks. There is no reply. How could there be? He is dead, and the dead do not usually respond. "I thought you wanted me to leave this place, not be trapped in it forever."

Well, isn't that a twist of fate? She supposes there is no better way to punish him for his foolishness than by sticking around.

She stares down at his body, her eyes still spilling over with tears. Her face is sticky with ash and blood. Her hair sticks up like a birds' nest, bright, poppy-red lipstick covering her chin.

She looks like a madwoman.

"I'm not going to give you what you want, you rat," she hisses, and kicks his side. The body twitches, fingers stiffening, the man's head lolling to the side. She flinches back, but pushes her foot further into his side, chest heaving up and down with the force of her sharp breaths. "Trying to kick me out will only make me stay longer."

She leans down and grabs him by the collar of his shirt, bringing his face up close to hers. Her lips brush the side of his face, flecks of blood passing from his open wound onto her cheek. Her mouth parts, letting loose a soft breath into his ripped-apart ear.

"I swear to God, to Jesus Christ, to the Lord up above, I will haunt you until the day you are sent to the pits."

---

The hot sun beat down on the cracked soil. Rough weeds and dark green cacti sprouted from the pale, dusty ground, and the sky was a shade of blue that made you ache for a sip of water, no clouds to be found, sunlight pouring down onto the winding highway road.

It was the prettiest picture of the desert. Exactly how one would expect.

A few black birds were cackling up in the sky, scrawny and covered in awkward feathers that looked too big for their bodies. Nobody was around, except for the birds and one small lizard clambering up onto the biggest cactus.

Ah, Texas. So picturesque.

At least, that's what it looks like on a postcard.

Tommy lowered the glossy picture down from where he had been pressing it against the car window. He sighed, slumping down in the car seat. His breath fogged up the window, and he rubbed lazily at it with the side of his palm, his cheek pressed up against the glass.

The view from the postcard and what he was seeing through the window were two very different things, to be sure.

For one, it was nighttime, and a gentle fog blanketed the whole scene, giving everything a gauzy, picturesque feeling that Tommy would expect to find in an especially lovely forest-- not in a city in Texas. And, for another, well . . . like he had said, it was a city. In Texas.

He wasn't sad, exactly, that Texas wasn't filled with rattlesnakes and desert greenery (or maybe he should call it brownery?), but it certainly had been a bit of a shock to find out that Texas was actually a more urban state than . . . well, basically all of their previous states combined.

Iowa? That had only had a few towns, and apparently-- Ranboo had informed Tommy of this while he had been gawping out the window at all of the Texas cities they were passing-- only about one major city, if this 'Des Moines' could even be called that. Kansas and Wisconsin weren't much better, either.

Still, even if it wasn't just a desert, Texas was lovely. Tommy couldn't completely shove the tummy flutters away, even when he discovered it wasn't the cowboy-ridden, Wild-West type place of his dreams.

The city they were in was called San Antonio, a pretty, upright city that seemed to sprawl out in a million miles in every direction. Literally. As in, the city boarders suddenly appeared, and even when Tommy craned his neck to the side to try and see where they ended on either side, he ended up just staring into the horizon.

Which was just. Yikes.

San Antonio was a beautiful city built around a winding river, and full of blaring cars, neon signs, and glowing lights strung up on pretty much every building he could see. The skyscrapers brushed against the clouds, lit from inside with golden hue, and a wavering moon was reflected on every window pane.

Tommy shook his head to get a few messy bangs out of his eyes. He hadn't brushed his hair in a few days, so there was a level of tangled, knotty mess that it had become that was remarkably similar to how the fur of a skunk that had never seen a comb before would look. He ran his hand through the mess of curls and found that his fingers snagged on a particularly tough knot rather quickly.

"San Antonio is a lovely town," Phil remarked. "Just look at how beautiful it is! Take the time to smell the flowers." He was driving slowly enough that if Tommy had wanted to, he certainly could poke his head out of the window to sniff a flower. Then again, Phil didn't exactly have very many speedy options; in addition to being a 'lovely city', the traffic was awful.

"It's not a desert," Tommy grumped, but then he turned around and saw how Ranboo was staring at him, hopeful and expectant, and he groaned internally. ". . . yes, Phil. It's an awesome town."

Ranboo looked as though someone had just handed him a star and told him he could keep it. He clapped his hands together, overflowing with excitement. "I knew you'd like it! And-- oh, and we're not going to be staying here in the city the entire time, either, so you might get to visit some desert, too. We're just here for a quick stop and some research."

With that, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and started tapping away, whistling cheerfully to himself. "I've got a map right here of where we're going to stay. . ."

Phil glanced sharply over his shoulder. "What? We're not staying? You gave me specific directions, and they were to--"

"Oh, we're coming to San Antonio for a reason, I promise!" A somewhat suspicious smile was growing on Ranboo's face, making him appear like some supervillain who was intent on confusing them all. Most unlike a supervillain, however, he inelegantly bent over to look through his bag. A few crinkles later and he had retrieved a Rice Krispy bar, which he was unwrapping with evident delight.

As he munched, Ranboo swung his legs back and forth, drumming them against the back of Phil's seat. "Like I said, we're just here to pick something up. Nothing big. I just thought it'd help us on our next investigation. Phil, take my phone-- directions are right there." He tossed it at Phil, forcing the driver to take a hand away from the wheel to try and catch it.

Tommy cocked his head to the side, watching Ranboo gulp down another bite of his sweet like a snake swallowing an egg. "And what is this . . . something?"

"Chew your food," Phil reminded Ranboo with some asperity, glancing up at the brunette through the rearview mirror. "You're not a child, I shouldn't even have to tell you this, for goodness' sake."

"I am chewing," Ranboo said, his voice muffled through a mouthful of Rice Krispy, pointing at his cheeks to emphasise.

"Get on with it!" Tommy smacked the car door impatiently, ending up accidentally rolling the window down a little bit. They were experiencing a rather windy night, so this was an unfortunate turn of events.

In other words, wind came rushing into their car at about a million miles per hour to blast him right in the face.

He cursed roundly and hit the door until it rolled back up, and then stared at himself in the mirror for a good thirty seconds, running his hands through his already tangled hair. Once he had determined that it was a lost cause and he should probably give up on it completely-- well, until he had some shampoo at least-- he turned back around, scowling as he saw how hard Ranboo was trying to not laugh.

"Ugh . . . anyway, Ranboo, what is this surprise of yours?" He had some idea, considering the amount of phone calls Ranboo had been making lately (most likely person-shaped, person-sized, and perhaps it even talked), but he still needed some concrete evidence.

Ranboo pressed a finger to his lips, still curved into a sly grin. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait for your answer, my friend."

"Is it something that'll help us find out what the blue ghost was?" Tubbo interjected, startling them all. Tommy had thought that Tubbo had been asleep for the past several hours, so it was a great surprise to find out that he was somehow still awake, especially given his past history of falling asleep so easily-- even in cars, which were quite possibly the most uncomfortable place to sleep.

For a few seconds, everyone blinked at him. Then, Ranboo cleared his throat and bit off another corner of his treat. "No . . . I'm guessing probably not. But, I mean, the blue ghost was also probably one of the ghosts at the Lemp Mansion. Why would I investigate?"

Tubbo shook his head. His eyes were drowsy and lined with dark purple shadows, but he seemed awake enough. At the very least, he could talk coherently. "Listen, Boo, you're right most of the time--" he yawned, fanning his mouth with one hand and squeezing his eyes shut-- "but this time you're wrong. I've seen that ghost before. I don't know where, but there's something going on, and I want to find out what it is."

"Well, we're not here to look at a blue ghost," Ranboo said almost dreamily, his legs swishing back and forth to occasionally smack the back of Phil's chair. "We're here to look for the infamous legend of the--"

"Now's not exactly the time to speculate about ghosts," Phil cut in. "We've got somewhere to be, apparently. Ah-- here."

He slid easily off the traffic-clogged road and onto a smaller street, the car gliding into a slower, gentler pace. The engine purred, the car rumbling as it slowed down. Toast snored in response.

Tommy leaned back in his chair, staring out the window.

They had driven right into a narrow alleyway, trashed with pieces of litter blowing bout in the nighttime breeze. A few tiny stores were mixed in with the dingy apartments on either side of them, cracked concrete stairs leading to shopfronts displaying smudged windows and stained cardboard signs that either said open or closed. A few iron-wrought street lights flickered above them, sprouting from the array of square, brick buildings looming two or three stories into the sky.

Tommy tilted his head towards the stars, but all he could see was a sliver of sky. Stars flickered and sputtered like neon signs, and the moon and clouds seemed heavy, fat with water and ready to soak the entire neighbourhood. He flicked the window, smudging the stain of fog he had breathed out across the glass.

Phil brought the car to a soft stop near one particular shop called Superflowers, which had a cheerful depiction of a daisy flexing its (somehow, drawn to be muscular) leaves, a bright red cape trailing behind the stern, white petals. A mat on the front read All Are Welcome, and the windows were covered in what seemed to be snippets of comic strips, each one depicting a different plant-based superhero.

"Here we . . . are." Ranboo's cheerful shout dwindled down to a confused murmur as he took in the store. ". . . what?"

Tommy didn't blame his confused reaction. Just looking at that store gave him whiplash.

Despite the beautiful storefront, the shop was closed. In fact, it looked as though it had been that way for several years. In a depressing contrast to its cheerful signs, the glass was stained a muddy yellow, cracks creeping up and over the smudged glass like the stems of so many vines. The posters were peeling away from the windows, the colours fading, and the mat had soaked up so much rain over the years that it was practically oozing a slimy water.

This was how most of the shops looked, in fact. The alley, which would have once been a cheerful place bursting with customers, was now run-down and tired.

Everyone unbuckled their seatbelts and clambered out of the car. Tommy pressed Toast back down into the carseat, murmuring to him to stay. He didn't want anything to happen to the small dog, like getting . . . kidnapped, or . . . dognapped.

Tommy shut the door with a sigh, pressing the tip of his finger against the foggy glass, staring down at Toast, a reminder to stay put in his gaze.

It was a cold night despite the fact that summer was almost upon them, and Tommy had to rub his hands over his bare arms to stop the goosebumps from making themselves known. As it was, he was shivering quite a lot, and wishing that he had brought a jacket.

Tubbo wasn't doing much better, though. He kept swaying from side to side, his eyes glazed over. Tommy wondered if he should do something; Tubbo had only seemed to half-recover from the flu a few weeks before, and had been sneezing and shivering the whole time.

Phil ushered all of them underneath the awning of Superflowers, and there they all stood, shivering. Water dripped steadily from the green-and-yellow striped fabric and down into a growing puddle. Something seemed to be . . . growing in it.

Gross.

He snuck another look over at Tubbo, and saw that the brunette still seemed to be struggling with the concept of standing up. He had his hands cupped in front of his face and was exhaling warm air into them, his cheeks tinged red from the cold weather.

Tommy was beginning to wonder if he should help Tubbo stand up.

"You okay?" He shuffled a little closer, his shoes squeaking over the grey, cracked concrete. He heard a splash as he set his foot down, and very quickly, something wet started to leech into his sock.

Tommy closed his eyes for a quick moment, praying that his breakfast wouldn't start to curdle in his stomach. When he opened them again, he saw that Tubbo hadn't seemed to notice him, and in fact was still very busy trying to warm his hands up. "Hey, Tubbo? Bee boy? You there?"

Tubbo blinked up at him, then seemed to realise what Tommy was asking him about. "Oh, yeah! I'm . . . I'm doing fine, I promise. This place gives me the creeps, though." He shook his head back and forth, wrinkling his nose. "It's . . . all weird and, like, damp."

"Hold on a sec, I wanna ask Ranboo about this place." Tommy turned to stare at Ranboo, who offered him a nervous smile. Tommy bit back a groan. Well, that smile isn't comforting. "Mind telling me why we're stopped here?"

Ranboo looked around, his lips turning down into an almost anxious expression. "I didn't pick the location out, I promise. I agree, it's a bit creepy, but I think we can all get used to it . . . we won't even have to be here that long . . . hm." He squinted around the alley, and then, with a sigh, pulled out his phone. "Hang on, I want to . . ."

He opened his messages and squinted at them. "Where did he say . . ?" He scrolled up and through a plentiful amount of texts, finally stopping on what seemed to be a bunch of numbers.

Tommy, Tubbo, and Phil watched in silence as Ranboo stared at his screen, whispering to himself. "Third alleyway off the west side of Grove Avenue, look for the shop with the flowers on the front . . ." He glanced back at the front of Superflowers and sighed again. "Yeah, we're here. So where is he?"

"Maybe he decided not to come here," Tommy muttered. He pulled at the strings of his hoodie. The hood tightened a little, squeezing his curls so that one tumbled down to brush the tip of his nose. "Oh boy, believe me, if I had the choice . . ."

"Stop that!" Ranboo swatted Tommy's shoulder, a small, nervous giggle bubbling over. "He'll be here. He promised!"

"Who's he?" Tommy persisted, but Ranboo gave no answer.

"Can I go sit back in the car?" Tubbo asked, shivering. A few droplets of rainwater were clinging to his sleeves, a stain sinking into the olive green fabric.

Tommy nodded in agreement, rubbing at his nose. "Yeah, can we? This alley kind of sucks." He was most definitely not having a good time; the damp cold was bringing a flush of pink out into his cheeks, something wet was soaking into his socks, and dust kept tickling at his nose, trying to tease him into sneezing.

"I'm sure he's--"

Ranboo was cut off by the door to the shop creaking slowly open.

All four of them whirled around to stare at the now open door. The doorknob glittered in the light of Ranboo's phone, the light glancing off the tarnished metal and bouncing into Tommy's eyes to momentarily blind him.

None of them spoke for a good, long moment, except for Ranboo, who let out a tiny concerned murmur, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

Tommy moved a bit closer to the door, edging it a bit open with the toe of his sneaker. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Phil trying to usher him back, but his curiosity had already surged to a tipping point, and he craned his neck inside the doorway, trying to get a good view at what was inside the abandoned shop.

The door had drifted a good way open, so he could see into the shop with a fair amount of ease.

It was . . . dark. And putrid. Tommy wrinkled his nose and actually stepped back, sticking his tongue out with a murmured exclamation of disgust. "Ugh, that's rancid," he groaned, shaking his head.

"What's in there?" Tubbo whispered, eyes narrowed, wary of who might be inside. "Is . . . somebody inside?"

Tommy shook his head again. "No, it's just an old shop." But there was something odd about it. Unnerving. It was . . . perfectly spooky. Suspiciously so. It seemed almost like an organised attempt to frighten them into running away.

"So dramatic . . ." Ranboo mumbled, folding his arms over his chest.

Tommy glanced sharply over at him, but Ranboo, as though just now realising that he had said that out loud, clamped his jaw shut, his eyes going wide.

"What was that?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Are you hiding something?"

Ranboo nearly fell over. He managed to ready himself in time, his face going bright red, and stared at Tommy with wide eyes. "No. Whatever could you mean?" His face was still a lovely shade of rose-red, and his voice was much too loud to be normal.

Yup, something was definitely off.

"Out with it already," he demanded (perhaps in a voice that was a bit more forceful than it needed to be. But he was tired, and he couldn't regulate his tone when he was tired, so Ranboo would have to deal with his sleepy-angry voice until Tommy was awake enough to explain), stalking closer to Ranboo and narrowing his eyes, "tell me what's going on. Or I'll shake it out of you. I will," he added, seeing Ranboo's expression, somewhere between disbelief and fright.

Ranboo opened and closed his mouth several times, looking thoroughly stuck between the two ideas of either telling or not telling Tommy. "It . . . it's a surprise," he finally said, clapping his hands together and offering Tommy a bright, if nervous, smile. ". . . I think."

It was very unusual for Ranboo to be stuck in these bouts of indecisiveness. Again, Tommy wondered just what was going on. Was it safe to enter the doors of this strange flower shop? Would they immediately be chopped to bits by Ranboo's "surprise"?

Still, he thought as he stared at a shivering, freezing-cold Tubbo, it's very unlikely to be haunted. Their luck would have to be astronomically bad for that to happen. Either that, or Ranboo was much more into planning their untimely demise than Tommy had figured.

". . . let's come inside," he insisted.

Instantly, Ranboo's expression changed again, and Tommy watched in a mixture of relish and interest as he tried to figure out the weird cocktail of feelings displayed on Ranboo's face. Tubbo, meanwhile, hadn't figured out what Tommy was doing, and took a hesitant step backwards.

"Are you sure about going inside?" he asked, screwing up his face as though he had just eaten an entire lemon. "It looks awful. Worse than that soap factory, and that is saying a lot."

"Besides, somebody (once told me, the world was gonna-- okay, okay, I'll stop, sorry -A/N) might still own this place," Phil interjected, though it looked like even he was doubting the accuracy of that statement. The place was practically falling apart. It obviously hadn't been used in months, even years.

Tommy hummed. "Phil, c'mon. Look at the place. Nobody owns it anymore. And 'sides, Tubbo will probably start dying of flu again if we decide to stick out in the rain."

Stepping across the threshold, he raised an arm and beckoned everyone else inside.

Before anything else registered in his brain, the smell slapped him across the face. He let out a hiss of disgust, but damn it all, he wasn't here to wuss out before even getting inside the semi-abandoned, falling-apart, possibly-haunted, old-as-dust store! This was definitely a good idea.

Good . . . id--

Two steps into the store, he was caught off guard as his foot sank into what felt like a puddle of dirt.

Stiffening, he slowly looked down and saw that he had, in fact, been right. He had stepped into a puddle of dirt. That was what it was. A congealed pile of wet, mouldy dirt, blackened and somewhat green in places, crawling with what looked like-- oh, God.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes widening, and stumbled backwards. He hit something-- Phil, he quickly realised, as the man dropped something with a clatter and swore in surprise.

Tommy spun back around to apologise.

"Sorry-- I'm sorry. That just . . . surprised me." He flushed a pale shade of pink, feeling his cheeks warm into a reddish glow.

"Dirt?" Phil lifted his eyebrows at Tommy, and he shuffled backwards, rolling his eyes.

"Laugh it up while you can," he grumbled, stepping back into the store, "but we're all gonna be buried in that stuff before long."

He bent over one of the crumbling metal chairs to examine it, trying not to breathe too hard lest his nostrils be filled with the smell of sour rot. Behind him, the rest of the group stepped inside, each with varying murmurs of disgust. Tubbo made a retching noise, waving his hand in front of his nose.

"Are we sure this is better than the rain?"

Tommy didn't blame him for asking. The store was definitely disused . . . if you could even call it that. Actually, the best word that he was finding for it was disgusting.

Spiderwebs clung desperately to rot-green walls, the wallpaper peeling away to reveal splotchy wooden planks throbbing with mould. Ripped plastic bags were overturned onto what looked like chequered tiles, spilling great patches of moist dirt onto the squares of stained green and sickly yellow. Orange clay pots were stacked by the dozen on rickety, greasy metal tables that looked close to buckling over.

"I feel severely uncomfortable here," Tubbo declared, wrinkling his nose at the stench.

"Come on! Have you no sense of adventure? There might be ghosts!" Tommy waved his hands at Tubbo, who sent him an icy glare.

"I'd hope not. Tommy, I still have to tell you about something, can I--"

"Yeah, I'd hope not, too," Ranboo chimed in, cleanly interrupting Tubbo. "No ghosts here, please!"

Tommy glanced over at Ranboo, who seemed to be sweating quite a bit, despite the cold temperatures. He kept glancing around, eyes worried, crouched over like an animal being hunted.

Most suspicious.

Still, this wasn't the first time Ranboo's plans had worked out for the better, and Tommy decided he wasn't going to spoil them this time. With a sigh, he headed over to the back of the store, picking up a pile of soggy newspapers and flipping aimlessly through the blotted pages.

They were all from years ago, as far as he could tell-- the dates were mostly smudged, and he tossed several of them to the floor whenever he spotted a nasty bit of mould or a bug bigger than his fingernail. Luckily, no spiders yet!

Or ghosts.

Tommy shivered a little, goosebumps racing down his spine. There really was no denying it, the place was downright spooky, and his comment about ghosts had hit a little closer to home than he would have liked. Why did I think about that?

He let out a long sigh, shaking his head to try and rid himself of the eerie thoughts. They floated around like fog, sticky and refusing to melt off his mind. I should look around some more while we wait for Ranboo's 'surprise'. At least I'll have something to do.

He ambled around the store, kicking at piles of dust and dirt. Shadows sprung up at him from all over, sharp angles of darkness looking like claws, wide mouths stretching up at him to leer great, dark-fanged smiles in his direction. The wind whistled through the rafters, sending the shelves rattling, the pots banging against each other in a way that was too unnerving to put into words.

Tommy was staring down at the ground, hands stuffed into his pockets, when a particularly violent burst of wind howled into the store. He hissed in surprise, jumping back a few steps and bumping into the nearest table-- the one covered in a tower of ceramic pots.

The pots wobbled. They swung back and forth. They clattered into one another, staring down at him, casting a long line of shadow along his face.

"Tommy, get out of the way," someone shouted at him. He heard footsteps running towards him, but he was frozen in place, feeling like his feet were glued to the ground. The cracked ceramic swayed back and forth above him.

He opened his mouth-- to cry for help, to yell in panic, hell, he didn't know-- he could barely get any air out, his lungs seemed to be struggling just like everything else--

"Shit," he managed, and the first pot fell.

Tommy seemed to see the entire thing go down in slow motion. The pots were flying through the air. He was twisting about to dive to the side.

The only problem was that he had a whole lot of trouble trusting in his dive-to-the-side-ing abilities. It was much more probable that he was going to get smashed in the skull by these fucking clay pots, and all he could muster up for thought was that this was such a lame way to die.

But . . . the collision never happened.

Tommy watched as someone else dove forward, throwing the tower of clay pots to the side. They seemed to fall in slow motion, one crashing down to land on the table, shards flying in all directions. Tommy only caught a glimpse of the person's face before he was pulled away by Phil, but it was enough to spark recognition.

He stood, pulled aside in Phil's grasp, completely frozen in place.

In front of him was a man splayed out on the table, his hands stretched out in front of him, a white sheet covering the top half of his body. A cowboy hat was perched precariously on the top of the man's head. Bright neon-green Skechers flashed in various patterns on his feet. Now that he was sitting up and complaining about how he was going to have a headache, the sheet was slipping off-- and Tommy could see his face.

It was not a face he had been expecting to see.

". . . Charlie?" he asked, blinking several times to see if he was actually seeing correctly. Then, again, dumbfounded: "Charlie?!"

Ranboo sighed, letting his head drop into his hands. "Oh, God."

Charlie Slimecicle sat up, grinning sheepishly out at the four shocked faces in front of him. "Hey, guys. Hey, Ranboo . . . sorry I spoiled your surprise."

---

"I was gonna scare you guys," Charlie admitted, looking at the other people around the table, both embarrassed and awkward.

They were sitting in a homely cafe. Warm, golden light oozed out of the soft red-brick walls like honey, giving Tommy's face a rosy glow. Flowerpots covered a series of bobbing shelves, suspended from the ceiling rafters by string and nails. The whole place smelled like fresh bread and thick, black espresso, both of which made Tommy's stomach rumble. With a sudden gasp, he remembered that he hadn't eaten all day-- or, well, night.

Charlie was still talking, and, with reluctance, Tommy turned his head away from the lovely, bready smells wafting from behind the cafe counter and towards his friend.

"I don't think it worked quite that well . . . what kind of ghost saves the victim?" Charlie was bemoaning himself, practically pulling out chunks of his hair. "It probably wouldn't have even fallen on you!"

Tommy sighed, letting his head fall forward onto his hands, his fingers woven together underneath his chin. He stared into the milky-transparent glass that contained his milkshake, swirling it around with his straw and watching chunks of strawberry slide against the glass.

"Well, I was pretty scared," he mumbled, huffing out another short, annoyed breath in Charlie's direction. "What were you trying to do, anyways? You and . . ."

His head swung over to where Ranboo was sitting. Should he glare at Ranboo? He sort of felt like he should glare at him; after all, wasn't he one of the main reasons they had been in that shop in the first place?

Still, it was hard to feel angry at him when the poor boy looked so . . . dejected. He was sitting in an oddly stiff way, scraping a metal fork across a ceramic plate that held nothing but a tiny lemon tart. Every so often, he would give a little hiccup that seemed poised somewhere between a self-deprecating laugh and a pitiable sob.

Tommy winced, turning his gaze back to Charlie.

The man was still holding the sheet underneath his arm, and sometimes drew it out to mess around with the white fabric, mimicking ghost noises to himself. That plus the weird, obnoxiously large cowboy hat he had decided to don were both drawing much more attention to their little gang than Tommy would have liked.

However, to his credit, Charlie didn't seem perturbed by the attention. In fact, he seemed more embarrassed by the flop of a surprise than anything else, laughing and running a hand through his hair so that his bangs flopped over his glasses. "L-like I said, we were trying to scare you."

"Well, you did a bloody scuffed-up job of it," Tommy muttered. "Why did you even think that was a good--"

A loud yell came from the back of the cafe, and Tommy quickly recognised the bored voice of the cafe's only barista. "Orders up! One hot pumpkin spice latte with two shots of espresso and an extra pump of vanilla; one cold foam latte with a pump of mint!" The drinks mentioned were slammed down onto the counter, making Tubbo-- who had been dozing over his plate of tiramisu-- jump so hard he knocked his fork off the table.

"Oh, that's mine," Phil said, jumping up from the stall. The sticky, red-plastic back of his chair made a slight squeaky-tear noise as he got up, and Phil narrowed his eyes at the chair, craning his neck to see if any sticky stains had gotten onto his clothes.

"And I have the . . . pumpkin spice," Ranboo said, springing to his feet and nearly knocking his chair over onto Tommy's lap. "D'you want any help?"

"It's just two drinks, I should be fine." Phil waved Ranboo away. "What happened to you, anyways? You look like a train just ran over your pet rabbit."

Ranboo rubbed at his reddening eyes with one hand, sticking his bottom lip out in a pout. "That's nice of you. I don't even have a pet rabbit." He was making a noticeable effort to be cheerful again, though, in Tommy's opinion, it wouldn't really work as long as he still looked like he might burst into tears at any moment.

"I think he's sad," Charlie whispered in a voice that was actually much too loud to be a whisper, leaning closer to Tommy's ear and practically breathing the words onto his cheek, "because the surprise didn't go as planned."

"I gathered that," Tommy said dryly, pushing Charlie's face away with one hand. "It's kind of hard to ignore, what with him sniffling away like that."

He poked his straw in Ranboo's direction, tapping him on the side. "Sit back down; Phil has two hands, he can carry two coffees." That earned him a glare from the sniffler in question, who was, indeed, blowing his nose with a paper napkin.

Ranboo rolled his eyes and sat down into the chair, crossing one leg huffily over the other and making a point of looking in the exact opposite direction that Tommy was in.

"Now, if it was me carrying those coffees," Tommy continued, pressing a hand to his chest and fluttering his eyelashes at Ranboo (who was still stubbornly refusing to look in his general direction, the prick), "you wouldn't even have to ask if I needed help! Everyone knows that I have superb coffee-carrying abilities. I'm practically a master in the ar--"

All of them were suddenly startled by a loud crash that came from underneath the table. Tommy blinked several times, frozen in place, and then quickly ducked underneath the table to stare at Tubbo, who was clutching the top of his head.

"Tubbo? What're you-- oh." Tommy spotted the silver fork in Tubbo's right hand and sighed. "Did you hit your head?"

"The fuck does it look like?" Tubbo shot back, then winced again, rubbing slowly at the injury. "Ow, that freaking hurts . . ."

"You okay, big man?" he asked, trying to stop himself from laughing too hard at the ridiculous sight. He grinned down at Tubbo. "How tired do you have to be to hit your head on a table like that? Did you just forget it was above you?"

Tubbo mumbled a few more curses at Tommy and crawled gingerly back up, now holding his newly retrieved fork. He slumped back in his seat with an exaggerated yawn, letting his head loll back against the sticky cafe seat.

Great, I've got two completely helpless friends to look after, Tommy thought to himself, rolling his eyes as he emerged from underneath the table as well. Tubbo was stabbing at his tiramisu without actually lifting any to his mouth, only staring at it with a glazed look as though he wasn't quite sure how to eat it.

Sleepy and . . . sad-y. Tommy huffed out a laugh. I'm so good at words.

Tommy sent a glance Ranboo's way and saw that the American now had his head cradled in his hands, looking somewhere between completely asleep and full of violent emotional turmoil. When he saw Tommy looking, though, he popped up like a daisy to shoot him a sheepish, I'm-really-trying-here kind of smile.

Even more stares started to be directed their way, probably because of Ranboo's weird back-and-forth, happy-or-sad act, and Tommy thought he could even catch a few snippets of laughter. His cheeks turned pink.

"Alright, latte for me, pumpkin spice for-- I'm sorry, what happened here?" Phil stared around at the table, obviously befuddled. "Why is Tubbo trying to kill his tiramisu?"

"Oh, is that what it's called?" Tubbo glanced down at the sweet with newfound interest, nodding slowly to himself. "Mm. That's a fun name. Tiri . . . tara . . ." He sneezed. "Tirimasu!"

"That's not-- oh, well." Phil glanced over at Tommy and Charlie.

Charlie just shrugged, and Tommy quickly made sure to glance away, not wanting to take any responsibility for his pitiable companions. He was going to stay out of this.

"Forget coffee, everyone here is sleepy," Charlie said cheerfully, then instantly cringed. "God, I'm so sorry, that was horrible."

"Please--" Tommy held up his hand. "I just want to drink my milkshake."

Phil shook his head, sliding into the seat next to Tubbo. The boy glanced up from his tiramisu-stabbing activities and nodded sleepily at him, then lapsed back into methodically killing the dessert with a fork.

"I've got a few questions," Phil admitted, spreading his hands out and glancing around the table. "I bet everyone else does as well. Ranboo?"

"Ye-es?" Ranboo looked up. He had plunged almost instantly into trying to swallow the whole coffee as soon as possible, and had gotten halfway through by the time Tommy looked over. Steam still puffed from the hot latte, turning his cheeks and nose red.

"I'm curious, too," Charlie chipped in, leaning forward onto his elbows. Everyone turned their attention to him, and Ranboo made a confused noise, tilting his head to the side.

"But I explained most everything to you," he said, licking a few globs of whipped cream off his lips. "About the ghosts? I even told you what we're going to investigate this time. I mean, you can ask Wilbur, I've been keeping him updated on all this too--"

"No, I get it," Charlie shook his head, laughing. "It's a funny joke and all, but what are we really going to do here? What kind of weird prank involves pretending to be ghost . . . hunt . . ." He faded off, looking around at their confused faces. "You're . . . you're really serious?"

"Serious as the sky is blue," said Tommy, grimly. "Look, do we really look as though we're lying?" He grabbed Ranboo's arm, making the taller boy yelp in surprise, and lifted it to show the small silver chain dangling around his bony wrist.

Ranboo quickly snatched his arm back, but sent Charlie a defiant, I-told-you kind of look. "I told you about my chain before, you should at least remember--"

"Is that a bracelet?" Charlie squinted at the chain.

"It's part of a rosary," Ranboo admitted, rubbing his wrist. The metal links clinked against each other, shining dully in the cafe lighting. "Well-- it was part of a rosary. The cross broke off. It's a memento of our first case."

Charlie huffed and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. Apparently, he was still unimpressed. "You'll have to try a bit harder than that, friends. I've got bracelets too."

"It's true, we don't have that much physical evidence," Phil said, shrugging with one shoulder. He took a long sip of his coffee, gulping down a few hearty mouthfuls before setting the paper cup back onto the table with a soft exhale. "Why are we trying to prove this anyways? He'll learn soon enough."

"Yeah, I guess . . ." Ranboo flopped forward moodily, letting his arms splay out onto the table. "But what if he sees a ghost and is so startled by the fact that it's there and freezes up and dies? I don't want him to die!"

"He won't die," Phil said, exasperated. "He's a fully grown adult that knows when to flee and when to freeze. At least, I think he is." He took another long drink of coffee.

Ranboo chewed on his lip. "I don't want him frightened when he first sees a ghost, either," he mumbled. "We need him good and prepared for a fight!" He smacked his palm down onto the table, nodding decisively.

"Prepared . . . like a seasoned chicken leg," Tubbo said sleepily, lifting his head from where it was cradled in his arm. He yawned, just barely covering his mouth with one hand. "I could really go for a chicken leg right about now."

Charlie laughed nervously. "Y-you guys do realise I'm still here, right? I'm . . . sitting right here, and I'm also not a chicken leg." He shifted in his seat, the plastic squeaking underneath him. His cowboy hat tipped to the side, squashing down his bangs until they flattened down right between his eyes.

Tommy grimaced. "What kind of evidence do you even want? Uh . . . I've got a couple nasty scars to show for it, too, I think . . ."

"I have a scar!" Tubbo said sleepily, lifting his head from the table and blinking bleary eyes at them. "I bet I can beat all of you."

"Oh, that's fine, we're not comparing--" Tommy started to say, then was cut off as Tubbo slowly unwound the gauze covering the patchwork of scars that decorated his chin and cheek.

The first scar Tubbo had gotten was mostly healed, but when William had sliced the underside of his cheek open, it had re-opened the first wound as well. Both were pasted over with a crusty mat of dried blood. It was decisively horrible.

Charlie winced back, turning pale green. "Did you really have to show me that?" he mumbled, looking sick to his stomach. "That's not dandy, dude!"

"I know it's not!" Tommy grimaced at Tubbo. "Can you please put the gauze back on?"

Tubbo tipped his head to the side, looking like a confused puppy. Tommy distantly remembered Toast, who was still stuck in the car and probably wondering where everybody was. Tommy hoped that he wouldn't start to cry, but there was no telling, especially with such a fickle dog as that one.

He was startled back to reality when Tubbo began speaking again, still in that same sleepy, monotone voice. ". . . but why? I thought we were having a battle or something . . ." He stretched his arms above his head, squeezing his eyes shut and yawning again, this time so hard that Tommy's cheekbones hurt for him.

"Put. It. Away," Tommy muttered sternly at him, and Tubbo laced up the injury again, mumbling something to himself.

Tommy rather hoped that Phil would get them all to bed soon; Tubbo wasn't doing so good. Well . . . soon was relative to time, wasn't it? What time was it, anyway?

He glanced out at the dark sky through the glass door, noticing with a tiny amount of fright that it was actually starting to lighten again, the clouds turning the faintest shade of pink. He couldn't yet see the sun, but he knew it was soon to rise.

Normally, Tommy enjoyed a good sunrise, but he was having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that, completely by accident, he had stayed up all night-- again! He groaned, rubbing his eyes, then opening them again and staring around the room-- which seemed, for some reason, to be melting.

He knew this feeling all too well (in fact, it was probably unhealthy how familiar it was, but come on. Drinking a milkshake at obscene hours in the morning with friends was the perfect way to spend his time. He wasn't about to spend his precious time on Earth choosing health over fun), and in fact, could remember with clarity several times when it had surprised him after a late night of playing Minecraft.

He thought he could vaguely hear Charlie arguing with Ranboo about whether or not ghosts really existed, but he was too tired to really pay attention. He let his head bob lazily forward, chewing absently on the milkshake's plastic straw.

It was about that time in the morning, he figured, when Ranboo would scold him into going to sleep over Discord. Now, that wasn't saying much, because there were a great assortment of those times-- three AM, four AM, alright, fine, sometimes six AM-- but he decided it was just on the cusp of four at the moment.

"Tommy? Tomathy Innit, you awake?"

Tommy was pulled roughly back into reality, startled so badly he nearly fell off his chair. "I'm awake!" he yelped, the exclamation so loud a couple more heads turned in their direction.

He glowered back. Rude.

Tommy shook his head, rubbing away the spot of drool on his lip. He considered flipping the observers off, but by the looks of things, Phil was too tired to put up with anything, so Tommy would probably end up with his ear getting chewed off.

He decided it was safer to ignore it for now and simply enjoy the delightful milkshake in front of him.

Once Ranboo saw that Tommy was, in fact, awake (and draining the milkshake with all the force of a starved vampire), he settled back in his chair, grinning. "So, now that we're all awake . . ."

Tubbo snored.

". . . except for Tubbo . . . I have an interesting proposition." Ranboo batted big, sparkling eyes around at everyone at the table.

Tommy slurped up a few more drops of his milkshake, praying that that look didn't mean exactly what he thought it meant.

"I'm . . . sorry to say this, everyone, but I kind of already checked into a hotel and made a reservation for-- uh, tomorrow?" Ranboo checked his phone. baulked at the number, and quickly tucked it back away. His grin diminished for a few seconds, but then came back at full force, officially entering 'please-don't-kill-me' mode. "Er . . . today, apparently. And it's just a few streets down, and they don't have a parking lot, and, well, we're already running late to check in, so . . . we have to . . . just walk?"

Tommy stared at his friend-- no, not friend. Ranboo was officially demoted to acquaintance.

Oh, how he wished he could punch him.

"I am not walking in the rain," Tommy said flatly.

Well, to be fair, the weather wasn't exactly what one would call rain. It was more of a sprinkle, really, if even that. A few drops fell from the clouds every now and then, and it wasn't really that bad and please could we just walk through it because it's really not that far of a walk anyways--

Tommy levelled his best seething glare at his acquaintance. "Shut it, acquaintance," he hissed, turning his back and crossing his arms over his chest. Was he saying acquaintance too much? No, he decided, there is no such thing as too much of the word acquaintance, ESPECIALLY when it comes to Ranboo.

He glanced over at Tubbo and motioned for the brunette to join him. Ranboo made a pitiable whimper. "Are you avoiding me?"

"Actively avoiding you," Tommy sniffed. Standing underneath the awning of the cafe, there wasn't much space to be made, but nonetheless, Tommy made sure to stand as far away from Ranboo as possible. "Get it right." He was not going to stand by any . . . any . . . oh, what's an insult I haven't used yet?

"I'm not going to stand by any . . . any vile degenerates," he declared, sticking his nose up into the air. Ranboo, rather than looking sorrowful (as he should have; Tommy was very good at making his distaste known), just looked rather confused at the insult.

Although he also looked quite confused, Tubbo tentatively copied Tommy's posture, even making sure to stick his chin up in the same way that Tommy was.

Ranboo cried out in what sounded like anguish, plastering his hands over his heart. "I promise, it's not that bad, and it's not even that far of a walk, it really, really isn't," he insisted. Tommy couldn't see his face, but his voice was strung up somewhere between desperation and despair. "Come on! Won't it be fun to take a nice, long walk together? It would really improve our friendship-- our bond!"

Tommy whipped around to glare at Ranboo, jabbing an accusing finger in his direction. "Yeah, it sure would, if you hadn't already shattered that by making me stay up all night. The milkshakes weren't even that good!" (Actually, they had been, but there was no way in hell he was telling Ranboo that.)

"I'm sorry they weren't good!" Ranboo threw back. "But how was I supposed to know?!"

"I know you wouldn't know, because you didn't have any of them!" Tommy threw his hands into the air. "We're not even talking about milkshakes! We're talking about walking in the rain!"

"I don't know why you're being such a spoilsport," Ranboo said in a sulky voice, "when everyone else is so excited about doing this."

Tommy was ready to throw something.

He quite nearly did, except there was nothing really throwable nearby, except for a couple of stray rocks, and he wasn't quite angry enough to break Ranboo's skull.

Although, he had to admit, if Ranboo kept trying to convince him to take a walk through the fucking rain, he might be convinced. "Tubbo looks ready to take a nap on that drenched park bench over there, and you want to take him on a walk?!"

Leaving Ranboo practically speechless, Tommy spun around to shout at Tubbo to get off of the bench. The poor, tired boy let out an absolutely pitiful sigh, crawling off of the rain-wet metal. "D'you mean I can't sleep here?" he asked, sounding near desperation. He rubbed at his eyes, sniffling tearfully.

"Best to get up, I think," Phil whispered, taking Tubbo by the shoulder and pulling him close to his side so that the boy wouldn't flop over into a dead sleep.

Tommy was about to tell Tubbo exactly why he couldn't sleep on a park bench, but quickly found himself unable to speak-- partly because he was at a loss for words, and partly because Ranboo (like the vile degenerate he was) had started talking again.

"Look, of course I want to take you on a walk! Tubbo, and you, and Charlie, and Phil! I think it would be fun!" Ranboo was slowly raising his voice, a fact that didn't escape Tommy as he yelled out his exasperated response.

"Why would you think that in the first place? It is not fun! It is wet! And cold!"

Ranboo made some weird motions with his arms that Tommy couldn't quite place. "Well-- y-yeah, it's cold, but it'll be fun cause you're my friends! And I like spending time with you!"

Tommy drew himself up. "I like spending time with you, too! But I'm not willing to walk in the rain, you dingus!"

"You had no problem with stranding me in the ocean," Ranboo pointed out, and stared down at Tommy with an absolutely evil grin. He let out a soft, satisfied laugh, narrowing his eyes into tiny, villainous slits.

Tommy opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out except for a near-silent wheeze. How was he supposed to respond to that? At least in an ocean, you could swim! You couldn't swim in a drizzle!

"As amusing as this is, boys, I've actually got the directions to a nearby hotel right here." Phil held up his phone, showing a glowing red pinprick in a weaving maze of tan lines. "It's not far, and actually has a parking lot. If we want to get there before breakfast time, we'll have to start now."

Tommy blinked over at Phil, unsure whether or not to suddenly kneel down and proclaim his reverence for the man in front of him. "So . . . no rain?"

Ranboo stuck a hand out in the rain, staring up at the clouds. "Oh . . . it looks like it's stopping."

"Perfect! Now we can be completely dry in the car, which has a marvel of technology called a roof," Charlie said cheerfully, glancing around the street to find Phil's car. "I'm so glad the weather is finally clearing up in time for us to get into our car."

He had been driven to the cafe in Phil's car, since apparently he hadn't thought ahead long enough to realise that he actually needed his own car and that he should probably rent one rather than just using the local bus system.

There was, luckily, just enough room for him to fit in the front seat, while everyone else was squashed into the backseat. Phil, of course, always took the drivers' seat, if only for the reason that he could shout at everyone else to 'get your unruly arses into the seats-- and stop pretending to stab each other with the metal end of the seatbelt!'.

Unfortunately, this lack of free seats meant that Tommy was, yes, squished right between Ranboo and Tubbo.

Which also meant that, while one of his ears was entertained by endless conversation about what the ghost could be and how they were going to defeat it, the other was occupied by . . . snoring. And he was pretty sure that Tubbo was going to drool on his shirt if he didn't do something about it pretty soon.

What a lovely car ride!

He would have stared moodily out the window, if just to soothe his wounded pride, but he couldn't even do that while his friends were both hovering on either side of him. Toast, meanwhile, was on his lap, vigorously licking at his sleeves and nuzzling Tommy's chest every so often. It was his own form of comfort, which Tommy appriciated, though it also meant that he was even more crowded than he had been earlier.

Ranboo's shoulder pressed against his own and it was uncomfortably warm, though the warmth was still better than if the two of them had both been soaking wet from rain. That, at least, was a plus to this whole situation.

"Alright, so I know you're all shaking with anticipation about this whole new ghost thing," Ranboo said excitedly, spreading his arms and glancing around the car with sparkling eyes. "I know what you're all thinking: what's the ghost? Where are we going to go next?" (A/N: that's right, Ranboo, please finally mention the new ghost. I'm sure our readers are dying to jump into the plot so that they can read all about our beloved characters almost dying yet again)

Ah, Investigator Ranboo. Tommy grinned fondly over at his friend, leaning forward so he could prop his chin up on his spread arms. This Ranboo was much better than the Ranboo that would willingly drag them out in the rain.

"We gonna get mauled by another ship captain, big man?" Tommy asked. Toast, noticing that Tommy actually had a chin, quickly took full advantage of this fact and started to lick it vigorously. He had practically covered Tommy's entire face with slobber when he finally got sick of it and shoved the pup's snout away.

"Nope. There aren't any lakes around here," Ranboo said, grinning sheepishly. "None big enough for a cruise, anyway. There's a river that goes all the way through San Antonio, and I hear it's really pretty-- it's called the San Antonio River, if you can believe that. What a creative name, am I right? Sometimes they'll string it all up with fairy lights and--"

"Okay, not to disrupt our pretty little river infomercial time, but I thought we were talking about 'ghosts'?" Charlie raised an eyebrow back at them, and Tommy was suddenly struck with the realisation that . . . that was how his friends usually saw him. Seriously? All craned around the seat like that?

Yeesh, that was not dignified. He would definitely have to find a better way to talk to them if he wanted to maintain his gentlemanly air.

Charlie, meanwhile, somehow managed to pull off the ridiculous look, what with his lopsided hat and great, grinning smile. His tone was serious, but he kept glancing over at Toast as he spoke, looking almost as though he wanted to steal the dog away from Tommy. "So, we have one clue as to our elusive 'ghost'-- not a ship captain. Perfect! It should be easy to find out who it is now."

He was still insisting on putting quotation marks around the word ghost, as though he couldn't rub it in their noses any more that he didn't believe in them. Tommy was starting to get annoyed, and almost wanted to shove a violent ghost Charlie's way just to get him to stop.

But of course, that would be mean, and unfriendly, and probably deadly, and pretty much impossible (especially considering the fact that Tommy couldn't touch ghosts that weren't possessing someone), and so Tommy quickly decided against the improbable, really very bad plan.

"Well, we know more than that." At Charlie's jab, Ranboo embarrassedly stopped his rambling, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth to hide his nervous grin. "Um . . . we're going to visit a spirit named the Donkey Lady. She lives in the forest, so we're going to be doing a bit of camping this time, which should be fun, right? Right?"

Tommy huffed a little at the idea, rolling his eyes. He was too tired to argue with Ranboo about being outside too often. "Fine, whatever. As long as it's not raining out, okay?" He gave Ranboo a little nudge with his elbow, digging it into the taller boy's side and earning a cry of indignation as his reward.

"Tommy, stop-- but yeah, don't worry! I don't think it'll be raining-- San Antonio, and, well, Texas in general-- they aren't really rainy. I'm guessing this was a one-off." Ranboo grinned, brushing back a few locks of hair from his face. "In any case, I'm pretty sure we'll all have a bit of fun with this. It's an old urban legend, so not really a crime, but most everybody knows the story, so I'm guessing it's true."

"Does it come from an actual person?" Tommy pressed, drumming his fingers on his thigh. Tubbo snored in his ear, so loudly and unexpectedly Tommy jolted and shoved him away, nearly knocking the poor boy over as he did so. Even so, Tubbo didn't wake up, but Tommy still had to quickly pull him back up by the strap of the seatbelt.

After this awkward interaction, he turned back to Ranboo, sighing. "There's a great difference between a baseless urban legend and--"

Ranboo clapped his hands together so loudly it startled Tommy into silence. "Yes! I actually did research on this. It took a really, really-- like, a really long time-- but I was able to find the real-life Donkey Lady. Her name was Doc Anderson-- she lived in this city when it was just starting to explode in population. Uh, about half a century ago, I'm pretty sure."

"Oh? Sounds interesting."

"Hard to believe this city was anything but, y'know, big and huge," Charlie commented from the front seat, staring out the window. He hummed a few chords to himself. "And glowy."

"Really glowy," Tommy agreed, straining upward to look out the window over Tubbo's head.

Night was already ending, but almost nobody was awake yet. He didn't blame them-- judging by the car's clock, it was only 5:43, and anybody who woke up that early was either crazy or really busy. Tommy couldn't relate-- personally, 5:43 was usually when he was starting to fall asleep.

Dawn had been going strong for a few hours, and yet the streetlights were just switching off, and despite the rising sun, the sky was still a deep shade of purple. Shadows grew long and stretched out like gooey candy, cast by the long bands of fairy lights that trussed up the city's skyscrapers like wedding cakes. Tommy's sleepy eyes started to go blurry and he watched as the lights grew fuzzy, black spots blinking into existence in the corners of his vision.

He realised slowly that Ranboo was still talking, and blinked a couple of times, trying to wake himself back up so that he could listen properly.

". . . even when this city was just a bud, she was there. She lived mostly as a recluse, living in her house by herself, but she saved a lot of animals. Dogs, skunks--"

"Donkeys?" Tommy surprised even himself with how sleepy his voice sounded. He cleared his throat and was about to try again, but Ranboo interrupted him.

"Especially donkeys. She had a lot of those." Ranboo laughed. "This is where some of the legends start to fray a bit, but, uh, I think I found one that's mostly true." He chewed at his bottom lip, glancing minutely at his phone screen every so often, probably for reassurance that he wasn't messing something up. "She didn't have a lot of money in the first place, but then her husband died in a war. Without any source of income, she withdrew from society and lived in a tiny shack in the forest.

"After a while she just . . ." he shrugged, a lost look on his face, flipping his phone back and forth in his hands. "Vanished. Gone without a trace. Not even her shack is still there-- it's apparently just a pile of burned rubble. The whole thing is mysterious."

Charlie frowned. "What do you think happened to her?"

"I don't know!" Ranboo sighed, rubbing his hand against the side of his face, obviously at a loss. "There's just so many possibilities, so many different versions of the story from there. We know for sure that her shack burned, and lots of legends have formed henceforth-- her husband burned it down, a townsperson burned it down, she committed suicide . . ."

"Wait, wait wait--" Tommy held up his hand. "If her husband was dead, then how could he have burned the shack down?"

Ranboo shook his head. "How am I supposed to know? Don't worry, I've already ruled that one out. From what I hear, I doubt she would have committed suicide, either-- she lived for those animals of hers, and that fire probably killed several of those. No, there's no way."

"So then . . ." Tommy swallowed hard, forcing down a lump that had been growing in his throat. Toast pressed his wet nose against Tommy's throat, whining for his attention, and he had to push Toast's muzzle away so he could speak without getting tickled by a wet dog nose. "Someone burned it down, but if it wasn't her and it wasn't her husband . . . who was it?"

Ranboo sighed, turning to stare out of the window. "Well, Tommy, you've hit the nail on the head of the problem. I don't know. I guess we'll have to find out somehow, though."

"If Doc Anderson is a real person, no matter if the legend is fake, there will be records of how she lived," Tommy said decisively. "And the library here will have that. Somebody should go."

"And there's a witness," Ranboo added happily, his eyes brightening. "A Miss Cheryl Flick (no, I'm not using her real name, pls don't harass any women named Cheryl Flick), who lived in the same area and remembers a couple things about her. It's not much, but I think we might be able to find a few things out from her!"

Phil made a noise of uncertainty. "Are we going to be interviewing an old lady? I feel like we should leave those people alone. They probably don't want to have drama from half a century ago dragged back up."

"No, no-- she's not that old, maybe, like sixty-something?" Ranboo bit his lip. "I know it sounds a little bad, but she's been interviewed for several papers on this, so I'm guessing she's fine with talking about it. She doesn't seem to know much, though . . ."

"Maybe she'll know someone who does," Tommy suggested.

"Good point there, Tommy! So, who's going to interview the old lady?" Charlie reached a hand out, stroking gently, almost reverently, along Toast's head. Toast sniffed Charlie's hand, wagging his tail happily at New Friend Slimecicle. "Cuz I'm not good with old people. I mean, they love me, don't get me wrong, but the last time I tried to talk to one, it was all "when are you going to get a real job?" and "I don't want my grandson to be playing around instead of working". You know, old people talk."

Tommy giggled to himself. "But Phil, you don't talk like that!"

Phil's sigh was audible. "That 'unreal job' Charlie is talking about is also my current job, in case you've forgotten, Tommy. I know you can come up with a better quip than that, anyway."

"Speaking of which, I haven't streamed in a while . . ." Tommy twirled a lock of his hair around his finger, thinking to himself. Then he gasped, one of his older ideas coming back to him. "Ooh, what if I live streamed one of these ghost hunts?"

"That's probably a really bad idea," Phil said, though he sounded amused at the idea of livestreaming a ghost hunt. "Hold on, boys, it's about to be a bit bumpy--"

The car pitched back and forth as one of the wheels rolled over the curb, throwing Tommy forward into the seat in front of him. He had just managed to push himself up, coughing and sputtering, just as a loud screech split the air. The wheel forced itself forward, exhaust spilling from underneath the car to fog up the air, the car stopping for a full moment before hesitantly creaking forward again.

Tommy froze, staring out the window. Phil gritted his teeth and spun the steering wheel, turning the car to the side, forcing it off the curb. With a groan, another screech just for good measure, and a huge bump that sent Tommy, Ranboo, and Tubbo jostling over themselves yet again, they were in the parking lot.

The car growled to a stop. Tommy glanced around to see that they had stopped in a tiny parking lot right outside of a huge building, so many windows covering the walls that the whole thing was practically made out of glass.

Phil glanced up at the building, turning the car off with a twist of his hand. "Well, as you know, even ghost hunters need sleep. We're at the hotel. We'll get some rest, some breakfast, and then we can go wherever you want to find more information."

Tommy didn't really remember what happened after that. He could vaguely recall getting out of the car, shutting the door, and trying to help Tubbo stumble across the parking lot without falling back asleep. After that, though, it was all a blur-- and the next thing he knew, he was sitting up in his bed, staring around the hotel room walls.

Phil had picked a pretty nice hotel. A huge window took up nearly half the space of one of their walls, letting the rest of San Antonio-- or whatever could fit in the span of their little second-floor window, anyway-- unfold underneath it. A small, old-fashioned TV was propped up on a nearby table, displaying the morning news as Tubbo, ever the early riser, watched from his bed.

"Glad to see you're already up," Tommy mumbled, shoving the covers off of him. He had apparently buried himself underneath a heavy, thick blanket, almost too stifling to breathe in. Toast seemed to love it, though, as he was happily rolled up like a taco in the warm fabric.

Tommy half-rolled, half-crawled off the bed, yawning, and walked over to where Tubbo sat, upright and bright-eyed, on the bed across from his. As he did so, Toast glanced up from his spot on Tommy's bed, huffed out a little puppy sigh, and nuzzled back into the covers to go back to sleep.

To his surprise, Tommy was still wearing all of his clothes from the previous night-- even the jeans and socks, which he had thought to have been impossible to sleep in. Underneath his feet, the carpet was long and plush, and he wiggled his toes in it for a moment before clambering onto Tubbo's bed.

"What's up? You look tired," Tubbo said, not missing a beat. He grabbed Tommy by the arm and roped him closer, letting the taller boy rest his head on his shoulder. "Not get much sleep?"

Tommy was about to answer when he felt something curious underneath the side of his head. He drew back a little, frowning at Tubbo, then glanced up at his friend's face. ". . . are you shaking?"

Tubbo glanced over at Tommy with a bewildered look on his face. "What in the world are you talking about?"

Tommy stared at him a moment longer. Yup, there was no mistaking it now; the boy was practically buzzing like a bee. Did he get coffee? His eyes drifted over to where a half-empty paper cup was filled with a rich brown liquid. A few torn sugar packets sat nearby, dusted with white grains and leaning against a bright red stirring stick.

Fearing the consequences of a caffeinated Tubbo, Tommy quickly scanned the room for any mysteriously broken items.

"What are you doing?" Tubbo looked almost amused.

Tommy shook his head, relaxing back into the cuddle when he saw that everything was, miraculously, alright within their room. ". . . nothing. Anyway, d'you know what time it is?" He yawned, trying not to drool on Tubbo's shoulder.

Really, he tried.

But it was difficult, and he was tired, and it was really, really easy to accidentally drool when you were tired, and he didn't think that he had actually drooled but he didn't really know and he should probably stop thinking about it in case Tubbo read his worry in his expression.

No need to worry, though, since Tubbo had gone back to staring at the TV, apparently not listening to a word he had said.

Tommy raised his eyebrows, nudging Tubbo with his shoulder. "Time?"

Tubbo kept gazing at the TV, though his eyes twitched towards the corner, in which Tommy could vaguely read some blurry numbers. "Twelve thirty," he replied promptly. "Breakfast's been over for a while, from what I can tell."

"Ughh," Tommy complained, sticking out his bottom lip in an overdramatic pout. "I wanted to eat breakfast."

"We can still go get breakfast," pointed out Tubbo, nodding out the window at the array of little stores. "Just not from the hotel."

Tommy wrapped his arms around Tubbo's torso and buried his face in the back of his shirt. "Yeah, but I didn't wanna go outside," he whined, his voice muffled by the fabric.

Tubbo laughed, flopping back onto the bed so that Tommy had to jerk his head back or get caught between Tubbo's back and the mattress. "I was gonna wake you so that we could go together, but you tried to hit me when I woke you up," Tubbo admitted, the two boys sprawled out on the bed together, legs and arms tangled together. "Sides, I didn't want to wait for my coffee."

Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy could see the TV screen flash to a picture of a sun, a cheerful, dapper man dressed in a suit loudly describing the weather for that day. Ooh, is it gonna rain?

"And, yeah, I was a bit annoyed that you hit me," Tubbo was continuing, the words completely going under Tommy's notice, "but I still wanted to wake you up-- you know, like a good friend would-- but then you hit me again! With a pillow, this time!"

Tommy sighed with relief that it wouldn't be raining again.

"Are you laughing at me?" Tubbo's face turned bright red, sitting up to glare in Tommy's direction. "I'm not joking around! You hit me! With a pil--"

Just then, Tommy quickly sat up to stare at Tubbo, the brunette's previous words registered fully.

"Oh yeah! You got caffeine! God, I wonder if I should check for property damage." He could still vividly remember the last time Tubbo had gotten even a little bit of caffeine, the memory making him shiver a little. He considered checking in with one of the hotel employees to see if anything had been . . . mysteriously broken.

Tubbo rolled his eyes, reaching over and scooping up the TV remote. He chucked it in Tommy's direction, landing the hit right on Tommy's cheek-- his aim was eerily good, even with his gaze still fixed on the television. "I guess you're too tired to work properly right now. That's alright. I can wait."

Tommy glowered at Tubbo, holding his wounded cheek, and attempted a smack in retaliation. Tubbo grabbed his hand before the strike could even land, carrying on as though nothing had happened. "I can't believe you're still worried about the coffee. I can restrain myself, you know. It's not that hard."

"Alright, I hear ya," Tommy corrected himself, rolling his eyes. He yanked his hand out of Tubbo's grip, rubbing his reddened, sore fingers. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to offend."

"So, I hear we're going to go and interview someone?" Tubbo asked, jumping up from the bed and slide-stumbling his way over to his suitcase. He yanked the zipper down and pulled a mess of clothes out, hugging them to his chest. "That's probably important. I'll need to look the part, won't I?" He held up a grey jacket and considered it for a moment before tossing onto the ground.

"Wait, wait-- I thought you were asleep when we talked about that," Tommy said. He leaned forward, pulling his legs into a crisscross. "How d'you know about that?"

Tubbo actually blushed, looking guiltily away from Tommy. Tommy raised his eyebrows. ". . . Tubbo? I won't tell Phil on you, now just talk to me."

The next second, Tommy had a small notebook chucked right at his face. Before he had time to react, it smacked him right in the nose, forcing him to let out an involuntary screech. "Tub-bo!" he yelled, his voice choked, his nose and mouth muffled by both hands.

Tubbo gasped, quickly-- and poorly-- covering up a laugh with a choked sort of wheeze. "I'm sorry! I thought you had better reflexes!"

"I'm a gamer, Tubbo, what exactly kind of reflexes do you think I have?!"

Tommy, after making sure that he wasn't bleeding out of his nose and that nothing had been broken, pushed himself back up to a sitting position and glared at Tubbo. "This," he hissed, waving the book in Tubbo's position (it made that wobbly-wobbly vssh noise that plastic binders do when you wave them back and forth; it was very satisfying and Tommy was having a hard time being mad instead of relaxed), "had better be worth getting my nose bloodied.

"Wait, no," he shook his head, "no bleeding. No bleeding! There is no blood, there will be no blood--" he tried to intimidate his nose into not-bleeding by glaring at it, but he was pretty sure all it did was make him look cross-eyed.

Giving up, he flipped the book open and nearly choked. "This is Ranboo's book!" he exclaimed, staring down at the words.

"Y-yeah?" Tubbo fidgeted, grinning embarrassedly over at Tommy.

He blinked. "I thought this was in his locked suitcase?"

Tubbo swallowed. ". . . yeah? It . . . is? Or-- it was, I guess."

Tommy narrowed his eyes at Tubbo, shaking the book in his direction-- it wasn't completely intimidating, as he was cross-legged on the bed and now had to look up to meet Tubbo's eyes (something he was, understandably, unused to). But it would do.

"It's a bit like his diary, too," Tubbo admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "Not just a notebook. And I needed to know what was going on! You can't blame me," he whined, batting big, glittering eyes at Tommy.

"Oh, I get it now. Stealing? But come on, you're not some common thief, Tubs. Don't steal from your allies." He chucked the book back at Tubbo's head, half hoping to hit him in the face. Before it could hit him, Tubbo deftly caught it and blinked down at him in slight confusion.

". . . right. Do you want me to break back into his suitcase and put it back?"

"How am I supposed to know? I'm not the master thief and pickpocketer here, you know." Tommy flopped backwards onto the mattress, letting himself sink into its soft fluffiness. It felt like he was lying down on a bed of fluffy pancakes.

God, he would kill someone for a pancake right about now.

"Oh. He's up." Tubbo glanced to the side, and Tommy followed his gaze to see Ranboo sitting up, yawning widely.

To his credit, he didn't look very sleepy, but he did startle for a moment as though he had forgotten where he was. Maybe he wasn't used to being awake at obscene hours of the night?

"Buenas dias," Tubbo said cheerfully, smoothly tucking the book behind his back.

". . . what?" Ranboo's voice was scratchy, almost unrecognizably low. He rubbed at one of his eyes and peeked at the two of them. "Is this a hotel?"

"Aww," Tubbo murmured, cupping his own face in his hand. "So cute and sleepy!" He silently slid the notebook into an open drawer behind him, then leaned down to pick up a blueberry-blue hoodie, examining it for a moment and pulling it down over his head.

"He's adorable when he's tired," Tommy agreed, holding back a smile as Ranboo accidentally knocked a pillow off the bed and then bent low to try and pick it back up with a mournful cry. "Almost like you, bee boy."

Hugging the retrieved pillow to his chest, Ranboo squinted over at where Tubbo was still trying to wiggle inside the hoodie, his mouth falling open as he visibly struggled to formulate words.

"Are you . . . talking about me?" his voice was still slurred and low, rough like someone had forced a bunch of pebbles down his throat.

Tommy was about to answer when Phil cut him off.

"Are you guys awake?" His voice was sleepy but still audibly heavy with incredulity. "It's only . . ." He lifted his head, then, with a pained expression, let it fall back onto the pillow with a thump. "God, what time is it?"

"About twelve," Tommy answered, and Phil shot up, eyes wide. Tommy lifted his hands, trying to calm the older man down. "Woah, hey! There's no real rush for us to wake up, anyway, so it's fine! Calm down, dude."

Ranboo shook his head, at an obvious loss. "Twelve? How'd it get so late?"

Tubbo snorted; he had put his hoodie on and was now bundling up the clothes that had spilled from his suitcase into his arms, trying to force them back into the suitcase. "You want a list, big man? I think it had something to do with the fact that you kept everyone up until, like, dawn."

"I get why you like to wake up before everyone else now," Tommy laughed, slipping off Tubbo's bed. He shot a fond glance over at where Ranboo was struggling to comprehend the time, a grin growing on his face. "It's fun to watch everyone wake up."

He grabbed his suitcase from where they were piled haphazardly into the corner, swinging it around and shoving it in the direction of his bed. Toast lifted his muzzle up from where he had buried it underneath his paws, staring around at the room with bleary eyes.

". . . everyone's awake . . . 'cept Charlie," Ranboo noticed, turning his head from side to side in lazy circles, scanning the room for the only other American in the room (sometimes Tommy pitied Ranboo for being the only American, but most of the time it was just hilarious).

"Speaking of which," Tubbo said brightly, hopping over to Charlie's bed and grabbing him by the shoulders. He shook Charlie roughly a couple of times, staring down at him with a creepy smile stretched across his face.

"That's gonna freak him the fuck out once he wakes up," Tommy pointed out.

Tubbo glanced up for a second to frown at Tommy, then turned back when Charlie stirred a little. "That's the whole point, you-- oomph!" He was interrupted by a pillow being shoved into his face, forcing the brunette to stumble back, ripping the pillow off his mouth.

Charlie, still asleep, had chucked the pillow in Tubbo's direction, landing the blow squarely in his face. Still asleep even after this impressive feat, he was kicking at the blankets, his face screwed up in something akin to disgust.

Tubbo threw the pillow to the ground, staring at Charlie, clearly scandalised. "Jesus Christ, what the everloving--"

"Mom, I don't want any more carrots," the man blurted dizzily, whining miserably to himself as he flailed around in his bed like a dying fish. Tommy had to hold back a bark of laughter, clapping his hand over his mouth.

Charlie grunted, making a motion as though to push something away, his voice coming out slurred and heavy. "Mom, I said--"

Phil (who had gotten out of bed at . . . some point? Tommy didn't know, he had been a little bit indisposed by the fact that Charlie was practically pissing the bed in his distress) shoved the bathroom door open, slamming it behind him.

"I do not want to deal with this," he said loudly, shouting through the bathroom door. "Please, for the love of God, when I come back out of this bathroom I don't want to hear anything about carrots."

"Alright, that's all very well said and done, but how exactly do you suggest we wake him--" Tommy started, but the noise of a shower curtain being yanked back cut him off. He rolled his eyes, shucking off his shirt and tossing it to the side. "You'd think he would be more fatherly," he muttered, grabbing a red shirt and pulling it over his head, trying to smooth out any wrinkles as they appeared.

"He's basically our guardian right now," Tubbo agreed, laughing to himself. "But I think the carrots broke him."

Tommy turned around, done with getting changed, and saw, to his surprise, Tubbo pushing a pillow against Charlie Slimecicle's face. Unusual. He sighed, turning away from the weird scene. "Can he breathe?"

Tubbo hesitated for a moment, long enough to raise Tommy's suspicions so that he turned back around, but he was greeted by an assured grin on Tubbo's face. "Yeah. Don't worry, these pillows are especially breathable."

"You're tryna wake him up . . . like that?" Ranboo mumbled, sitting up in his bed. The blankets crinkled around him, wrinkling and folding over themselves to expose Ranboo's bare chest and shoulders. A crumpled, purple shirt sat on the floor, barely a foot away from the foot of his bed.

"Did you take off your shirt in your sleep?" Tommy asked, incredulously. "I mean, I've kicked off a lot of socks in my sleep, but a whole-ass shirt?"

Ranboo blushed a little. "I move around a lot," he said defensively. "It's not like I like doing it; it's really cold in the mornings and I can never find my shirts sometimes."

"Do you hide your shirts from yourself in your sleep?" Tommy let himself laugh at that, laughing until his chest was sore and there were tears in his eyes.

He hadn't laughed at all yesterday, he'd been too let down by Texas's cities, stressed about the new ghost case and Ranboo's surprise, not to mention the strange exhaustion that had clung to him all throughout the day. It felt good to laugh again, getting to grin at Ranboo's annoyed scowl again, his nose crinkling and eyes sparkling as he yet again pulled off a signature Tommy smirk.

"Where do you put them, in your nightstand?" he teased, tone dripping with sarcasm.

"There isn't even a nightstand here," Ranboo grumbled, slipping out of bed, though he still hugged one of the blankets close around him like a makeshift cloak. He glanced over at where Tubbo was still busy smothering Charlie and raised an eyebrow.

"Don't want to do that for too long," he commented. "You'll give him brain damage-- it's really easy to kill someone by suffocating them, and even easier to mess with nerve endings and communications. Smothering is a really messy way to go, too, so if you're trying to kill him you'd probably want to--"

"He's not trying to kill him, he's trying to wake him up," Tommy corrected, wagging a finger in Ranboo's direction.

"Yeah, weren't you listening?" Tubbo was sitting on the edge of Charlie's bed, still holding down the pillow. "He can breathe perfectly fine. I'm not even holding it down over his mouth. The trick-- if you wanna wake someone up-- is to drool on the pillow first. Now, that gets everyone nicely up and upright."

Tommy cringed in pity. "You drooled on the pillow?"

"Uh-huh. It works spectacularly well, doesn't it?" Tubbo glanced down. "Oh, I think he's awake." He lifted the pillow away and grinned down at Charlie, who was by now staring around the room with a bleary, confused look, his mouth slightly open.

"Nice to see you're awake," Tubbo said cheerfully, throwing the pillow towards his own bed, where it bounced off the blanket and slid to the ground like a particularly fluffy avalanche. "We've been waiting on you."

". . . to do what?" Charlie asked, obviously befuddled. "Why would you need me?"

Tommy thought it over for a second, then bit his lip. "That's actually a pretty good question. Why do we need Charlie?"

"Well, I was hoping someone would be our-- yours and my-- chaperone during the interviews," Tubbo explained, "and of course that's Phil. But someone also needs to make sure the library is properly researched-- that's Ranboo."

Tommy blinked. Maybe he was just stupid, but he was pretty sure that neither of those jobs involved Charlie. ". . . yeah, but what about Charlie?"

"Oh, well, he's just there to make sure Ranboo doesn't get lost in a book and forget that we need him back at the hotel by sunset." Tubbo grinned, putting his hands on his hips and almost glowing with how proud he seemed.

Tommy laughed. "You've got today all planned out, don't you?"

"Of course! I was awake for, like, hours with nothing to do and caffeine in my veins, what else did you want me to do?"

Ranboo slipped and dropped his chain bracelet onto the ground with a loud clatter, his fingers fumbling the silver metal instead of clasping it around his wrist like he had been attempting to do. He spun around to stare at Tubbo. "Uh, caffeine?" He shot a nervous glance around at the surrounding walls. ". . . is anything broken?"

Tubbo sputtered in outrage while Tommy tried (and failed) not to laugh out loud. "No! Nothing's broken! Look, I didn't even drink the whole--" Tubbo grabbed the nearby coffee cup, brandishing it in Ranboo's direction. The coffee, giving in to normal physics, sloshed over the side of the cup and spilled boiling coffee all over the carpeted floor.

Tommy yelped, jumping away from the splash zone and landing awkwardly against his bed. Tubbo stood frozen in place, his socks and calves flecked with drops of coffee. Ranboo had, in a fit of terror, grabbed a nearby pillow to hold up as a shield.

At that exact moment, Phil pushed the door back open, letting it creak on its hinges before stepping back out. He cleared his throat, running a hand through his damp hair. "Nobody's talking about carrots, are they . . . ?"

He stared around at the mess of a room: a barely-awake Charlie chugging water (uh, why was he doing that?), Tubbo standing frozen in the middle of the room, coffee drenching the floor, and about half a dozen pillows chucked around.

Steam puffed out from the bathroom door, filling the whole room with the faint smell of lavender shampoo. Over Phil's shoulder, Tommy could see a rubber-ducky yellow bathroom mat, a star-patterned shower curtain, and a slick, wet tile floor.

Phil's smile froze on his face, his hand still tangled up in his mess of wet locks.

Tubbo grinned nervously over at Phil, waving awkwardly over in his direction. ". . . hi . . . dude?"

A drop of shower water slid down Phil's cheek like a tear. Without even a single word, he stepped back into the bathroom, shut the door, and locked it again.

---

"Remember, we're bloggers," whispered Tubbo to Phil and Tommy, gripping their shoulders. "It's--"

"More difficult to trace than a newspaper, yeah, yeah," Tommy pushed Tubbo's hand away, rolling his eyes. "And we don't want them finding out we're ghost hunters, right? Yup, got it."

"Are you sure we're in the right place?" Phil squinted nervously out at the house in front of them. Tommy was a little worried, too, but he tried not to let it show on his face-- he wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't a mansion, for heavens' sake.

And mansion was definitely the right word for the house that was in front of them. Actually, maybe castle was a better pick. It was huge. And elegant. And, consequentially, absolutely terrifying.

He swallowed, forcing down the lump that had started to grow in his throat. "I did think they sounded like pricks when they talked about how poor Doc Anderson was, but . . ."

"Well, maybe we got the address wrong," Phil suggested, pulling a piece of folded paper out of his jacket pocket.

Tommy scoffed. "Not to doubt your detective abilities, Philza, but I don't think that getting the address slightly wrong would really impact how rich the person we're talking to is." He motioned around the neighbourhood, which was less of a neighbourhood and more of a collection of about three huge mansions, each surrounded by their own massive, fancified lawn. The one they were at even had a small pool marked with a little sign describing it as a 'gazing pool'.

Tommy had no idea what a gazing pool was, but it looked fancy, and he made a large show of avoiding going anywhere near it in case he accidentally broke its 'gazing pool'-ness.

Phil bit his lip and nodded, tucking the paper away again. "Yes, indeed. I just hope it doesn't go as badly as the interaction with Mr. Crow did . . . ugh."

Both Tommy and Tubbo shivered at the memory. "I hope not," Tubbo muttered, rubbing at his arms as though he were cold. "That was a nightmare."

"So . . . let's get started?" Phil smiled nervously around, taking the first step forward.

"Bloggers?"

Mrs. Flick lowered her teacup from her mouth, blinking politely at the group sitting in front of her. She laughed delicately, setting the teacup back down on its tiny china plate, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a lace napkin. "Well, I'll be. I heard that this was an interview, but it's sure been a minute since I talked to one of you folks."

"I hope you don't mind that we came to your house," Tommy said, smiling charmingly over at the lady. "I understand the last interview you participated in was over the phone, so you have our apologies if you feel uncomfortable."

In fact, they were not in her house. They were in her back garden-- one of three seperate, huge gardens, it seemed, each one with sprawling bushes and hedges carving out leafy mazes. This one was weepy and elegant, trees bending and curved in the wind, displaying the telltale drooping branches of weeping willows. Everything, including the stone pillars and the brick walls, was covered in a mess of thin, dark green vines that glittered in the sun and barely supported heavy flowers full in bloom.

It was very extravagant, and very beautiful, and Tommy didn't want to touch anything because he was pretty sure that one single broken thing would cost him about two million dollars.

Still, he politely took a sip of his tea, wincing as a few cubes of ice bumped against his front two teeth. What was it with Americans and putting ice in their tea? He didn't understand it at all. He quickly set the china back down onto the small plate, licking at his bottom lip to lap up some of the sticky, sweet tea residue.

"Uncomfortable?" Flick smiled, shaking her head. "No, not at all. And for goodness' sake, please don't be sorry."

She was a short, middle-aged woman, her mouth surrounded by smile lines and her eyes crinkling warmly at the edges. Her ears and neck were decorated by jewel-encrusted chains, her thick, yet white-streaked hair tied up in a loose topknot.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," she giggled, leaning forward to let her chin droop onto her white-gloved hands. "Especially not when the interviewers are such handsome boys." She batted large eyes over at Phil, and it took everything in Tommy not to bust out laughing.

Phil, however, took it in stride, dipping his head in a nod. Tommy watched, amused, as the corners of his lips twitched, an obvious struggle breaking out as he tried not to grin. "Thank you for the compliment."

"Of course." Flick raised the teacup back up to her lips, taking a long sip. "Now, tell me a bit about what you'd like me to tell you. I can prolly-- er, probably take an educated guess, but it does cheer an old lady up to hear the happy chattering of young boys like yourselves."

Tommy shared a look with Tubbo, then cleared his throat. "Um . . . yeah." Mrs. Flick was nowhere near being an 'old lady', she was probably closer to forty than she was fifty, but she had laid on the persona quite thickly, and Tommy didn't want to say anything to accidentally offend their interviewee.

"We're here to ask you about the Donkey Lady-- uh, Doc Anderson." He picked up one of the other lace napkins, daubing at his mouth and feeling extremely self-conscious.

"We'd like you to tell us whatever you can about her demise, specifically," Tubbo said, turning up the charm to blinding levels. His grin was so bright it was practically glowing. "We'd like to know the truth so that we can perhaps put a stop to all of these gnarly rumours circling around on the Internet."

"Oh, goodness me," exclaimed Mrs. Flick, pressing a hand to her chest and blinking away dramatic tears. "Yes, there are so many awful rumours. I've heard them talking, y'know, and it's simply terrible. I'm sure you'll do a much better job than those gawd-awful sleazes-- oh, er, those horrible people."

She seemed to be trying to put on a fancy, elegant tone of voice, yet her thick Texan accent kept slipping out. She looked fairly embarrassed by this, her cheeks colouring a deep red each time she caught herself.

Phil nodded. "We'll do our best, ma'am."

"Ma'am!" She made a noise like a gasp, and for a moment Tommy was worried that she had choked on her tea. "Why, it's been so long since someone's called me that. So formal. Dearie, you can just call me Cheryl. Much more . . . casual."

Tommy took a deep, steadying breath, then continued to speak, praying that his voice would sound as steady as he wanted it to. "W-well, yes, um, back to the matter at hand."

Mrs. Flick giggled, her pale cheeks blushing to a pale pink, the colour not dissimilar to the china she was drinking out of. "My apologies, darlings. Please, do continue."

"We were hoping we could get the full story from you," Tubbo explained, pulling a small notebook out of his pocket. Tommy shot a sharp glance over at it, making sure that it wasn't Ranboo's, but to his relief, it was just some small notebook that he had picked up . . . somewhere?

Tubbo, sensing his confusion, glanced over at him and mouthed at him to close his mouth. "You'll disturb our moment," he whispered, hiding the words behind an exaggerated sip of his tea. Then he cleared his throat, turning back to Mrs. Flick. "Um, ma'am? The story?"

"Of course, of course." Mrs. Flick drained the rest of her tea, then reached over the small table to pick up the pitcher, pouring a generous helping back into her cup. "Well, I was rather young when all this started, but I can still remember what happened with vivid clarity.

"Doc Anderson was . . . oh, she was widely respected as the go-to animal woman. She could remove a skunk like no-one else! God and heaven, there was nobody like her." Her eyes grew slightly glassy as the memories flooded in, a little sigh escaping her painted lips. "Oh! I'm getting emotional, do pardon me."

"No, if you don't want to do this, you don't have to." Tubbo smiled placidly at Mrs. Flick. "If you're getting emotional, feel free to take a break or whatever you need."

"You're such a sweetheart," she cooed. "Doc was just the same. But nobody else saw her as such-- I suppose it's not that surprising she became such a legend; she did look rather strange . . . did you know, she always used to wear this bright red lipstick? Everyone said she looked like a Halloween costume-- she kept wearing this strange, floral bonnet," Mrs. Flick mimed tying the straps on a bonnet underneath her chin, "and her hair was so very dark. Like charcoal."

"I've heard people say that," Tubbo said excitedly, pointing a pen in Mrs. Flicks' direction. "They also say that her appearance was changed by the fire she was in. That's what we're here for-- we want to find out exactly how she died."

"Anything you can tell us is very helpful," Tommy added, trying to exude sweetness as much as Tubbo was effortlessly doing.

"Mm-mm. What a horrid end. Some people are saying that she died from a heart attack-- what crap!" All three of them jolted a little, surprised by Mrs. Flick's sudden exclamation. A moment afterwards she seemed to realise what she had said and, blushing delicately, pressed the back of her hand against her lips. "Oh, my apologies. It's just that . . . well, that old lady . . . there is no way she would have died like that. And anyone who thinks so is a fool for doing so."

"So, what's your opinion on the story?" Tubbo drummed the pen against his leg, gazing shrewdly at the lady.

"Oh, I can't possibly know everything that happened. It's rather difficult to explain, rather difficult to piece together what actually happened, you know-- history." Mrs. Flick set her teacup back down on the plate. She had drained the whole thing again, and reached for the pitcher to pour herself her third cup. Tommy wondered how she was getting through so much tea so quickly.

"History can be complex, but we've heard from several other people," (lie) "and we hope that your story will be the last puzzle piece." (truth! Tommy was hoping to interview one person and get it over with entirely) "I've heard some people say that Doc lived in a squatter's shack-- is that correct?" Tommy took a long sip of his tea, trying not to wince as an ice cube slipped inside his mouth and ran down his throat.

"That is correct. They lived in a small house-- oh, her and her husband, that is-- for many years, but eventually they were kicked out and were eventually displaced to a small forest just off the side of O'Connor Road. It's called the Robards."

"Is that in San Antonio?" Tommy's eyebrows shot up. This was new information for all of them. He had rather assumed, after hearing that she lived in a forest, that she had escaped San Antonio to live a life of forests and recluse . . . ism.

Mrs. Flick paused at that. "Well, I wouldn't call it San Antonio. That part of the city is rather, if you'll excuse me for saying so . . . dingy. Disused, if you will. Where she lived, there was nobody around for miles. Of course, the city has encroached on the forest borders a little bit more since then, so it's a little smaller now. Maybe . . . about a square mile? Full of roads, you know, but they're all abandoned-- nobody lives there. Let me tell you, I wouldn't want to find myself stuck in there. It's easy to get lost, you know."

"So, we were hearing something about a bridge," Tommy pressed. "The Donkey Lady Bridge?"

"I remember, I remember. That bridge is pretty far away from where she died, though, so it would be odd to see her there. But still, she was quite tangled up in that legend. It's no surprise, given how much she loved the things when she was alive. I sometimes think that she'd live on as a ghost just to help keep them alive . . . oh, they needed it. Those poor things."

"Poor things?" Tubbo echoed, looking up from what he had been scribbling down on his notepad.

"Yes, oh yes. Those donkeys of hers, they were the victims of most of the pranks." Mrs. Flick took a generous bite of a macaron, nearly swallowing the whole thing in one mouthful before continuing, seeing their puzzled expressions. "Oh, did you not know about the pranks?

"You see, most of the kids were terrified of Doc Anderson and fear fuels hatred, as they say. They would play pranks on Doc . . . if you could even call them that. They would go out to her shack, cut the ropes on the donkeys, sometimes even kill them. Doc was heartbroken. I would hear her trying to round them up sometimes, and she would always be crying. This was at the point at which Oscar, her husband, was already dead-- he'd had a heart attack a year or two before, in 1981 I believe?"

Tommy filed that away for later, remembering with a smirk the apparently incorrect information Ranboo had gotten that said Doc's husband had died in a war. He was definitely going to taunt Ranboo now that he knew this. He barely had any time to think about it, though, because Mrs. Flick continued on.

"God, I felt sorry for that poor old woman. But that's not the last awful thing that happened to her, either! A year later, in 1983 or so, some terrible man came in the night, thinking he owned the property, and tried to force her out of her shack. I remember there was some kerfuffle-- some drama surrounding that. I'm not entirely sure what happened, but the same day, Doc had vanished and the man was being charged with illegal eviction."

"Do you know what happened to the man?" Tommy questioned, leaning forward. He watched Mrs. Flick think for a good, long while, then she shook her head, apologetic.

"No. I'm afraid I can't even remember his name. But there was some problem with the lawsuit super early on and it was forced to be dropped-- I heard one person say that Oscar died halfway through, forcing Doc into reclusion, but that can't be true. By that point, he was already dead."

Phil hummed. A small bird on a nearby hedge chirped along with him, and his lips twitched upwards into a smile before he cleared his throat and continued talking. "What do you think about the rumour that she died in a fire?"

"I think it's perfectly possible that that horrible man killed her in a fire. I never did hear what happened to that old shack of hers, but I expect it was nothing good." Mrs. Flick shook her head. "I just feel bad for her. She didn't deserve any of that. She was the sweetest woman."

"I've heard that the fire permanently disfigured her, and her ghost, too," Tubbo said. "But that part is just conjuncture, since nobody really knows what happened to her. If there was a fire-- unlikely in the first place-- she could have escaped, and--"

"Doc?" Mrs. Flick snorted, shaking her head. "Oh, honey, you've got it wrong."

Tubbo blinked, looking a little put-off at being interrupted. "Wrong?"

"I doubt she could have escaped. She was very stubborn-- oh yes, I think she would have fought to the death-- but escaped? No. Gosh, no. She would have come back if she did escape, even if it was just to unhook the donkeys and save them. She would not leave a burning house without those animals. That, and the fact that she lost an arm . . ." Mrs. Flick shrugged. "If someone wanted to trap her, it would have been very easy."

Tommy felt his stomach flip upside down. "O-oh. Well, that's . . ."

". . . horrible, of course," Phil finished. Tommy felt the man put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it very gently. "Well, thank you, Mrs. Flick. This has been a most educational interview, and I thank you dearly for your time."

Mrs. Flick smiled warmly at their little group, her eyes crinkling around the edges. "Of course. It's the least I could do. I understand what it's like being curious."

"Yeah, of course." Tommy stood up, brushing a few mararon crumbs from his legs, smiling back at the lady. Despite the rambling and the weird tea, she seemed nice enough, and had been really eager to help them out. "If you need anything, a favour, anything at all, feel free to just ask, alright?"

"Well, I can't think of anything I'd like," she laughed, "but I'll keep that in my back pocket. Thank you, dears."

They turned around to go, a tall, lanky boy dressed all in black and white ushering them out. Mrs. Flick paused for a moment, then motioned quickly at them. "Oh, and Toby?"

Tubbo turned around, surprise evident on his face. "Yeah?"

"Come here, will you, sweetie?"

"Um, okay." Tubbo hesitantly approached the lady. She smiled down at him, leaning down to cup her hand around her mouth, whispering something quietly into his ear. Tubbo's eyes went wide, and he stared at her for a couple seconds, his hand flying over to his pocket.

"H-how--"

Mrs. Flick smiled, her eyes sparkling. "This old lady still has some tricks up her sleeves. Now, you just take good care of that boy you've got in your pocket, understand?"

Tommy's ears perked up. What did that mean?

Tubbo seemed to understand, though. He nodded vigorously, his face still a mask of shock. "I-I will. Yeah, yeah, sure."

Mrs. Flick pressed a napkin full of macarons into Tubbo's hands, then shooed him away, grinning fondly at the shorter boy. "Go on, now. And I expect to hear from all of you about how your adventure is going."

"Sure thing, ma' am!" Tommy waved to Mrs. Flick, smiling widely.

He wouldn't mind hearing from her again.

Phil pulled into the parking lot next to the library.

The sun was midway up in the sky, the day only barely halfway through-- much earlier than Tubbo had estimated they would be done with their interview. Tommy wasn't sure what Tubbo had thought they would be doing that their interview carried on for hours, but no matter his reasoning, he had been dead wrong.

He enjoyed sticking this fact in Tubbo's face all the way to the library, until Phil pulled the car into park and tugged the keys out from where they were stuck in the ignition.

"Are we sure Ranboo will be done yet?" Tommy asked, suddenly actually worried that they might be interrupting research. Toast was curled in his lap, snoozing away, and Tommy had to carefully lean over the small dog so that he wouldn't wake him, hoping to slide his harness on with as little fuss as possible.

He paused for a second, grabbing the straps of the harness tossed carelessly onto the dashboard, and began fitting them around Toast's neck. "He might still be working on looking over . . . important . . . documents, or something of the sort."

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Phil replied, sliding out of the car. He slammed the door behind him, glancing over his shoulder at the large brick building titled the Thousand Oaks Library, one of about a dozen libraries built in San Antonio. Toast, just now realising that they were in a different location and that he should investigate immediately, woke up with a start and started pawing at the car door handle, whining.

"In a second, Tos," Tommy laughed, unbuckling his seat. They were taking the small dog with them, mostly for moral support, but also partly because it was a hot day and Toast could easily overheat in the car. "Jeez, give a dude some time to think."

The library was a ways away from where Tommy and Tubbo had driven to, but the trip wasn't that long, and as such Tommy hadn't actually been given a lot of time to think about what to do if they were dragging Ranboo away from his research. Ranboo tended to mimic a hissing cat whenever they interrupted him, or at least, that was the image Tommy had gotten the last couple times he had interrupted him.

He really didn't want to deal with it, especially when he was running on six hours of sleep and a green tea he had purchased at a gas station a few blocks away. That was a recipe for disaster.

"Pretty," Tubbo remarked, shutting the door behind him. Tommy, who was in the middle of closing his own door, glanced around as Toast jumped out of the door and strained against his leash. It seemed that Tubbo's aesthetic tastes weren't entirely fucked up this time.

While the building was made up of mostly brick, it had been built from two different colours, giving it a striped feel. A few banners proclaiming the library's celebration of Juneteenth were pinned up on the rafters. The ceiling slanted towards the entrance, creating a pointed arch right above the main doors, and the inside buzzed with the warm sounds of electric lights and laughter.

It gave off a comforting feel, like being folded in a blanket, although the thought of being folded in a real blanket made Tommy sweat. The San Antonio heat was not to be taken lightly, apparently, and he was starting to regret not wearing a tank top in lieu of his regular t-shirt.

Back to the library! There were things to be done, like finding Ranboo and trying to escape the American's annoyance at being interrupted. Boy, Tommy sure was looking forward to that! (Not.)

He rolled around a stray pebble with the toe of his shoe, staring quizzically at the library. Another thought had just come to mind. "Are we sure they'll actually find . . . information here? You know, on Doc Anderson?" He kicked the pebble, sending it flying into a nearby lamppost, and Toast lunged after it with a growl.

"Pretty sure. It's the closest library around. Why?" Tubbo squinted over at him from underneath his hand, pressed on top of his forehead to shade his eyes.

"Uh, nothing. It's just, it doesn't look that fancy." He motioned to the building, which was, to be fair, a little drab.

"Tommy! It's plenty fancy, don't be rude. You might hurt its feelings!"

Tommy turned to stare at Tubbo, who still had his eyes screwed up as though he were scared that if he opened them, even a little bit more, the sun would immediately target and disintegrate them.

"The feelings of a building?" he echoed. Tubbo would have described his voice as 'dripping with sarcasm', but Tommy preferred to think of it as 'pointing out the truth in a brutally honest way, Tubbo, it's not my fault if you can't handle it'.

It was true, though he hadn't meant to be rude. It looked more like a children's library than anything else. It was even slightly smaller in stature than the rest of the buildings around it, making Tommy duck a little just to get underneath the doorway.

He scowled up at the frame. "Why is it so short?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling just a little bit prickly that it wasn't made to accommodate people of his size.

"Why are you so tall?" Tubbo shot back, stepping underneath with ease, grinning up at Tommy as he brushed the tips of his fingers against the doorway. "Maybe you need to be compressed, ever think about that?"

Tommy narrowed his eyes at Tubbo, but at Phil's warning glance he shut his mouth and started glancing around for Ranboo, already preparing himself to be bombarded with questions like 'why didn't you give us more time?' and 'I told you not to interrupt me!' and 'it's three AM, Tommy, what could you possibly have to ask me?!'.

Alright, fine, the middle one was a statement, not a question, but you got his drift.

He sighed. "Now, if I was an enderboy, where would I go . . . ?"

A few kids ran by him, laughing gleefully at each other as they tripped over wrinkles in the carpet and danced around the walls. A harried-looking man chased after them, breathing heavily, apparently trying to round up all three of the children. Toast tried to jump after them, but Tommy kept a tight hand on his leash, watching as the man continuously grabbed one by the shirtsleeve, only to quickly lose control of another.

Trying to take control of all the rowdy kids seemed to be an impossible task, and Tommy watched in amusement and amazement as he finally managed to shoo them out of the front door, tossing an exhausted sounding apology to the clerk at the front desk.

"Where? Well, maybe he went over to the files?" Phil suggested, looking over at the front desk. "I'm sure they have some sort of newspaper archives on hand, and if Ranboo's smart, that's where he'll go first."

"Well, I know he's smart," Tommy muttered to himself. He turned back to the group, tearing himself away from the hilarious scene of the three kids and their guardian. Toast, whining in frustration, sadly turned away from his possible friends, too. "But smart enough to think of old newspapers? Ehh, doubtful. Let's just look around for a bit."

They ambled around the library for a few minutes, calling out Ranboo and Charlie's names until Tommy's throat was . . . well, not sore, but definitely tired. Yelling was something he was used to, but yelling actually coherent words? That was something new.

Finally, they gave up and trudged back to the desk, where Tommy (in his hoarse voice, filled to the brim with annoyance at Ranboo at not showing up like he was supposed to) asked the friendly ladies at the front desk where their 'tall, skinny, brown-haired' friend could be.

"That's half the people in here right now, sugar," replied the blonde lady, tapping her lollipop-shaped pen against the glossy desk counter. Her lips were covered in a bright pink lip gloss, her wrists dripping with various bracelets.

"Oh . . . really?"

"Really. This here is San Antonio, it don't get much more 'tall, skinny, brown-haired' than this." She smiled apologetically at the three standing dejectedly in front of her desk, lifting her arms in a helpless shrug.

Tommy sighed, nodding. Toast licked his ankle, already living up to his title as the moral support. "Alright. I guess we'll just keep looking."

"Maybe they went out for coffee," Tubbo suggested, though his mopey, slumped figure suggested that he was thinking exactly what Tommy was also thinking: that Ranboo and Charlie had probably given up and were out enjoying a tall ice cream sundae, laughing at their friends, examining the newspapers detailing exactly how Doc Anderson had died.

"Oh," called the other clerk, cupping her hand around her mouth, "but if it helps, some boy and his friend asked me 'bout the paper files a couple hours back, maybe there's somethin' there? I pointed 'em in that direction." She flicked a yellow-painted nail to Tommy's left.

He turned to see a long, stretched-out hallway, lit by humming, crackling electric lights that poured hot white light down onto the passage. Tommy sighed, this time in relief.

Finally. Jesus Christ, I thought we were never going to get anywhere! "Thanks for all your help!" he called, and raced towards the corridor.

The lady let out an alarmed coo, retreating back into her chair with a faintly concerned murmur. "Look out for the--" she started to say, but Tommy, who apparently had overestimated his ability to see what was right in front of him, crashed headlong into a tall, scraggly-haired ravonette.

Both of them tumbled back.

Tommy managed to steady himself, hand plastered against the wall, then, in a fit of panic and embarrassment, he bent down to help the man back up onto his feet. The man, wincing and looking nervously around himself, glanced up at Tommy's face. "S-s-sorry," he mumbled.

Toast was barking loudly at the man, bristling and twisting around Tommy's legs as though it had been the man's fault they had crashed into each other. A frantic, awkward blush quickly coloured over his cheeks, and he tried to drag the dog away from the black-haired man.

"Sorry," Tommy apologised, grinning sheepishly.

Tubbo came up behind him, his hands on his hips, looking ready to scold his ear off (Tommy would have said that this was just like Tubbo-the-good-citizen, but the fact was, Tubbo was simply not a good citizen. Well, going by the amount of times Tommy had been completely justified in figuring that the brunette was trying to shoplift, anyway).

And then, the strangest thing happened. Tommy was well-accustomed to strange things, seeing as he had been continuously exposed to vengeful ghosts, but this actually made him do a double take.

Almost instantly-- actually, as as soon as he saw Tubbo-- the man's face conformed into a mask of pale terror. His eyes widened, his cracked, dry lips opening in a terrified cry. Tommy jumped back in astonishment, almost bumping into Tubbo, who also looked, appropriately, really, really confused.

"The-- the-- the Saint's-Claire," he screamed, pointing a shaking finger at Tubbo, who now wore an expression of complete puzzlement.

"What are you talking about, dude?" he asked, tilting his head to peer at the black-haired man. Toast mimicked him, tipping his head to the side and lifting his nose to sniff his ankle.

The man let out a little gasping whimper of fear. "The Saint's-Claire is British?" he forced out, his voice breaking midway through. His face turned chalk-white, then bright red, and then drained of all colour once again. "No, i-it can't be . . . British? Of all things?"

Tommy squinted at him; was he crazy? What was the Saint's-Claire? And what did it have to do with Tubbo? And why was he so horrified at the thought of it being British?

Phil came up behind the two of them, staring in bafflement at the cowering, trembling man, who was now backing himself up into a small corner, his face completely white. "What's going on?" All of a sudden, he sighed, tsk-ing in exasperation. "Did you punch someone, Tommy?"

"No, of course not!" Tommy protested. He threw an arm out towards the snivelling man, making him shriek a little and jump back. "He just got like that when Tubbo got near him! It's not me, I swear!"

"Tubbo, did you punch this guy?"

"No! What d'you take me for, violent?"

Phil was starting to say something else, probably a reprimand, but the man suddenly startled them all by lunging at them.

Tommy was the first to react, leaping back in surprise and instantly hitting the side of his arm against the wall. He groaned, hissing in pain as the old bruises reacted sharply to the new and sudden stimuli. He could feel Toast straining at the leash, the sharp, harsh sounds of his barks echoing in his ears.

Through his half-closed eyes, he could just barely see as the man shoved past Phil and Tubbo, running with all the force his legs could carry him, and shot out of the library like a shot. Phil shoved Tubbo behind him, eyes going wide, acting neary as startled as he had looked when they had all seen Tubbo holding a gun . . . or no, not Tubbo, that had been William.

Dammit, possession was complicated. Maybe that was a weird thing to focus on while you were currently in bucketloads of pain, but his mind managed to latch onto that somehow, forcing a few strands of thoughts-- possession, complicated, shit, fuck, ow-- to go through his brain. One after the other, in quick succession to try and keep his thoughts together-- aaand prevent him from focusing too much on the pain.

He appreciated that, even though it wasn't really working. Thanks, mind.

Tommy slid to the ground, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his now-shaking arm in one hand, letting out little mutters of discontentment-- no, he was not crying, he was not! He was just . . . not crying. Totally.

Toast came up, licking the salty droplets of not-tears from his cheeks.

A few seconds of silence passed, Tubbo and Phil frozen in place, Tommy rocking back and forth trying to quell the pain shooting up through his arm.

"What the fuck was that?" Tubbo finally asked.

Tommy glanced up at him, blinking quite quickly. He pushed Toast's muzzle away from his face, the dog's little wet nose bumping against the heel of his palm. "Dunno," he mumbled, rubbing furiously at his eyes. "Some crazy?"

Tubbo was still staring through the window at the man, who was now pushing past several more passersby in his race to get away from him. "Sure seemed like it. Jeez, but you jumped so fucking fast," Tubbo let out a bark of laughter, but bent down to offer a helping hand out to Tommy all the same.

The clerk with the yellow nail polish sucked on her bottom lip disapprovingly. "Oh, that's Sam Quell. He's nothing but a naive, paranoid brat, if you'll excuse my language. Believes in anything he hears. Probably knows more about the history of this place than the historians do, if I know him right." She rolled her eyes so hard Tommy half thought they would fall out of her skull and onto the desk. Briefly, he wondered what he would do if they did.

"I'd probably try not to vomit," he murmured to himself, grabbing Tubbo's hand and pulling himself up. He patted down his pant legs, trying to get any library-floor dust off.

Tubbo looked at him quizzically. "What?"

Tommy shook his head. "Nothing. Don't worry about it." He grinned, spinning in a circle and taking a few steps forward, just barely needing to steady himself against the wall. "Sides, it's not as though we'll be seeing that Sam guy anytime soon, ri--"

For the second time in five minutes (which Tommy thought was honestly quite impressive) he slammed right into someone who was standing right in front of him.

"Charlie!" Phil cried, exasperated. "For the love of God, look in front of you!"

---

When they entered the room, Ranboo was punching a table.

This was fairly unusual.

However, it was not nearly as unusual as what he was punching onto the table. Also, he wasn't so much punching the table as slamming a piece of paper down onto the table and yelling about it to anyone within earshot who would listen.

Tommy, Tubbo, and Phil, who had just walked through the door, all paused to stare at him. Toast snuffled and snortled happily, wrapping himself around Tommy's ankles like a snake.

Charlie, who was holding a paper napkin to his bleeding nose (apparently the force of the collision had been enough to give him a nosebleed), quietly closed the door behind them. "He's been like this for the last fifteen minutes," he whispered, his eyes wide and voice garbled by the paper towel squeezed around his nose.

They were in what Charlie had called a 'study room', one of a series of small rooms built into one side of the libraries' walls. They were small, compact, with a whiteboard on one side, a table in the middle, and several chairs strewn around on the tightly-knotted carpet floor.

Ranboo was in the centre of the room, still brandishing stacks of paper at the walls and pacing so quickly it was a wonder he wasn't wearing holes into the carpet. Lifting a hand up to cover his stinging ears, Tommy wondered if the walls were soundproof.

Phil, too, winced at the noise, staring in a mixture of wonderment and confusion at Ranboo. "What in the world is going on?"

When Ranboo saw the group enter the room, he did not stop yelling. In fact, he ran over, grabbed Tommy by the hands, and proceeded to swing his hands up and down as though in a very enthusiastic handshake, shouting and talking over himself and basically foaming at the mouth.

"Woah, woah," Tommy said, interrupting Ranboo's yelling. He gingerly slid his hands out from Ranboo's tight grip, wincing as he examined his reddening fingers. "What's going on? Why are we freaking out? Do I need to be freaking out, too?"

The reaction was instantaneous, fast enough to give Tommy whiplash.

"I am not freaking out!" Ranboo slammed his hand back down on the table, chest heaving up and down with the force of his breathing. Toast yipped, dancing around the two of them in little prancing pawsteps. Tommy took a step back, but Ranboo took one forward at the same time, closing the distance in a matter of moments.

"I'd beg to differ," Tubbo said, his voice coming directly behind Tommy, so close that he could feel Tubbo's breath on his shoulder. "Something obviously happened--"

"Don't break the bloody table over it, though," Tommy cried. Tubbo smacked his shoulder, glaring at him.

"I thought I told you not to interrupt me!"

"Tubbo! You didn't tell me the library would be cool as shit!" Ranboo, who was apparently not listening to them, continued vomiting about the cool new stuff he had found. It was hard enough to understand him, but on top of that, he had started to hit the table again-- after about three slaps onto the tabletop, Phil managed to grab his wrist, stopping him from injuring his hand . . . well, that and the tabletop.

"Hold on, Ranboo. No need to punish the table, okay? Now, tell us what you found." Phil, like the mature, responsible, calm adult that he was, put a hand on Ranboo's shoulder, pushing him down onto one of the chairs he had pulled out. He grabbed a couple more from underneath the table and motioned at the others to sit down.

Ranboo made a few incomprehensible noises. "I found," he whispered, evidently in great excitement, "a name."

"He is really excited about this," Charlie said, laughing to himself. He choked on something, spat the something out onto the paper towel, and turned pale. Then, clearing his throat, he pressed the paper towel back to his face and continued on as though nothing had happened. "I mean, the story is cool and all, but I don't know what this name has to do with anything."

"This name--" Ranboo pushed his hand up through his hair, raking it back from his face with a high-pitched exhale, like a tea kettle slowly losing steam. "This name could save our life," he cried.

Toast pawed the ground, obviously just as confused as everyone else was. Tommy held up his hands, gingerly approaching Ranboo.

"A name? Newspapers? Cool as shit?" Out of the corner of his eyes, Tommy saw Ranboo's entire body trembling with the effort it took for him not to spring back up, and he let out a long sigh. "Please calm down? Think about Charlie! This is his first experience with ghost hunting, it simply won't do to have him see us prancing around and prattling like baboons on cocaine." He swung his hand out at Charlie, who let out an undignified snort at his words.

"My first experience with chasing shadows, I'll say," Charlie called out, continually the pessimist. He had apparently healed from his nosebleed, and was holding the crumpled paper in his cupped hand.

Tommy shot him a glare. "Unnecessary. Thanks for that." He turned back to Ranboo, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention; the American had started to stare off into space, his eyes glazing over-- though whether it was with excitement or pure adrenaline, Tommy couldn't quite tell. "Ranboo? You need to calm down. Breathe."

". . . fine." Ranboo sucked in a breath, letting it sit in his stomach for a couple of seconds, then forcing it out with all the force of a whirlwind. "Okay, there, good. Calmed down. Can I tell you about what I found?"

Tubbo came and sat down in the chair next to Ranboo, leaning forward until his chin rested on the backs of his hands. Tommy wondered for a brief moment just how Tubbo was finding the courage to get that close to Ranboo-- he, for one, was still treating the older boy like a wild animal.

"Yeah, tell us!" Tubbo grinned cheerfully at Ranboo, swiping one of the papers and glancing his eyes quickly over it. He fell silent. ". . . woah."

Ranboo fidgeted for a moment more, and then, like a balloon squeezing a surplus of air out, he began. "So you know what I originally found about Doc Anderson? You know, how she was part of the Donkey Lady's urban legend, like a branch of it-- cuz she was killed in a fire by someone, you know. There are lots of stories like hers, but I think . . ." He ran a hand through his hair, brushing back his messy bangs. "I think she actually started the legends.

"Well, by that, I mean . . ." he paused for a moment, licking his bottom lip. "I think that her story is definitely dark enough to spark some of those legends. I don't know if it's actually . . . but it all fits!"

"Well, don't leave us hanging," Tubbo exclaimed, leaning over the table until his arms were sprawled out on the top. He had the same frown he always did when he got impatient. "What is the story? Come on, come onnn."

"I'm getting around to--"

Phil forced a cup of water (where had he gotten that? Were cups available in the library? And where had he found the water? Maybe Tommy was overthinking it . . . maybe Phil was just magic) into Ranboo's hand. Ranboo blinked a couple of times at the water, as though he had never seen it, then lifted his gaze slightly to stare at Phil.

". . . what?"

"Drink," Phil commanded, giving Ranboo a stern look. "You haven't had anything to eat all day, have you? Drink."

"Uh . . ." Ranboo examined it for a few moments, then tossed his head back, a few drops of water sloshing over the rim of the cup, and drained the whole thing in one huge gulp.

Smearing the water off his mouth with one hand, he slammed the cup onto the table with the other, practically crumpling the styrofoam with the force of the hit. Toast, who had jumped up onto one of the plastic chairs, sniffed the cup with some interest.

"Right, anyway, about the actual case. It turns out that she lived in an actual house for several years-- all the main gossip online was about how she was really poor all the time, but did you know that both her and her husband worked on a movie set?" He shoved the cup to the side, staring around the group with wide eyes.

"Um, no. That's cool and all, but what does that have to do with how she died?" Tommy pressed. This was confusing. Why couldn't Ranboo just give them a straight answer? (A/N: because he's not, Tommy, smh my head.)

"It has a lot to do with how she died!" Ranboo jumped to his feet, so fast and so sharply that the chair fell over, hitting the ground with a bang. Tommy flinched, but Ranboo kept going, albeit with an apologetic look in Tommy's direction. "It has everything to do with it! We now know where she lived, we know who she lived with, and now I know why she was evicted!"

"Oh?" Phil gently scooped the cup up, tossing it into the nearby trash can. "Well then, tell us all about it."

"Yeah, okay. So, she worked on the set of a TV show, right? But then it ended, and her and her husband were left without a source of income. It turns out he actually didn't die in a war, he died from a heart attack just several months before she was evicted."

"I figured that out," Tommy said proudly, and Ranboo nodded along distractedly and continued.

"So she was tossed out of her house for not being able to pay rent, and then she started living in a squatters shack in the--"

"Robards area," Tubbo finished, clapping his hands lightly. "Yeah, we found that out from our interviewee, didn't we? She was lovely. Made us tea and everything."

"The tea was bad, though," Tommy said wistfully. "I wish I could have a nice hot cup of actual tea."

Ranboo glanced from Tommy to Tubbo. "Uh . . . okay. Anyway, about Doc Anderson. She was living in that same squatter's shack for several years, but then something happened and she was kicked out." He picked up a handful of the papers and waved it in Tubbo's face, practically shaking in his excitement. One fell out of his collection, drifting down to where Toast was standing, and the small dog almost instantly started to play with it.

"I found out who tried to toss her out! She vanished-- she vanished after she was kicked out, and nobody knows what happened to her, but apparently it got violent. Nobody knows! It all fits together-- that was when she died!"

"You think . . . you think that whoever tried to toss her out ended up killing her?" Phil asked. He nodded slowly. "That could make sense. Maybe they ended up arguing and he got violent. It wouldn't have been a planned thing, which would explain the fire. Nobody plans out arson."

"And if she only had one arm," Tommy added, thinking out loud, "it would have been hard for her to escape in the first place!"

"That, and she was pretty old at the time of her death, I think. I looked up some stuff and saw a lot about how she was around . . . oh, sixty? Maybe sixty-five when she vanished," Tubbo said, continuing Tommy's train of thought. "That would explain why she couldn't escape."

"And then, if the newspapers are anything to go off of," Ranboo said excitedly, "it says that they couldn't continue with the lawsuit. Maybe he paid someone off to not take it to court!"

"That would definitely end up with her being really angry," Tommy agreed, wincing. He bent down to snatch the paper away from Toast, who was now biting the edge of it. He swatted at the dog's nose; that was the property of the library, and he didn't exactly want to ruin it! "Wow. I think I'd probably be a violent, bitter ghost too, if that happened to me."

Phil sighed. "Well, no matter what happened to her, she's hurting other people, it looks like. Even if she's just an urban legend, the net is riddled with people claiming the victim. Apparently she has a penchant for destroying cars, and she'll even chase after you if you antagonise her."

"I think I heard about someone getting shot in that area and blaming it on the Donkey Lady," Tubbo chipped in, and everyone turned to stare at him. He stared back, shrugging. "What? I agree, it's fucking stupid, but I thought you wanted to know all the facts!"

Tommy wrinkled his nose, imagining an angry, burnt-up ghost lady carrying a gun. No, not just carrying a gun, actually firing it at someone. That made for a weirdly hilarious scenario. Could items go with the ghost, anyway? Tommy thought that ghosts couldn't touch real stuff.

"Maybe if it's a ghost gun," he murmured, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. He scuffed the floor with the toe of his shoe. "After all, they can usually bring their clothes and stuff with them, so maybe a gun would work like that, too."

"A ghost gun?" Ranboo repeated. "No, I don't think so. 'Sides, if she only had one arm, how's she supposed to fire a gun at people?"

"She won't," Charlie pointed out, "because ghost guns aren't real. Neither, may I add, are ghosts."

"I can't-- please, will you just accept that these things are real?" Tommy crossed his arms, the last of his words coming out in an exasperated sigh.

Charlie lifted his hands, tipping his hat at Tommy with a smile. "It just doesn't make sense! I'm sorry if I don't believe in things that aren't real."

"They are real!" Tommy insisted. He glared at Charlie, taking a step toward him. It was, if he was being honest, really annoying that Charlie wasn't even considering taking them seriously. Why couldn't he accept that it wasn't a joke? He'd learn soon enough, so it would be much better for him to get his act together.

Tommy considered telling him this, preferably in even harsher terms, but he just shook his head. "You really need to believe us! I'm sorry if it's hard for you to get through your thick skull, but it's really bloody annoying when you just keep contradicting us like this every time we open our mouths!"

"Boys . . ." Phil started, his voice already gaining a sharp tone to it.

Charlie, apparently not hearing the warning in Phil's voice, sputtered for a few moments. His hand snapped up to adjust his glasses, which had been slipping down his nose. "I can't! It's impossible! Ghosts simply don't exist, and if you brought me all the way along just to lie to my face and share in this weird inside joke of yours--" he stopped for a few moments as though unsure whether or not to continue. "Then-- then I'm not sure I even want to be here!"

"Maybe you shouldn't be," muttered Tubbo, who was leaning back in his chair, looking in the opposite direction Charlie was in. "If you're gonna be so negative."

Sensing that something was wrong, Toast whined. Charlie drew back in obvious offence, looking hurt. "I'm not negative! Maybe I'm the only one here with eyes, though! Or maybe, I don't know, you're just all liars?"

Tommy turned to see Tubbo glaring at the wall. His chin was tucked into his chest, his bangs hiding his expression. "I guess if you don't want to trust us, maybe we shouldn't have even invited you." He glanced over his shoulder, met Tommy's eyes, and scowled, drumming his fingers erratically on the tabletop.

Ranboo made a pained noise. "Guys, please don't fight, it's not--"

"You don't want me here?" Charlie gritted his teeth, his cheeks flaming red. "Fine. Then I guess I can just leave, can't I?"

"No," Ranboo protested, jumping to his feet again and trying to make it to the door before Charlie could. "No, don't!"

"Feel free," Tubbo said coldly.

"I don't know why you even wanted me around in the first place!" Charlie laughed sharply, turning the normally cheerful noise into a cold, bitter one. "It's like I never should have even been here!"

"Maybe not. It's not like you're any help at all," snapped Tommy, motioning to the doorway. Toast was pawing at his pant leg, crying, but Tommy nudged the pup away from him. Tail tucked under his legs, Toast hid underneath a chair, still making the high-pitched whine that now accompanied all their sharp words.

"What help have you been?" fired back Charlie, his gaze darkening. "Okay, let's say ghosts are real. Let's say we're doing research on this ghost! Yeah. You've just been sitting there. I don't think I've seen you do a single helpful thing this entire time-- what have you accomplished? Tubbo helped interview someone, Ranboo found these cool newspapers. What have you been doing, exactly?"

Tommy felt his entire face go bright red. His breath seized up in his chest, and he spat out words like venom, not even really meaning them anymore-- he just looked for whatever would hit the hardest. "Charlie, dunno if you've exactly noticed, but you have been the thorn in my fucking shoe this whole fucking time! I don't think there's anything helpful you've done, so unless you want to get your shit together and actually be useful in some huge, massive way that could somehow make up for all of the annoyances that you've caused, then there's the fucking door."

Charlie flinched back, eyes flashing with hurt. For a quick moment, Tommy felt a pang of regret, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain silent. If Charlie wanted to make up for it, then he would say something, but Tommy was not going to apologise.

Ranboo, on the other hand, seemed rather desperate to apologise for Tommy's actions.

"Tommy, please," he begged, still hovering in front of the door, his arms trembling. His face had turned a bright red, his hand clasping the doorknob as though he could tear it off to force Charlie to stay. "Stop yelling!"

"I'm not yelling," Tommy snapped, swinging his glare over to Ranboo, who flinched back almost instantly. "If Charlie can't handle the truth, he should go!"

Charlie let out a slow breath. His cheeks were a shade of red that gave away his mortification, his hands clenched into tense fists. "Fine. I'll just go, I guess."

"You really don't need to--" Phil started, lifting a hand to try and stop him.

Not giving him a chance to finish his sentence, Charlie swung around and actually slapped Phil's hand away.

Phil startled a little, taking a step back and snapping his mouth shut.

Toast bristled, a low, threatening growl dripping from his bared fangs. Tommy felt something akin to rage swell in his chest, opening his mouth to yell, or shout, or something, but Tubbo cut him off before he even had the chance.

"You absolute bitch," Tubbo seethed. He had, at some point, stood up, kicking his chair away so it now lay on its side on the floor. "How fucking dare you just waltz on in, insult us over and over, and then decide to leave as though nothing ever happened? Jesus Christ, I should punt you through that fucking door."

"Call me whatever you want," Charlie snapped, "an idiot, an annoyance, anything. But I don't want to be roped into anything like this again. Maybe when you start telling the truth, you'll make more friends. I think you all need new ones."

He stepped closer to the door, but Ranboo was still in his way, practically panicking at this point. "Don't go, please," he pleaded, glancing from Charlie to Tommy, then Tubbo, and then back. "I didn't-- I didn't want this! I thought it would be fun!"

"Yeah, well, you guessed wrong," Charlie muttered. "Get out of the way."

Ranboo stayed where he was, his breath coming out like hissing steam. "I don't want you to go! I just wanted to have fun!"

"I'd say nice try," Tommy mumbled, "but that would be entirely inaccurate."

"Tommy--" Phil put a hand on Tommy's shoulder, glaring at him. "You escalated this."

Tommy let out a cry of indignation, jabbing his finger in Charlie's direction. "Yeah, but he started this whole thing in the first place! It's because he doesn't put enough bloody trust in his friends, not believing us when we swear on the truth! He called me a fucking liar!"

"Don't act like you aren't one, Mr. Innocent! Talking about ghosts and whatnot? About phantoms and spectres and the scary-wary dark?" Charlie rolled his eyes, turning back to Tommy. "Those things don't exist."

"Uh, guys?" For some reason, Ranboo, who had previously been pressing himself to the door, was now staring at the ceiling. An expression of almost worrying confusion was plastered on his face.

Toast started to whimper, and Tommy felt fur press against his ankles as Toast curled himself around Tommy's feet. He was about to nudge the small dog away with his foot yet again, but Ranboo interrupted him, his voice shaking.

"Guys, I think I feel--" he started, but was quickly and sharply cut off by Tubbo.

"Ranboo, I know you're stressed, but can you get out from in front of the door? I think that someone needs the exit to be free, so that they can leave." He glared at Charlie. His hands, pressed against the tabletop, were now curled into fists, his knuckles grating against the hard plastic.

"My pleasure," Charlie spat. He grabbed Ranboo by the shoulder, trying to push him away from the door. "I said move!"

A few things all happened at once, each one too fast for Tommy to really understand it.

One: the temperature in the room plunged.

Two: Tommy let out a curse, trying to tear away from Phil to get to Charlie before he managed to actually hurt Ranboo.

Three: Tubbo made a faint noise of surprise, glancing down at his jacket pocket, and promptly collapsed.

And finally, a huge cloud of blue smoke surged up from his body, swelled to an incredible size, and, with a shriek that mimicked a furious gale of wind, dove down to attack Charlie.

"Charlie!"

Tommy dropped Toast's leash, and, completely forgetting that Phil still had a death grip on his jacket, tried to run towards the chaos.

This turned out to be a very bad idea indeed, because not only did Phil have a death grip on his jacket, he also had a death grip on the back of Tommy's shirt. The neckline pulled taut, snapping against his neck and essentially choking him.

"Phil!" he gasped, scrabbling at his neck. "Let g-go!" Toast, realising that Tommy had let his leash go, let out a ferocious growl and plunged into the mess of clouds, his small, furry body quickly disappearing into the swirling winds.

Phil was standing frozen, staring at the cloud of smoke, not letting go of Tommy's shirt. "Phil!" he tried, more panicky and insistent that time, and Phil blinked back to life.

"Oh-- oh my god, what in the bloody hell is that?" In his stupefied alarm, he let go of Tommy's shirt unconsciously, letting him go free.

Phil probably instantly regretted this action, as it let Tommy actually run towards the danger, but he had no plans to stick around to let Phil grab him again.

The room was small; it only took a few paces to get to the other side, where Ranboo and Charlie were both caught in the (freezing cold, as Tommy quickly realised) wind. Toast was growling, both of his friends were screaming-- though, Ranboo seemed to just be frightened, while Charlie was actually probably dying.

"Toast!" Tommy called, sputtering as the cold wind blew right into his eyes. He reached blindly out around him, kneeling down to try and find his dog, and quickly found the feel of fur and leather against his fingertips. He grabbed Toast's collar and shoved the dog out of the clouds.

Toast whimpered, pawing in worry at Tommy's legs, but Tommy just glared at him. "Stay right there, okay? Go hide!" Not waiting to see if Toast would listen to him, he whirled back around, facing the tempestuous wind again.

Wind grappled with his clothes and hair, blowing it around and crashing into his skin, harshly clawing at him with biting cold. He choked on the frozen mist, tasting salt in his mouth. What the hell?

He spat it out, grabbing Charlie by the shoulder and trying to drag him out. The collar of Charlie's shirt was already frozen stiff and cold as ice, and Tommy shivered as soon as his hand brushed icy skin.

"It's eating me!" Charlie was screaming, and he seemed to be in more of a panic than anything else. His eyes were wide, his hands scrabbling at the door as he tried to find the doorknob to leave. "Oh my god, I'm going to be eaten by a fucking cloud!"

"Calm down!" Tommy yelled, although he couldn't really think of any rational reason that Charlie should be calm. In fact, it was perfectly valid that he was screaming, especially since the cloud looked suspiciously like the thick, clogged mist he had seen in the Lemp Mansion when Tubbo had reported seeing the 'blue ghost'.

. . .

Ah.

"Just-- just try and get out," he howled, trying to be heard over the screaming gale. A sharp, bitterly cold gust of wind swept into his mouth, essentially blocking off his windpipe, and he had to spit it out before continuing. "I don't-- Charlie, I can't see--"

"I think I'm freezing to death," Ranboo stated, his voice thrown up so high in his panic that Tommy could barely understand him. "Oh my god, I'm dying. I'm actually dying."

"What the fuck is happening?!" Charlie shrieked. A powerful gust of wind slammed into all three of them, knocking Ranboo and Charlie clean off their feet and nearly sending Tommy tumbling to the ground.

"Charlie, we need to get out," he shouted, voice carried off by the howling wind. "We need to-- shit!" He dove for cover as one of the chairs, the one that Tubbo had been sitting in, was picked up and tossed around in the air as though it weighed no more than a piece of paper.

"Charlie!" he called out again, then cleared his voice, hearing that it was starting to get hoarse. "Charlie! Ranboo!" He could barely open his eyes, his tongue feeling heavy and sluggish at the cold, words scratching painfully against his throat.

Despite how small the room was and how small the cloud was, it was near impossible to see anything inside the swirling depths. Wind battered the ceiling, throwing around freezing-cold drops of mist, pieces of ice ranging from tiny bits of hail to huge, sometimes sharp chunks slammed into Tommy, cold enough and hard enough to leave behind stinging, frostbite-blue bruises smattering his pale skin.

The wind drowned all of the sounds out, too. Tommy had no idea if Charlie was even hearing him call his name.

Someone grabbed his arm, and he whirled around to see Phil, fighting against the wind just as he was.

"Ranboo got out, Tommy! You need to get out of this, too," Phil shouted at him, pointing back at the small corner that the wind wasn't touching. "I'll get Charlie! You need to get out!"

Tommy stared at the safe corner, where Ranboo was busy both panicking and trying to drag an unconscious Tubbo behind a chair (Tommy was fairly sure that Ranboo had designated it an impromptu shield, though it was a really shitty impromptu shield anyway. Chairs literally had holes in their back! Ranboo really hadn't thought any of that out, had he?), then glanced back over at Phil.

He smeared away a bit of saliva from his chin, his chest heaving up and down, unsure whether to yank his sleeve away or actually listen to directions. "I . . ."

Charlie screamed, and Tommy fell back against Phil in his shock, staring into the mess of wind to try and search for the American.

"Holy fucking shit, I'm freezing-- holy-- jesus fuck, I'm actually--" Charlie sounded panicked, frantic even, terror turning his words into brittle cobwebs easily swept away by the wind.

Tommy ripped away from Phil and dove for Charlie. Managing to get through a few steps of the wind, he reached forward and seized a whole fistful of fabric that he thought felt vaguely like Charlie's shirt. He tugged sharply, trying desperately to pull him away and out of the attacking cloud-- which, for some reason, was only focusing on Charlie. Actually, no, he thought. That makes sense.

It was, after all, their ghost. Tubbo had been right. This ghost was actually trying to protect them.

"Can you move?" he yelled at Charlie, still grappling his shirt, half to pinpoint Charlie, half to not be swept away by the wind himself.. "Can you walk?"

"I think-- I'm turning into a popsicle," Charlie shouted back. Tommy looked down at their feet, and saw that, somehow, Charlie wasn't exaggerating-- crystals of ice were seizing his legs, clawing deep bruises of purple and pale frostbite on his legs.

Charlie shook his head, panting. "I can't-- I can't move," he whispered, sounding more terrified than Tommy had ever heard him. "I can't move, oh my god, oh my god."

Tommy spun on his heel to stare at Phil. "D'you have any iron?" he called, coughing. He doubled over in a coughing fit, shoving the front of his shirt against his mouth and spitting something wet and salty into the fabric. "I-- I need iron!"

"There's nothing! This is a library, what do you think we'd have?!" Phil shouted helplessly in reply.

"Well then, Mister Genius, how the fuck do you suppose that we get the ghost to stop?!" Tommy cried. He tugged once more on Charlie's shirt, staring up into the swirling wind. "Stop! Charlie's a friend! Yeah, he was angry, I guess-- ugh, this is the worst--" He shook Charlie a little, eliciting a well-earned shriek from the brunette. "Don't think this means I forgive you, you prick!"

"Wh-what the fuck is happening?!" Charlie flailed around, trying to claw the ice off even as it was quickly clambering up his torso. His skin was starting to turn white, his lips fading to a frozen, unhealthy-looking purple.

"Does anyone have an ice pick?!" Tommy shouted in panic. "Phil! You have a lot of things in your pocket! Find something!" He snapped his head upwards, staring into the blue winds, his heart pounding against the cage of his ribs. "Please, stop! We're okay!"

The wind howled in response, crashing against the ceiling. A few growls slipped through the screaming gale, a few broken, threatening words that he could barely hear over the rest of the wind.

"Wind! Ghost! Weird ghost wind blue ghost guy!" Tommy huddled over Charlie, snatching back worried glances at his friend, who wasn't getting any better. In fact, Tommy was starting to get affected, too; he could barely even move his fingers. "Just stop!"

Obligingly, the wind froze in place.

Like, literally, it stopped moving. The air stopped what it was doing-- sticking in place, which air should definitely not do. It felt weirdly slow and thick, almost difficult to move through. Ice crystals pooled in the air, blue water congealing into small, sticky droplets through the frosty-white mist and falling to the ground to sink into the carpet.

Tommy, who had been desperately tugging at the ice surrounding Charlie, slowly dropped his hands to look around. Woah . . . what the fuck?

The wind had stopped right as it had been blowing, so now everything felt strangely still. Every time he moved his hand through one of the frozen-in-place winds, it slowed his movements, cobweb-like air sticking to his fingers, almost like cotton candy.

". . . woah," he murmured, and then looked up.

A small boy was peeking down at them, his face literally sinking through the ceiling. As soon as he caught sight of it, Tommy did a double take, staring back up at it. "Hello?"

The boy had an almost guilty expression on his face, his ice-white skin rippling and snapping back, like it was made out of water pushed into the clumsy image of a boy. Dark blue pools of liquid kept sticking to his eyelashes, sometimes falling off, only to sink into his cheeks and vanish where they should have streamed down them.

Tommy squinted at him. "What the fuck?"

As though he had sensed Tommy's attention, the ceiling boy froze, then slowly, almost sheepishly, faded away into the air, retreating back into the plaster. A few tendrils of blue mist seeped back through the ceiling, but a dark blue hand, covered in a mixture of scars and freckles, shot out and snatched them back.

Tommy shook his head, staring in amazement at where the boy had just been. "No, fuck that," he said, clambering to his feet and glaring at the spot on the ceiling. "What the fuck? Get back here. Tell me what the hell is going on."

Could the ghost talk? Tommy didn't know. But he was going to get some goddamn answers out of him if it was the last thing he ever did. He even shook a finger at where the boy had just been, just for good effect. "Get over here!" he demanded. Everybody shot him strange looks-- apparently they hadn't seen the ceiling boy. Whatever. Answers were worth a couple of strange looks.

A few more snatches of blue mist sank down through the ceiling, pausing, then recoiled slowly back up to disappear. Tommy was about to open his mouth and yell again, but there was no need: the next second, the boy slowly floated through the ceiling, wearing a dejected expression.

Tommy shut his mouth, gave the boy a once over, and his jaw dropped.

For the second time in about two days, he was having a very improbable encounter. Also for the second time in about two days, he was shocked into near silence.

Near silence is not, however, total silence, and he was finally able to force a few words out, but only after stammering out a couple incomprehensible, shocked noises.

Those few words went as follows:

"Herman Moore? What the fuck are you doing here?!"

---

"So," Tommy said, turning to Charlie. He was wearing a grin-- he thought he rather deserved it, seeing as he had just saved Charlie's ass. "Do you believe in ghosts now?"

"Considering we're sitting at a table literally interviewing one," Charlie grumped, "I would say yes."

They had managed to scold Herman into making the ice go away. The room carried a gentle chill to it now, the walls slightly damp and the doorknob (which had been, at one point in time, cold enough to frostbite whoever touched it) was dripping water down onto the entryway. The chair Tommy was sitting in was just the tiniest bit slick to the point that he could run his thumb along it and collect a few drops of water. Uncomfortably so.

He shifted awkwardly in the seat, his back bumping against the chair, the cold plastic brushing against his spine to make him shiver.

"Okay." Tubbo took a deep breath, letting his chin drop forward onto his steepled fingers. "Now, you have got some explaining to do." He glanced over to his lift, at where Herman (Herman Moore, Herman fucking Moore was at their library table! Tommy still couldn't get over that) was cuddled snug up against his side.

Herman seemed to have developed quite the one-sided relationship of love and devotion with Tubbo in the few months he had been stuck inside the brunette's plushie. He kept making sad faces whenever Tubbo (obviously uncomfortable) tried to push him away, but eventually, the battle had been lost and now Herman was sticking like glue against his side.

Tubbo edged a bit further away. Herman shifted closer, looking up at Tubbo with the most adoring expression Tommy had ever seen. Almost like a kid looking up at their mom, or . . . or, well, Toast looking up at Tommy. He didn't want to compare Herman to a dog, but that was the best way to describe what was happening.

Besides, Toast was staring up at Tommy in adoration, too, and it was kind of hard for Tommy to ignore the eerie resemblance between the dog and the ghost. He had been growling and hissing at Herman for some time, even after they had gotten the ghost to calm down, and Herman looked (to Tommy's extreme relief and just a bit of satisfaction) a bit nervous around the growly pup.

"Explain?" Tubbo repeated, breaking Tommy out of his thoughts.

Herman nodded quickly, biting his bottom lip. Now that Tommy had a better look at him, the boy was quite small, with a face full of blue freckles. So many freckles, in fact, it looked as though someone had thrown a canister of dark flour at his cheeks and nose. A bow tie hung loosely off his neck, and his hair flopped into his eyes.

A pale, translucent heart throbbed visibly through a scratch that sliced through his clothes and skin. Tommy supposed this had to do with how he died-- he still remembered what Herman had said about his heart attack. Perhaps the strangest thing, however, was how he didn't have legs; instead, his form faded off into icy blue tendrils like some sort of weird octopus.

Odd.

I was just trying to help, Herman mumbled, fidgeting and worrying at his pyjama sleeves nervously.

Oh yeah, and he was wearing pyjamas.

A ghost was sitting at their library table, wearing pyjamas and the most dejected look on his face as he was scolded like a child. To be specific, the the ghost in question was the deadly, century-old ghost of an axe murder victim.

No, this wasn't weird. Not at all!

Tommy could have laughed if not for the tension all around the table, as dangerous and quiet as if the room were full of electricity. The silence seemed to stick to him like cobwebs, too flaky to brush off completely, always maintaining some sort of grip on him.

Even the shadows were still.

"You were trying to help?" echoed Ranboo in disbelief. "How were you trying to help? By freezing our friend?" He flung his arm out in Charlie's direction, nearly brushing his nose with the tips of his fingers.

Charlie flinched a little at being called their friend (or maybe it was because of how close Ranboo's fingers had gotten to his nose. It couldn't be comfortable to have anyone's hand that close to your nose). To be fair, that whole problem hadn't been untangled yet-- the fact that Herman Moore was at their library table was probably a bit more urgent than the question of 'oh yeah, Charlie, will you come with us to hunt down this Donkey Lady and also still be our friend?'.

Herman let his head sink down onto the table. I thought he was being mean, he whined, almost as petulant and sad as an actual, non-ghost child. I-- I was trying to help! He looked . . . mean. Tall, he laughed, when the scary man laughed . . . I didn't like . . .

Herman actually shivered, more tears falling from his dark blue eyelashes and sinking into his rippling cheeks.

"I guess . . ." Tommy let out a long breath. "It might make sense. Herman's last memories of being human were of a 'tall, scary, laughing man' slicing him up, right? Chop-chop-chop, and there you go, trauma on a plate." He knelt down and scooped Toast up in his arms. The dog nuzzled happily at his hand.

"So, what?" Tubbo put his hands on his hips, scowling. "If we're going by 'scary men', then that would mean that every time he sees Phil, he'd go right into danger mode! That makes no sense!"

"Thanks, mate," Phil snorted, rolling his eyes. "I love being called a 'scary man'."

"Aw, don't pretend you aren't flattered," Tubbo cooed, grinning mirthfully over at his friend. He turned back to Herman, and tentatively ran a hand down the small ghost's back. "Uh . . . Herman? Do you go into danger mode anytime you see Phil?"

Herman sniffled, lifting his head up to stare at Tubbo. He gazed at the brunette for a good long while, long enough to make Tommy uncomfortable, and then flung himself forward and started sobbing into Tubbo's shirt.

". . . oh." Charlie winced sympathetically, watching Tubbo's extremely uncomfortable expression with a look of pity on his face.

Of course, Herman couldn't exactly touch Tubbo (he couldn't touch the chair, either, but at Tommy and Phil's insistence-- it just made it look more normal, they supposed-- he had hovered a few inches above the chair to mimic sitting on it), so it was quite an awkward affair.

Herman kept passing right through Tubbo as he tried to throw his arms around the other, drawing back as soon as he remembered he couldn't touch anything with a stifled, disappointed sob, and then, as though he thought that it would work if he tried it long enough, did it all over again. Tubbo tried to shuffle backwards, making a bit of a face, but eventually had to give up. Herman was persistent.

Tommy commended Tubbo's efforts, though! He had put up a good battle.

One that ended with a crying, wailing ghost on his lap, turning all the air around him into a fine, damp mist, but still. A good battle.

Tommy scrunched up his nose, sniffing the fog, and there it was again! That weird salty scent. What was that? He glanced down at Toast, trying to see if the pup smelt it, too, but Toast was just as happy and relaxed as ever, even with a ghost in the room.

"O-okay, Herman," Tubbo said shakily, haphazardly "patting" him on the shoulder. "It's okay. Just answer the question."

I don't know, I-I don't know, Herman blubbered. H-he hit you and I g-got so mad . . . I don't know why I got so mad! He let out a faint, whimpering sob and curled himself up into a ball, floating towards the ceiling like a wayward balloon.

Toast suddenly bristled in Tommy's arms, his gums peeling back to reveal sharp canines, loud barks shot at the now-floating ghost. Tommy fumbled with the small dog, trying to get him under control, but Toast was being tricky to get ahold of.

"Oh, no you don't," Tubbo grumbled, pointing down at the chair. He was the opposite picture of the hostile, frightened Toast-- he had a perfectly relaxed, if annoyed, look on his face, and even stamped his foot a little (totally lame, Tommy thought, only spoiled kids stamp their feet). "Get back down here and answer us, you . . . phantom!"

Herman slowly came back down to hover above the chair, his overdramatic sobs reduced to sniffling once more.

"Maybe he can't control it," Ranboo suggested, pausing in the middle of a spin. He had been pacing around the room, hand tapping thoughtfully at his chin, and then, in the middle of turning around to pace all the way back around to the other corner (exciting stuff, wasn't it?), suddenly froze. "Maybe it's . . . like, random or something. The whole . . . oh, what did Tubbo call it?"

"Danger mode," Tubbo supplied helpfully.

Tommy glanced over at him, intrigued by the idea. "You think?" He hummed, turning the idea over in his head. It could work. "You think sometimes he just gets anger issues and . . ." he waved his hand for emphasis, trying to find the right word. "Uh . . . freaks out?"

Toast, seeing a possible exit, hopped down from Tommy's arms. He wasn't spitting fire in Herman's direction anymore, thank goodness, but he by no means had settled down. He curled up next to Tommy's feet, sending suspicious glares over at the ghost, who stared in mixed fascination and fear back at him.

"Well, I don't think the timing is completely random, or controlled by whenever he sees a man," Ranboo corrected, crossing his arms. "I think that he most likely just gets really protective, and maybe it's even worse whenever the person hurting someone else-- or, well, 'being mean to someone else' is perhaps a better phrase for what Charlie did--"

Charlie somehow sank even lower down in his seat, his face very red.

"--is a man." Ranboo paused for a second to breathe in, then continued, still at the mile-a-minute rate that Tommy had grown used to. "But what I want to know is why he didn't flip out even when people have been rude to us in the past, after Villisca. Like, uh, with Syme! And Mr. Crow." His grin faded a bit, replaced with a thoughtful, almost pensive, look. "That's the only part that doesn't fit."

Tubbo nodded along in newfound agreement, shrugging blithely with one shoulder. "Well, actually, Herman not freaking out around Syme makes sense, even if we don't use that theory. See, I didn't have the plushie with me while he was around."

Tommy stared blankly at him for a few seconds, then glanced around to see if anyone had caught on. To his immense relief (well, he didn't want to seem thick, did he?), he saw that everyone else was also giving Tubbo befuddled looks, to which he gaped right back at them in stupefied disbelief.

"Do you not know what I'm talking about?!" he cried, slamming his hands down on the table. "Seriously, guys?"

"Your . . . plushie?" Tommy said slowly. He glanced over at the bulge in Tubbo's chest pocket, which doubtless held the small fabric squash, as it usually did. He had no idea why Tubbo had insisted on carrying it around so much.

But what did Tubbo think the plushie had to do with this?

Tubbo caught him glaring at the plushie and glowered (A/N: I looked up synonyms for 'glare' and found the word 'lour'. Can you imagine glaring at someone and having it described as 'louring'? Holy moley) back at him. "What're you staring at it like that for?"

"What does it have to do with Herman?" Tommy asked. "Is this some weird, baseless connection you made with no evidence to back it up?"

"Uhm . . . nope." Tubbo gave him a confused, amused look, pulling the plushie out of his pocket and poking it with one finger. "I'm pretty sure that this plushie is what Herman is stored in." He glanced over at Herman, who was playing with a lock of his hair, still staring fixedly at Toast. "Am I right?"

Herman glanced quickly up, his eyes widening once he saw what Tubbo was holding. Uh . . . He ducked his head, shrugging with one shoulder. . . . my new bond. Don't know how. He seemed almost embarrassed. I didn't know . . . you left, and I left with you. Don't know how.

Ranboo tilted his head. "So you got stuck in the plushie? How did that happen?"

"Is it the best idea to let them do all the interrogating?" Charlie whispered to Phil, rising up from his seat. "That-- that's a ghost!" He shook a finger in Herman's direction, startling the blue ghost so much that he fell through the back of his seat a little.

Phil shook his head, pushing Charlie back down into his chair. "I'm pretty sure that if anything happened, they would be able to handle it better than either of us. Especially you," he said, smiling indulgently at Charlie.

"Why, thank you!" Tommy said proudly, preening a little at the compliment. Toast, sensing that compliments were in order, straightened up a little, too, sticking his nose up in the air. Herman gave a little gasp, his eyes lighting up as the dog pranced in circles around Tommy's legs.

"It's the truth, mate. Nothing wrong with being honest," Phil grinned, chuckling at Charlie's expression of mock outrage.

"Herman," Ranboo repeated. His eyebrows were pressed together in obvious annoyance, probably at how everyone had interrupted him. "How did you get stuck in the plush?"

Herman shook his head again, looking up at Ranboo with helpless eyes. Don't know, he said again, I don't-- don't know!

"Herman, don't you know how?" Ranboo kept saying it over and over, still stuck on the same question like a record on repeat. "You should know!"

Don't know, Herman mumbled again, more insistent than ever. Don't know, don't know!

Finally, after several more back-and-forths, Ranboo subsided to think it over. "Well, I'd have to say it was an accident, probably," he murmured to himself. Tommy snorted.

"How'd you figure that out? Was it the way he said 'don't know' over and over?"

Ranboo glared at him, but didn't miss a beat, still thinking out loud. "But how in the world did he ever come into contact with that plushie?"

"Oh!" Tommy nearly hit the table, then remembered how ridiculous Ranboo had looked when he was hitting the table, and slowly set his hand down on the table instead. "When-- when you had that hallucination, Tubbo!"

Tubbo, apparently not remembering how ridiculous Ranboo had been, hit the table. "I knew that wasn't a hallucination! And I knew it didn't sound like Lena, either!"

"Herman," Ranboo said urgently, leaning across the table, crouching a little so he could stare the small ghost in the eyes. "Did you try to tell us that . . ." He paused for a moment, squinting. "What did the plushie say?"

Lena . . . told me . . . Herman's voice-- or whatever it was, the small ripples of sound echoing in Tommy's mind, if he could call that a voice-- was very quiet. She told me . . . to tell you . . .

"You will help," Tubbo echoed, nodding. "She . . . that's what she said. I remember."

Herman scrubbed his hand under his eye, rubbing away some of the tears. They sank into his hand just as they did his cheeks, slowly congealing into tiny spheres of liquid, bobbing gently up and down inside his transparent skin. You needed . . . to help. She wanted help.

"We-- we did help her!" Ranboo exclaimed. "We broke the rosary, we thought--" his voice trailed off a little. "We thought . . . you had been freed, too."

Herman shrugged, then shook his head. It was soft . . . and warm . . . in there. I . . . was warm, I-- didn't want to leave. And I was there, and it was nice, and then . . . He shivered, goosebumps flecking all along his freckled arms. And then I felt something-- something t-tore, and it--

The wind started to pick up in the room. Tommy felt a gentle breeze buffet his hair, swishing along his cheek. Toast glanced up, a low growl erupting from between tightly clenched fangs.

"Woah now, Herman," Tommy cut in, glancing warily around the room. "Don't get too excited--"

And I could feel it, Herman rambled, tripping over his own words, the sounds blending together into a panicked jumble in Tommy's head. I could feel it-- Lena was gone, and then it-- it grabbed me all around, I couldn't even get out, I--

More tears starting to spill down his face, Herman let out a mournful moan, folding himself up into another ball. He rocked back and forth in the air, his floppy hair covering his eyes. I was trapped . . . a-and I d-didn't know what to do. I felt that Lena-- she was gone, I was scared-- He gulped in more air, cradling his head in his hands. Gusts of wind slammed into the wall, rocking a few paintings. The papers that had once been their main focus picked themselves up, flying into the air.

I thought y-you would get rid of me, t-too, sobbed Herman. So I-- I hid, and I kept hiding, k-kept hiding, but him-- he, h-he liked me, seemed nice, and so I tried to talk . . . to him.

And-- well, you kept being so nice, and then, and then when you were sick, and she was being mean-- as Herman stared at Tubbo, his voice darkened to a low growl, and his colour darkened to a colour akin to a storm cloud, a shadow flitting over his face. And I . . . I didn't like that.

Tommy's mouth was completely dry, all the blood drained from his face. Toast looked as though he was about to lunge at Herman, so he grabbed him around the middle, pulling the tiny dog up to his chest before anything . . . unfortunate could happen. "Um . . . yeah," he mumbled faintly. "Yeah, I think that particular message got across."

Tubbo ushered Herman back down to his seat, sharing a worried look with Tommy. "So . . ." he started, slowly. "You . . . you accidentally trapped yourself in my plushie--" he tapped the squash on the table with one finger-- "and now you've, what, become our protector?"

"It doesn't seem-- well, can Herman actually kill a ghost?" Ranboo was tapping his foot on the floor, thinking hard. "Can a ghost . . . kill another ghost?"

"Can he do anything else?" Tubbo enthused, reaching out as though to grab Herman by the hands, but his fingers went straight through the other as always. "Can you? I know you can freeze stuff-- all sorts of stuff! What else can you do?"

"This opens up a whole other door for research!" Ranboo cried, much too loud in his excitement, striking a dramatic pose. He snatched a pen out of his pocket, grabbing a nearby piece of blank paper, and started scribbling things down.

Tommy glanced from one excited face to the other. Setting Toast back down on the ground, he wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his pants. "Um . . . not to break up the party this early, but I've got a question that's kind of important."

Tubbo glanced up. "Yeah?"

"Well, I'm just . . . thinking," he said slowly, not wanting to scare them at all. "Do we want to get . . . rid of Herman?"

Herman let out a little, terrified squeak, his form shuddering as it turned into a dark, seeping blue. He dove for cover into Tubbo's outstretched arms, passing right through the brunette. Tubbo shivered at the sudden touch, but didn't pull back like he had before, shooting Tommy a defiant look.

"How could you even think about that?" he cried. "Get rid of him? Are you crazy? After all he's done for us?"

"He just tried to freeze Charlie to death!" Tommy swung his head around to glare in Charlie's direction, but the American was already looking way too unsure for Tommy's liking. "Come on Charlie, why aren't you defending yourself?"

Charlie lifted his hands in an expression of surrender. "Woah, woah, hold on a minute! I was not expecting to get dragged into this conversation!"

"Getting rid of Herman wouldn't be very ideal," Ranboo cut in, sounding much more mad-science-y than what made Tommy comfortable. "Since he's the first ghost I've met that isn't violent, that's actually willing to help us, maybe I can find some things out from him." His eyes glinted, and Herman let out another high-pitched yelp, curling up into another ball.

Tubbo shook his head. "Stop scaring him, you guys! We just need to figure out what to do with him, don't we? Well, that's easy-- we'll keep him with us!"

This bold statement was punctuated by Tubbo snapping his fingers as though he had tumbled right into a great answer for the situation.

Everything else was dead silent.

"What?" Tubbo looked around at them. Herman turned a blue that was almost green and nervously twisted his wispy sleeves in his hands. "What, you don't think that's a good idea? Look at him! He obviously wants to help! I'm only giving him what he needs to do that!"

"It is true that we've come under significant fire from ghosts before," Ranboo muttered, and he actually appeared to be thinking about this absurd option. "And it is true that we could really use the help so that they don't . . . well, kill us."

Tommy gaped at him. "Are you seriously considering this?!" he cried, shaking a hand in Herman's direction. "Th-that's a ghost! A real, live ghost!"

"I know!" Ranboo grinned back at Tommy. "Isn't it amazing? We can learn so much more this way, can't we?"

Shaking his head, Tommy pressed his palm against his eyelids. Sweat stuck to his eyelashes, the unnatural cold that Herman exuded lingering in his flushed cheeks and damp fingers. "Aren't you-- aren't you scared of him, at all?" he mumbled. "After . . . after all the other ghosts?"

Ranboo nodded, his gaze softening just a little. "Obviously, we'll need to take some precautions, at the very least," he admitted. "I get that you're nervous about this, but can't you see why I'm so excited?"

Tommy tried to grapple with the idea, but it seemed so ridiculous. Taking a ghost with them?

"You got to keep Toast," wheedled Tubbo, clasping his hands together and casting a brilliant smile in Tommy's direction. "Why can't I keep--"

"A ghost?!" Tommy shouted, then flinched back as soon as he realised he was yelling. He grimaced, switching his gaze to the floor, glancing over the small body of his beloved dog. "I'm . . . sorry. It's just . . . it's a lot, I don't know. And besides, a dog and a ghost are two really, really different things! Herman is a whole person!"

Well, maybe not whole, Herman mumbled to himself, hiding a grin behind spidery, too-long fingers. He giggled a little, the sound ringing in Tommy's ears as though it had echoed off high walls. I am a ghost.

"Herman, that's rude to yourself," Tubbo gasped, putting his hands on his hips. "You don't make jokes like that!"

Phil shook his head with a sigh. ". . . I'm watching my legal ward scold a ghost that could possibly kill him inside of a library in Texas. I'm watching . . . okay."

"Bet you never expected to get to this point in your life, huh?" Charlie laughed.

"I didn't expect there to ever be a point like this in my life," grumbled Phil, "and for good reason. There is a ghost right in front of me."

Toast growled in possible agreement. Tommy sighed. "Alright, we can-- keep him. I guess. This isn't even my decision, is it?" He passed a hand over his eyes, and Tubbo grinned cheerily over at him in response.

"Nope!"

"Well, no matter where life takes us, I guess we know that we've got to face it through the lens of--" Tommy started, but both Ranboo and Tubbo cut him off.

"Adventure!" Tubbo cried.

"Research!" Ranboo exclaimed.

Both of them froze in place. Tommy stifled a laugh, pressing a hand against his mouth. He was about to say something else witty, but he was cut off by a near-quiet, nervous voice coming from the door.

"E-excuse me?"

A timid-looking man with hair the colour of deer's fur poked his head into the room, adjusting the thick, wire-rimmed glasses that sat on his small, round nose. "I-- I'm here to inform y-you that your time in the room is-- er, that is to say, it's up--"

Everyone in the room, including Tommy, went pale. Herman let out a yelp of fright, pulling his woollen night-cap down over his eyes, as though that would disguise his obvious paranormality.

The man-- who, Tommy figured, was probably an unfortunate librarian-- caught sight of Herman and froze stiff. He whimpered, all of the blood immediately draining from his face. "Is-- is that a--"

Tommy swallowed hard, but plastered on a cocky grin nonetheless. If they were going to get kicked out of the library (was it a rule that ghosts weren't allowed? He wasn't entirely sure, but it probably broke some sort of law somewhere), at least they were going to do it with a bang.

"Yup," he crowed, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's a ghost. Isn't it cool?"

The man let out a moan of fright and, to Tommy's dismay, collapsed on the doorway. He sucked in a sharp breath, pointing a finger at the librarian. "Did he-- just faint?"

Phil pressed his hand against his eyes, as though he wanted to scratch out the scene that had just unfolded before them. "I'm afraid so."

Charlie actually laughed. "Never a dull moment with you guys, huh?"

"Nope!" Ranboo grinned round the table. "Well, it looks as though there's nothing more to look at! We'll go over these--" he grabbed a fistful of newspapers in his hand-- "on the drive to the Robards."

He glanced over at the body in the doorway, then shot the rest of them a nervous, sheepish smile. ". . . first, though, will you help me drag this guy out of our way?"

---

"Whew," Tommy said, leaning against the exterior library wall. He pressed the backs of his hands against his eyes, letting out a long breath. "That was exhilarating."

"I almost got killed by a ghost, so I think the word was frightening," Charlie corrected, wagging a finger in his direction. Tommy shot him a Look, hoping to remind him that he was not one to be patronised, but it only seemed to egg the other on. In fact, he laughed. "Alright, sorry."

"You don't sound very sorry," Tommy muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tubbo patted Tommy on the head, smirking up at him. "You can't blame him, you're more of a child than anyone else here!"

Tommy could have given Tubbo a taste of his own medicine and hit him over the head, but he was pretty sure that Tubbo had a wrench somewhere in the car, and he really didn't want to deal with a head-hitting war. So instead, he settled for glaring at Tubbo, hoping that that would get his message across.

"Was I the only one who panicked for a moment because I didn't know where Herman would hide from the librarians when we left the library?" pondered Ranboo. "I can't believe I didn't remember that he, like, lived in the plush."

Tubbo shrugged, pulling the soft squash from his pocket. "Yeah, I don't think anyone else here is that forgetful."

The squash shook a little bit in his hands, the cotton leaves rustling against each other as though it was laughing. Tommy shivered a little; he still wasn't used to thinking of the squash as something that could laugh.

But there it was, clearly amused, and Tommy would just have to suck it up and deal with it.

Speaking of dealing with things . . .

He turned to sneak a glance at Charlie, who was playing with his cowboy hat, prying away at the buckle as though to pull it off the hat altogether. Tommy groaned, dropping his hands back to his sides. Should I apologise?

Then he thought it over in his head, and remembered that it was mostly Tubbo and Charlie's argument-- even if he had started it. Well, no. Charlie started it.

There you go again, being stubborn, a little voice inside him snarked. He pushed it roughly away, trying to ignore it. He glanced back over at Charlie, and noticed the American staring intently at the back of Tubbo's head, hat buckle apparently forgotten in his hands.

Tommy didn't know whether he should step forward or not. Tubbo was pretty dense, so there was a good chance that he had either already forgotten about the interaction, already forgiven it, or just wouldn't notice Charlie's attempts to apologise in the first place. But if I interfere, then the mood'll be all 'oh, Tommy, don't talk to us about our feelings when you can barely help your own!' and then they'll expect me to talk about MY feelings . . .

. . . gross.

Tommy stuck out his tongue, glancing down at the ground, where Toast was sniffing at the side of the wall as though he was considering pissing all over it. Tommy caught sight of one of the librarians-- the one with bright yellow nail polish-- shooting him a disapproving look through one of the windows.

He hurriedly pulled Toast away from the wall, smiling back at her in what he hoped was a pleasant way. She shook her head, turning back to her work.

"But I don't know where it is," Ranboo shouted, interrupting Tommy's train of thought. "What if we get lost?"

He startled forward, nearly tripping over Toast, who was, unhelpfully, winding around his feet like some kind of furry anaconda. He grabbed the nearby window sill to help steady himself and hissed at Ranboo, smoothing out the front of his shirt.

"What? You don't know where what is?"

Ranboo sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was gazing at his phone, the blue light of the screen bathing his face in cool shades even in the light of the sun. "Um . . . um. Uh, the . . ."

Tommy stretched out his arms in front of him as he waited for a response, enjoying the way the sun poured warmth out on his arms. Even his hair was warm, the sleeves of his shirt starting to get unbearably hot as he didn't yet have them rolled up. Yet.

He grappled with the particularly tricky left sleeve, trying to push it up to his elbow, and Ranboo finally answered him, albeit in an unsure tone. "Um, I don't know where her shack is . . . Doc's shack," he elaborated, still not taking his gaze away from the screen. "If I don't know where it is, then that poses a lot of potential problems. Like, say, if we don't know where it is . . ."

"And if the shack is in the middle of a forest, like how Miss Flick told us," Tubbo continued, his eyebrows pulled towards each other as though magnetised through the force of his frown.

"Then we stand a good chance of actually getting lost," Ranboo finished, biting his bottom lip.

Toast yipped. Tommy gulped. "Getting . . . lost?"

"Well, that doesn't sound like a very jolly time," Charlie murmured, fumbling with his glasses as he tried to adjust them for about the tenth time. He laughed nervously. "Trapped in a forest with a ghost? Uh . . ."

"It's almost like we need a guide," muttered Phil, scuffing the heel of his shoe on the concrete sidewalk. A car shot out from the parking lot with a screech, the ensuing wind buffeting Tommy's hair and sending a couple curls falling into his eyes.

He brushed them aside, sticking out his tongue at the offending driver.

"A guide?" Ranboo repeated, sounding almost shocked. "But we've never . . . what if they don't believe us? What if they don't want to show us the way to the shack?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure that we can convince them through some sort of means," Tommy said, grinning.

Ranboo put his hands on his hips, then, at Tommy's glare, quickly thought better of it and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Great, but do you have some sort of idea as to who we could ask?"

Tommy glanced over his shoulder and back through the library window, the glass shimmering in the midday heat. Through it, he could see a clerk lean over a ledger, scratching something out in a dark-inked pen.

A grin snuck up onto his face, an idea-- slightly wicked of him, but when were his ideas ever not slightly troublesome?-- springing up into his head.

"Oh, that's Sam Quell."

Tommy narrowed his eyes. He watched as a man with jet-black hair approached the clerk's desk, his steps stuttering and unsteady. His fingers shook, visible even across the several metres between the two of them.

"Probably knows more about the history of this place than the historians do."

Tommy turned back to the others. "I've got someone to take us."

---

"T-t-take you?" stammered Quell.

He was clutching a huge, fabric-bound tome to his chest, toying nervously with a yellowed page that stuck out at a slightly awkward angle. He stared back and forth between Tommy and Tubbo, who stood (slightly menacingly, Tommy had to admit) on either side of him. Tommy held Toast's leash tightly and firmly, almost pretending he was holding onto the leash of a huge, imposing guard dog-- though that facade was quickly broken once Toast started to eat his shoelaces.

They had been the only ones who actually wanted to confront him again-- Tommy to see the hilarious look sure to be on Quill's face when they asked him, Tubbo to try and clear up any 'misunderstandings' about the so-called Saint-Claire.

Quill didn't seem at all reassured by the fact that there were only two of them (plus one dog. Maybe it was Toast making him so nervous?), though. "To-- t-to the Donkey Lady's shack?" He tapped his fingers on the huge book's cover, the rhythm getting quicker the more nervous he got.

Tubbo nodded. "Yup!"

"With-- without a proper plan, or a way to get b-back, or even knowing where exactly you are?"

Tommy pulled his shoe away from Toast's muzzle, dragging the toe of his sneaker along the carpeted floor. He swallowed back a sharp retort, desperately wishing he could have used Tubbo as a threat, but, to his chagrin, Phil had been quick to ban any such thing. "Yep."

"Asking me to give you directions?!" Quell swallowed hard. The book clasped in his arms slipped a little, and he let out a cry of panic as he struggled to grab it again. "Me? Why?"

"Well," Tommy said slowly, turning the idea over in his head, "Now that you ask . . . it might be because you seem to know everything about all these legends, yeah?" His eyes roved over the huge array of books behind Quell, scanning it for anything that looked interesting.

"Don't try to deny it," Tubbo said, his mouth curved upwards into a crooked smile. His eyes glinted, his arms crossed over his chest.

He was getting way too into character, Tommy thought to himself, still staring at the bookshelf opposite them for anything new to read. They hadn't even decided who would be Good Cop, or Bad Cop, or if they were even going to be cops at all! But Tubbo seemed to be very excited about the prospect of actually threatening someone, a somewhat terrifying fact for Tommy to think about.

Sometimes Tubbo scared him.

Quell seemed to be completely convinced, though. He shook every single time Tubbo even moved, and cringed whenever the Brit spoke. His forehead glinted with sweat.

Again, Tommy wondered just what this so-called Saint-Claire was. Why did it make him so scared of Tubbo?

Tubbo continued, taking a step forward. Quell yelped and darted back, almost bumping into the opposite shelf. "We know you know . . . stuff." He made a face on the last word, as though unsure what to actually say. "Uhm, so . . . tell us what you know!" He paused. "And maybe guide us to the shack, too. We kind of need your help on that."

Quell blinked his narrow eyes, watery as though he were about to start to cry, with dark circles slathered underneath his short black eyelashes. He started to hold up the book as though it were a shield, then, as a second thought, actually wrapped his arms protectively around it. "Why should I help you? You-- y-you're the--" he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

"The Saint-Claire?" deadpanned Tommy. He was getting rather tired of that.

Quell went even paler than he already was, a bead of sweat sliding down his cheek. "That." He patted away the glistening sweat from his face, and for the first time, Tommy noticed just how creepy the man actually was.

Tommy actually had to look up to meet eyes with the nervous man. He was tall and gawky, with stick-thin limbs and papery skin, almost translucent despite the man himself not being more than forty. His chin sloped out into a sharp point, his eyes curved and pointed inwards towards his short nose.

Tommy frowned, noticing for the first time that Quell's face was supremely punchable. Also, he was very annoying, and it was slightly exasperating to have to continue playing along with his frightened fantasies.

Quell, however, apparently hadn't noticed that Tommy was getting tired of him. "I would never help you," he cried, taking a sharp step backwards. His back bumped against the nearby bookshelf. "I would never--"

"Oh, please. What in the bloody hell--" Quell stiffened as the curse escaped Tubbo's lips-- "even is the Saint-Claire?! Why do you care about it so much? Why does it matter so much whether it's British or not?!" He looked offended, and Tommy didn't blame him. "What's wrong with being British?!"

Quell shook his head back and forth, whimpering a little. "N-no, I . . . heard whispers. I heard . . . my friends told me . . ."

"Whatever, I suppose it's not that important," Tubbo sighed. "To reiterate what we've already told you, we need you to take us to Doc's shack in the Robards!"

"Doc-- Doc Anderson?" Quell squeaked out. "You want me to bring you where?"

"To Doc Anderson's shack," Tommy repeated, impatient. He glanced over at Toast, pulling him back from a nearby children's book he looked ready to munch on, then, with a sigh, turned back to Quell. "Need us to say it again?"

Quell looked down at his book, then back up at Tubbo and Tommy with eyes so wide they resembled large zeroes. "No, I-- I heard you," he mumbled, rubbing one of his long, spindly fingers under his nose. "I--"

Tommy groaned, pressing a hand to his face. "There's money in it for you," he said, voice muffled by his palm. He couldn't see the change that rippled through Quell, but he could definitely hear the obvious difference in his voice as soon as the now-interested man responded.

"Money?" He sounded almost suspicious.

"Money," Tommy confirmed, dropping his hand away from his face. He grinned up at Quell, propping his hands up onto his hips. If money was how they were going to get a ride, then so be it. Tommy had no qualms, as long as they wouldn't get lost.

Quell swallowed hard, sending Tubbo a sharp look. "And how much are we . . . talking about?"

"Look, details in the car," Tubbo said, rolling his eyes. "For now, we just need a guide."

Quell nodded slowly. He stroked the cover of the large tome he was holding, his fingers drifting slowly over the imprinted golden letters that made out its title. "I see. I'll do it, but . . ." He scrunched up his face, as though saying the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "There must be no danger for me. You understand?!"

His voice clenched on the last word, turning it high and loud. Toast's ears pressed flat against his head as he growled, and even Tommy winced back. Still, he nodded, though he did lift a hand to rub against his offended ear. "I get it, yeah! Don't worry about it."

Truth be told, the scraggly, scruffy man reminded him painfully of Finn, the skeleton-like descendent of Johanna Barnes' killer. The similarity-- a shared thin, crooked look to them, and the strange, dark gleam in their bloodshot eyes-- made him shiver.

Quell-- not Finn, he reminded himself-- nodded again, turning around to lean the large book against a bookshelf.

"No danger," Quell muttered, his hands twitching once they had nothing to grab on to. His head moved jerkily from side to side, his eyes scrambling around as if to see if anyone-- like Doc's ghost, for example-- was watching him. "No danger. Yes. I will lead you."

"Excellent!" Tubbo said brightly, knitting his fingers together and lifting them so they poked at his chin. "We'll be off, then."

Both Quell's and Tommy's eyes widened. "Right now?" Tommy yelped, blinking at Tubbo in surprise. He felt something pull on his shoelace and groaned, tugging his shoe away yet again from Toast's muzzle. "Hold on, Toast's on a shoelace spree again."

The other two paused as Tommy knelt down and scolded Toast for a few quick moments, glaring down at the small dog. Once he had finished, he let out a short breath and stood back up, waving at Tubbo. "Continue."

"Uh, I think it's fine to leave right now," Tubbo shrugged. "What, did you not have time to pack? All our stuff is in the hotel, sure, but the adventure shouldn't take more than a couple of hours! No need to worry."

Tommy bit his lip, patting his almost painfully empty stomach. "What about lunch? Or rather, what about dinner?"

"I'm sure Phil will figure something out," said Tubbo dismissively, waving a hand and looking far too carefree for Tommy's liking. "He'll get us burgers or something. We are in America, you know, I'm sure there's a stop somewhere around here."

"What about Toast's dinner?" Tommy said, waving down at the small dog. Toast panted up at him, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he stared up in drooly adoration at his mom. "Toast can't eat a burger! He'll vomit!"

"He can eat a bun," Tubbo pointed out. "Bread won't kill him."

Tommy groaned. "I guess that's . . . true . . ."

Meanwhile, Quell's hesitation could be more contributed to his fright of leaving. He stared at the ground, twitching and letting out little breathy huffs of air.

Tommy squinted at him, almost worried about the man. He wasn't so sure about taking him on the journey anymore, and he said so to Tubbo. "What if he has a heart attack or something like that?" He was whispering conspiratorially, hiding his face behind his cupped hand.

"I don't think he'll do that," Tubbo told him, patting his shoulder. Tommy glowered at Tubbo, and the brunette quickly thought better of keeping his hand there. "But come on! It'll be fine. No-- it'll be better than that, it'll be fun. Wasn't bringing him along your idea, anyway?"

Tommy grumbled for a few seconds, but he had to admit, "Yeah, it was my idea. So? That doesn't mean that I was the one who latched onto it." He pointed at Tubbo. "That would be you."

In front of them, Quell cleared his throat. "Um . . . where-- w-where is your car?"

Tubbo pointed out the window. "Right there! Ready to go?"

"No," Tommy muttered, and immediately Tubbo slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him right to his side. Tommy yelped, nearly losing his grip on Toast's leash, before Tubbo spoke over him in a much too cheerful voice.

"Of course you are! Off we go!"

---

It took quite a bit of driving before they were able to reach the Robards. By that, Tommy meant that it took half the entire fucking day.

That didn't really surprise Tommy; in fact, he had expected it: the Robards was a good drive away, even if it was still in the same city that they had been in before. In fact, San Antonio was so big it could have used a highway or two to help someone find their way around.

What did surprise Tommy was how unnerving the small neighbourhood was. He hadn't expected goosebumps to prickle on his skin, or all the hair on the back of his neck to stand up, or the way the car windows turned an ugly brown from all the dirt and smog kicked up onto the glass.

Hot exhaust drifted around the van as it rumbled down the cracked concrete road. The sky was a thick, almost colourless grey-blue colour, darkened like the deep sea and peppered with sickly yellow stars. Tar oozed from the faded, yellow-painted curb and down onto the rusted grates, waterlogged cardboard crates stacked on both sides of the road.

Abandoned and uncared-for houses sloped to the side, the grass in their unkempt lawns sickly and yellowed. Glass bottles and plastic containers littered the sidewalks and driveways, their windows cracked and patched sloppily together with white duct tape. The shadow of a trash can stretched out long like melted candy on a hot sidewalk.

Tommy shivered and rubbed his arms, cold even though the day was warm.

A crooked tree bent low next to the road, branches spiralling off into thorny claws. One of its bristling branches caught against one of the sideview mirrors, and, with a screech, dragged wooden nails down the side of the car.

Tommy cringed at the painful sound. He leaned against Tubbo, letting out a hissing breath. "I don't like it here," he whispered. "Everybody is just . . . gone."

"Doesn't surprise me," Tubbo breathed in his ear. "Just look at the place! It's all gross and dirty." He moved a hand up to tangle in Tommy's blonde curls, patting him sympathetically on the head.

"Stop patronising me," he complained, scowling.

"You're the one leaning on me like a sick puppy. Make up your mind." He rocked back and forth for a few seconds, scrunching up his nose, then let out a loud sneeze into his elbow. "Shit, sorry."

Tommy shook his head. "S'okay."

"Make a left here," Quell ordered Phil, his voice just as shaky as the rest of him. He kept twitching nervously, squinting out at the crowded, crooked landscape, clutching a styrofoam cup so tightly that the ice inside kept almost spilling out. He had drunk all of his water already, and, for some reason, refused to drink any more until all of the ice melted again and left him with actual water.

Sam Quell was very, very odd.

Tommy's suspicions were only supported by how nervous and fussy Quell was being, even about the littlest things! I mean, ice? Toast has water, too, and he isn't making a big fuss about there being ice in there-- rather, he's making a big mess . . . oh, and on the floor of a rental car too. Oh dear.

Tommy lifted his frown from Toast's watery mess on the floor to the back of Quell's seat. He crossed one leg over the other, squirming in the hot, sticky car seat. Next to him, Tubbo gripped his shoulder so tightly his knuckles turned white, jumping each time a bird flew across the sky or the car ran over a stick.

Tommy grinned. "Jumpy today, are we?"

"Shut up," Tubbo muttered. "I feel all off-colour, I . . ." he let out a long breath. ". . . didn't get enough sleep, maybe."

Tommy tilted his head at Tubbo. Should he be concerned? Maybe Tubbo was just getting overheated, though. That would make sense, wouldn't it?

The van was, with Quell in the front seat, even more crowded than it had been with just them and Charlie. Truthfully, Tommy was starting to miss having shotgun, but he didn't dare complain to Phil-- the poor guy probably had enough to worry about anyways. Such as the fact that they had a complete stranger in their car.

Tommy's biggest problem wasn't Quell, though. It was basic safety-- or rather, the lack of it. He didn't actually have a seat belt attached, and when he had asked Phil what to do, the man had answered that he should 'find something somewhat safe'.

So, instead of a seat belt, he was forced to grab onto Tubbo's arm almost as tightly as the other boy was grabbing onto his and pray that they wouldn't suddenly tumble into a ditch. Not as good as a seat belt, but it would have to work for the time being.

As a direct result of there being less space, the van had gotten even hotter than it had been before. The smell of sweat and old tar filled the hot van, and even though Phil had the AC on full blast, all it did was fill the car with more squealing noise.

Charlie, squished in between Tommy and Ranboo, kept trying to crawl over Ranboo's lap to peer outside at the thorny, bristly neighbourhood. "Woah," he said in awe. "This place is . . ."

"Full of trees, I know," whispered back Ranboo, gingerly pushing the other American off of him. "Yeah, weird, isn't it?"

"I was going to say--"

"Creepy," Tommy murmured, staring out of the other window, craning past Tubbo. The car's engine grumbled, the wheels slowly pulling it up a bumpy, cracked hill, interrupted by the roots of what looked like a centuries-old Oak tree. "It's bloody creepy here, that's what it is."

Charlie made a face at him. "Yes, I was going to say creepy, but I still don't appreciate being interrupted." He took a deep breath, then declared, "this place is creepy."

"I agree--" Tommy started.

"Yes! Oh, yes!" Charlie punched a fist into the air in exultation, nearly hitting the top of the car. In the front seat, Quell jolted, nearly spilling his cup of ice all over the dashboard. "I wasn't interrupted! Oh, yes! Yes, yes."

Quell jolted at the noise, letting out a pitiful whimper. "Don't scare me like that," he growled, turning around to glower at Charlie. Charlie didn't seem to mind being glared at by what was practically a living skeleton, though, and amiably crossed one leg over the other and started to whistle.

When Tommy shot him an annoyed look, he shrugged, looking almost baffled at the glare. "What? I have my own ways of staying . . . er . . ." His gaze caught something outside the window, and his entire body stiffened in something akin to fright. ". . . cheerful."

He swallowed and continued, though now his voice shook. "Uh, you're the ghost expert here. Are shadows . . . supposed to move like that?"

"What?!" Phil slammed on the brakes so fast the car pitched them all forward, and Quell let out a screech almost as high as the wheels did as he was thrown into the dashboard. Toast yelped as he was tossed into the car seat, the remainder of his water spilling all over the floor of the car.

"Toast!" Tommy cried, bending down to scoop the little dog into his arms. "Are you alright? Phil, how could you? You've bruised him!"

"Ghost shadows, Tommy," Phil hissed, his gaze fixed outside of the window.

Ranboo, not preoccupied with a bruised dog, whirled around, shoving both Tommy and Tubbo out of the way to see what had spooked Charlie so much. "Shadows?! Are you sure?

"We're barely in the Robards," he rambled, trying to squeeze himself in the direction of the windows. "She-- she shouldn't be attacking us yet, though that would make sense-- that would be why all the houses are abandoned, but--"

Tubbo let out a hiss as he was forcefully pushed into the car seat, shooting out a muffled, indignant curse in Ranboo's direction. Tommy, also being squished disgracefully into the car seat-- with a dog in his hands, no less! Had Ranboo no sense at all?-- took the time to quickly elbow him in the ribs.

Ranboo winced. "Sorry."

After Tommy helped Tubbo upright again, the two of them peered outside at the streets. Toast fit himself against Tommy's chest, growling so quietly he could barely feel the vibrations.

Tubbo's breath was hot and laboured, his grip on Tommy's arm seeming noticeably slacker than it had been just a second ago.

". . . you good?" Tommy shot Tubbo a side-eye.

Tubbo wiped a few beads of sweat away from his forehead. "Fine."

There was nothing odd about the outside streets-- well, nothing that made them odder than they already were. Fog still drifted along, catching like cobwebs on the nearby tree branches. Beside him, Tommy heard Ranboo tapping his fingers on the back of Phil's seat.

A soft, painfully tenuous silence settled on them, expectant and frightened. Tommy didn't trust it. It was the kind of silence that always gave way to something dangerous.

With bated breath, Tommy waited for something to lunge out at them.

"Which shadow moved?" he whispered, his gaze still fixed outside. He was not going to look at Charlie and risk missing something important.

Charlie swallowed. "Uh, th-that tree. It, uh . . ."

"Bit more specific, Charlie," Tommy muttered. "There are a lot of trees!" The words hit his ears and made him cringe; he could probably have been a bit gentler with how he had said that.

But it was true! And he was having a hard time just figuring out what tree Charlie meant. Trees were growing everywhere: if not directly in houses, then right next to them, but not in a cosy, comfortable, huggy way like in fantasy stories. They plunged thick, sharp branches into the plywood, vines dripping from their branches and choking the windows with yellowed leaves. They sprouted up in the lawns and pushed dirt aside with knotted, gnarly roots.

Charlie shook his head, passing a hand over his eyes. "I don't . . . I'm sure I saw something."

"How close are we to Doc's shack, Quell?" Ranboo called up to the front seats. Quell jolted nearly as hard as he had when the car had screeched to a stop; clearly, he had not been expecting to be asked questions.

"A . . . mile?" he mumbled, almost nervously. Tommy looked up at the rearview mirror and saw Quell's eyes darting back and forth. "We're close."

All of a sudden, the car gave a groan and pitched forward a little. Tommy felt something smack into the back bumper, making him jump. "What the . . ." He shoved Ranboo off of him and rubbed his back, grimacing. "Ow!"

"Um . . . ghost experts," Charlie whispered, voice hoarse, "why is it so . . . cold?"

"Oh, shit," Tommy breathed. Toast puffed up his fur, digging his clawed paws into Tommy's lap with a more audible growl. Barely moving, barely even breathing, Tommy started to turn around to see what was behind their car.

And then a loud crunch came from the back of the car, the sound of metal breaking and snapping, and Tommy's heart dropped like a stone in his chest as he realised that was the sound of a car being kicked so hard it actually caved in holy shit--

Quell shrieked like a newborn child, burying his head underneath his arms. The cup of ice sloshed around in his hand, spilling ice all over the dashboard. "It's her," he moaned. "It's the Donkey Lady!"

Toast howled and bristled, clawing at the car seats with a snarl on his snout. Charlie's face went very pale. "It-- it can't be! It's a bear, a bear or something!" he suggested in panic, struggling to turn around. "It has to be a bear, or-- or a crocodile!"

"We're in Texas! And bears don't kick cars!" Almost as desperately as Charlie, Tubbo scrabbled at the backseats to try and spin around, his shoulders heaving up and down as he panted for breath.

Phil stomped down hard on the gas and grappled with the gear shift, yanking it back to drive as fast as he could. With shaking arms, Tubbo shoved Tommy off him, just as Tommy had started to seize hold of Tubbo's shoulder again so that he wouldn't get tossed around.

"Everyone hold on!" Phil shouted as the car roared back to life, just as another sharp kick came from the backseat.

"Hold on to what?!" Tommy, who still didn't have a seatbelt, yelled back at him.

"Anything!"

The car spat out a copious amount of exhaust and shot off down the street, knocking into almost anything that came its way. Tommy barely managed to throw an arm in front of Toast, keeping the dog locked to his side as they fled through the abandoned streets.

Tommy yelped as a huge, fist-sized rock came flying out of nowhere and smacked into the windshield, smashing into it so hard it left behind a webbed series of cracks.

"Is there really a ghost behind us?" he hissed at Tubbo. For some reason, his friend's entire face had gotten slightly redder. He slumped down in his seat, pressing a hand against his sweaty forehead, breathing so hard he was practically gasping for air. Was he okay?

Tommy pressed further. "What does it look like?"

"I don't . . . didn't see . . ." Tubbo's voice slurred and trailed off, his eyelids drooping. He shook his head, groaning weakly. "Don't feel . . . good."

Tommy felt panic start to creep up at the edges of his thoughts. He grabbed Tubbo by the front of his shirt and shook him a little, incredibly angry for no good reason. "Don't you dare faint on us," he snapped, hands and voice shaking. "Don't you dare--"

The car turned hard, throwing everybody to the side. Charlie screamed, tossed about into Tommy like some sort of rag doll. Tommy flailed about for any sort of handhold as he was helplessly flung into Tubbo's side, landing directly on Tubbo's elbow and knocking all the wind from his lungs.

Tubbo groaned, head lolling to the side. Tommy scrambled to get upright again, cradling his friend's head in his hands to try and get their eyes to meet. "Stop fainting!" he growled, as if that would actually do anything.

"Tubbo! Are you okay?!" Ranboo, the idiot of the group, had unbuckled his seat belt and crawled over to where the two of them were sitting. Tubbo made no movement to reassure Ranboo that he'd been heard, just slumped limply in his seat.

Ranboo pursed his lips, snapping his fingers in front of Tubbo's dizzy expression. He turned to Tommy. "Does he have a fever?"

Tommy cursed. He hadn't even thought about that. He felt fine earlier!

But when he lifted a hand to try and feel Tubbo's temperature, the brunette tried weakly to push his hand away, protesting. "I'm not sick," he emphasised, his voice quieter than Tommy had ever heard it. "Just . . . I'm not sick!"

"Now is not the time," Tommy told him fiercely, "to pretend! We are being chased by a ghost! You can tell the truth about whether or not you're ill!"

Tubbo shook his head, pulling his head out of Tommy's grip. The car grazed the side of a tree, a loud screech tearing through the air like claws through wet paper. Ranboo flinched back at the noise, slipping and landing on his back on the car floor with a groan. Toast tried to lunge out of Tommy's grip, which was not good, because he didn't want to look after two incapacitated friends and a growling dog at the same time.

Shit, fuck, motherfucker--

"Shit-- Ranboo--" Tommy grabbed Ranboo by the wrist, trying to pull his friend back up to a safer position, or at least, one that was not 'fetus position on the floor of a rapidly moving car'. "Get up! Charlie, unbuckle!"

"Why?!" Charlie screamed as the car pitched forward, propelled by another kick from behind. "Are you crazy?!"

"We need more room! I need you to scoot ov--" Tommy was cut off by the back window exploding inwards, shards of glass covering them like snow. Everybody-- except Phil, who was intently watching the road, and Tubbo, who was too weak to muster even one terrified cry-- screamed.

"Go faster," Ranboo yelled at Phil. "I think she's catching up!"

"Is this really a ghost?!" Phil shouted back at him, actually leaning forward to put more weight on the gas pedal. "How fast can they go?!" The car tore forward, shaking as it did so.

"Why isn't Herman protecting us?" cried Charlie, who had not only been flung into a car seat, but also into a terrified tizzy. "Why are we being chased by a huge, terrifying ghost?! Why did I agree to come along on this?!"

"I think she's trying to chase us away," muttered Phil grimly. "Too bad, we're here to stay!"

Charlie whimpered. "We are?"

The car gave a rumble as the speed increased even further, the van rushing down a thin, poorly weeded street. Trees stretched up and over them like the roof of a tunnel, branches snapping against the paint and windows like long, twisted fingers.

A loud shriek came from behind the car, a sound like hooves falling on hard cobblestones snapping out a terrifyingly fast rhythm behind them. Everyone ducked their heads as a chunk of gravel sailed through the shattered back window, bouncing off of Quell's seat and narrowly missing Tommy's head by a couple of inches.

As he stared in shock at what could have led to his early demise, the temperature plunged even deeper, and Tommy's fingers went cold and numb in seconds. Toast burrowed deeper into Tommy's chest, now letting out a quavering, growling whimper.

"Is that Herman?" he asked, almost hopefully. He actually would have been grateful to see the boy's blue face for once.

"I'm guessing . . . no," Tubbo panted, slumping backwards onto his seat. "This feels . . . different . . ." His eyes started to flutter closed.

Flabbergasted, Tommy shook his head, staring down at Tubbo. "What does that even mean, 'it feels different'?" he mocked. "This is no time to-- hey! Wake up!"

"Stop it!" Ranboo cried, wrenching Tommy's hands off Tubbo. "We just need to get out of here before the ghost catches us, quit trying to fight Tubbo while he's sick!"

The car had plunged into a tiny side street, so dirty and covered in rocks and saplings that Tommy wasn't even sure if it was really a road. They jostled and bounced up and down, the bumps in the road tossing them back and forth.

"Wh-y are we go-ing this--" Tommy stopped to breathe, pressing a hand against his chest. He could barely speak, and the tremors caused by the bumpy road weren't helping in the slightest. "Why are we on this r-road?" he called up to the front seat.

"The shack is this way," Phil yelled back. "We need to reach--"

The car lurched to the side, tossing both Tommy and Ranboo-- the two without seatbelts-- swiftly and brutally into the door. A scream ripped itself out of Tommy's throat as he collided with the car door, his elbow smacking the handle and flaring with pain. His head crashed into the window, and instantly black spots swarmed in his vision like a cloud of flies.

The car gave an ominous creak, the door straining under their combined weight. They were still travelling at full speed, the car swaying back and forth, lilting to one side and then to the other.

"I think I'm going to be sick," moaned Ranboo, covering his face with his hand.

"That is not what I want to hear while we are literally two inches away from each other," Tommy hissed back, grappling for a handhold. He needed to get back up, to--

The car door popped open.

Tommy watched in horror as Ranboo fell out of the car, crashing onto the concrete and curling up in pain like a bug about to die. He stretched out a hand, but the car was going too fast-- his arm cracked against a tree trunk too close to the side of the road and he screamed in pain, trying helplessly to crawl back up.

"Tommy!" Charlie yelled over the force of the wind. "Close the stupid door!"

"Ranboo-- but Ranboo," he cried. "We need to stop the car!"

The ghost let out a blood-curdling howl, and the car was sent screeching forward as another hard crash echoed from behind them. Phil gritted his teeth, staring in the rear view mirror. "Tommy, hold on!"

"What--" Tommy had time to grab onto Tubbo's seat belt before Phil yanked the steering wheel all the way around, turning the car into a fast U-turn.

Tommy peeked his head up to stare out the window and caught a quick blur of a smoky figure, eyes bright like car lights, limbs bulging in some places but not in others--

And then the car sailed right through the Donkey Lady, and Tommy scrambled to the other side of the car, throwing open the door to try and grab hold of his friend. He tucked Toast into Tubbo's arms, praying that the small dog wouldn't try to come after him.

"Ranboo, get over here!" he ordered, but Ranboo didn't seem to hear him. He was curled up in pain, shaking all over, and part of his arm that had collided with the road was matted with blood.

"Ranboo," Tommy yelled, and, all of a sudden, felt someone grab him by the back of his shirt. He yelped and turned around to see Sam Quell craning over his seat, staring at him with wide, terrified eyes. In Tubbo's limp arms, Toast snarled at the man, lowering himself as though about to lunge.

"We're going back to town," Quell growled, not seeming to even notice Toast's warning, "with or without your friend."

"We're obviously not going to leave him," Tommy snapped. "So what's your great idea?!"

Quell's face contorted into an expression between rage and terror. He leaned forward even more, so close Tommy could smell something sour on his breath, making him cringe back. Screwing up his face, he prepared for Quell to say something scathing, but then the man reached out and shoved Tommy out of the car.

For a quick instant, life was a blur of wind, colour, and pain.

Then, a sickening crack reached his ears, and he knew he had landed on the ground. Pain exploded through his side, rough concrete tearing his clothes and skin. He cried out, his head striking against something solid and shooting sparks across his vision. His stomach did several impressive aerobic flips and, less impressively, managed to spew up bile.

A loud roar tore at his ears as the car screeched by and he screamed yet again, plastering his bloodied hands over his ears, sure his skull would collapse from the howling winds and scream of noise. Exhaust spilt over his mouth and nose to stifle his already ragged breathing, vile, hot smoke pushing itself into his lungs.

"Tommy!" someone called, and he looked up through the ugly haze, trying to find whoever it was. His head swam, his entire body much too hot despite the temperature being so cold. "Tommy, wait right there!"

As though I could move, he thought grumpily. Still, he needed the help, and so he somehow managed to lift his head enough to stare blearily around in the cloud of grey.

". . . help--" he rasped out, his stomach heaving. "H-help m--" He tried to finish the sentence, though his throat only managed to force up even more vomit. He smeared away the sour fluid from his chin and tried again, though he couldn't get out a single syllable before he began to retch again.

The smoke began to clear, and for the first time in ages, Tommy heaved in a breath of clean air. He pressed blood-wet palms to his eyes, trying to smear away some of the smog and exhaust, and for the first time he realised that tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes.

He heard a loud thud just a few paces away and shoved himself to an upright position, keeping his hands over his mouth in case his stomach tried to empty itself again. He blinked, and the scene slowly started to clear.

"Who . . ." He tried to shake his head, but almost immediately pain shot through his neck. He winced but kept staring around at the smoke-heavy streets. His lungs still burned, his stomach gurgling unhappily, and half of his body was almost entirely skinned as though he'd fallen off of a bike-- a really tall, fast-moving bike.

And then, as though his current situation wasn't enough to make him panic, a blurry shadow came out of nowhere and grabbed him by the shoulders.

Tommy tried to scream, wrenching himself away from the man's grasp, but all that came out was a near-silent whimper.

"Tommy, s'okay," someone whispered. They sounded concerned, so . . . probably not a ghost. "It's alright, it's-- it's just me."

Tommy stared up in dim confusion at the person whose face he should really probably recognise. But to be fair, he had just fallen out of a car, so he thought he could probably give himself some slack.

The shadow gave him a firm shake and Tommy rocked back and forth in his grasp like some sort of fabric doll. He hissed in annoyance, trying to shove the man away. I'll fucking vomit if you shake me like that one more time, and I won't even regret it because it'll all be on your clothes and you're the one who shook me so it'd be all your damn fault.

However, what came out was: "don't . . . stomach . . ."

Eloquent, he knew.

The man continued on as though nothing had happened, though he thankfully stopped shaking him. "Oh-- don't worry, Ranboo's okay. He's right there, I already checked on him. Are you alright? Phil will kill me if you're hurt."

". . . what?" Tommy blinked slowly, realising that the person right in front of him was most likely Charlie. His tongue moved far too slow on the words he wanted to make-- he wanted to ask what had happened, if Ranboo was okay, what had happened to Doc's ghost, but all that came out was another mumbled, "what?"

Somewhere in the depths of his pain-drunk mind, he registered that that was probably the lamest thing to ever say after getting pushed out of a moving car. Still, he couldn't say much else, so he would take it.

"I think you took the worst fall out of any of us," Charlie admitted, looking him over with an almost frightened expression. "Ooh, your face is all bloodied up, and your arms . . . you gonna be okay?"

Tommy lifted his arms up, seeing blood drool lazily down his forearms like scarlet ribbons. "Blood?"

"Um, yeah." Charlie stared at him with just a little bit of confusion. "Don't you remember? You hit a tree."

He had? . . . that probably wasn't good.

Charlie turned to someone else that Tommy couldn't see, shaking his head rather quickly. He seemed to be panicking-- Tommy could feel his rushed heartbeat against his shoulders where Charlie was still grabbing him, and his breathing kept choking up awfully often.

"We have to get him back to town-- I don't care if we have to walk, we've got to do something." Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening painfully on Tommy's shoulders.

Tommy brought a hand to his cheek and winced. It stung when he touched it. Badly. ". . . walk back to town?" he rasped. "Isn't the car . . ." Didn't Phil stop for us?

"Long gone," the person behind him said grimly, and Tommy let his head loll around to see that it was Ranboo. He was in a rough state-- his hair was all matted with blood and his shirt was ripped almost entirely down the middle, but at least his jacket had shielded most of his body. He tugged the scraps of the bloody, shredded jacket protectively around himself and cradled one side of his face in the palm of his hand.

He also wore a frightened expression-- never a good sign when you were dealing with Ranboo. He bit his bottom lip, and then delivered the bad news. "Quell grabbed the steering wheel."

Charlie swallowed nervously, glancing back and forth between Tommy and Ranboo. "And he's the only one who knows how to find us."

"And we're trapped in a huge maze of abandoned streets . . ." Ranboo shook his head. "With a ghost, and no tools, and no plan."

As Tommy sat there, staring up at Ranboo, he slowly came to the same realisation that everyone else had long ago come to.

"Are we . . . stranded?"