[DGW: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING OTHER THAN MY OC'S]
[WARNING, DESCRIPTIONS OF GORE]
I'D NEVER BEEN TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM BEFORE. In fact the only Museums I've ever been in were the museums in Manhattan, Connecticut, and the one's my school took us too.
Anyway, the museum was closed and completely dark, but the curator and two security guards were waiting for us on the front steps.
"Dr. Kane!" The curator was a greasy little man in a cheap suit —very similar to Mr. Grayson. The main difference between them being the curators teeth were worse than the mummies on the wall. He shook Mr. Kane's hand like he was meeting a rock star.
"Your last paper on Imhotep—brilliant! I don't know how you translated those spells!" The Curator slurp— I mean praised.
[That is literally what Basil wrote I am not kidding. I did not want to read that.]
"Im-ho-who?" Sadie muttered behind me.
"Imhotep," Carter said. "High priest, architect. Some say he was a magician. Designed the first step pyramid. You know."
I nodded, having known most of that. I was not sure about the magician part though.
"Don't know," Sadie said. "Don't care. But thanks."
I stifled a laugh. For all her sarcasm, Sadie wasn't that bad. She rolled her eyes at me like I was in on the joke, and I shrugged back. I wasn't sure if that meant we were friendly now, but it was better than her sulking as if we were going through some kind of plague.
I'm egotistic, not heartless.
As we walked deeper into the museum, Sadie fell into step beside me.
"So..." she muttered, "this whole trip working out for you?"
I blinked. "What?"
She gestured vaguely to the museum. "This. All of it. School trip to London? Must be banging."
Her tone was dry, but she wasn't exactly being mean — more like she was testing the waters.
"It's... alright," I said carefully. "Could be worse."
"Oh, definitely." Sadie smirked. "You could be alone with Carter for the whole tour."
"Hey!" Carter called from ahead.
Sadie grinned, clearly pleased with herself.
"I'll take my chances," I said. "He seems like a nice guy."
"Alright, alright," Mr. Grayson barked from behind us. "Less chatter. This isn't a social outing."
Sadie wrinkled her nose but didn't say anything.
Mr. Kane expressed his gratitude to the curator for hosting us on a holiday. Then he put his hand on Carter's shoulder. "Dr. Martin, I'd like you to meet Carter, Basil and Sadie."
"Ah! Your son, obviously, and the young Mr. Castellan." The curator smiled and turned to look at sadie. "And the young lady?
"My daughter," Mr. Kane said.
Dr. Martin's smile faltered for half a second — barely enough to notice — but Carter must've caught it too because his expression gained a bit of annoyance. Something told me this wasn't the first time someone had mixed up the two's familial relationship.
The curator regained his smile. "Yes, yes, of course. Right this way, Dr. Kane. We're very honored!"
Before we could move, Mr. Grayson cleared his throat — loud enough to turn every head in the room.
Mr. Grayson stepped forward, fixing the curator with that sharp, expectant stare —like one a child would use when waiting for someone to praise him. The curator, however, barely glanced his way.
"Excuse me," he said, stepping forward with that tight-lipped smile I'd seen him wear whenever he was pretending to be polite. "I believe some introductions are still in order."
"Oh, of course." The curator's smile dimmed. "Mr...?"
"Grayson, Janus Grayson," Mr. Grayson said pointedly. "I believe I mentioned my background in Egyptian studies before the trip."
"Ah, yes," Dr. Martin said with all the enthusiasm of someone who'd just remembered they'd forgotten to take out the trash. "Mr. Grayson... Westover Hall, correct?"
"That's right," Mr. Grayson said, straightening his tie like he was preparing for a lecture. "I specialized in Old Kingdom artifacts and the theological significance of transitional burial practices in early dynastic Egypt. My paper on the Pyramid Texts was—"
"Yes, yes," Dr. Martin cut him off, smiling a little too brightly. "I'm sure it was very insightful."
Mr. Grayson glared slightly, spooking the curator.
The curator adjusted his tie nervously. "My apologies, I do try to remember the names of all our guests."
"Of course," Mr. Grayson said, his smile tightening. "I imagine that's difficult when you're too busy gushing over your more popular visitors." He shot a pointed glance at Mr. Kane.
"W-Well," the curator stammered. "Dr. Kane's work is... widely recognized."
"And mine isn't?" Mr. Grayson asked. His voice had that calm, dangerous edge I'd heard once before — when some kid in class had called him 'Grumpy Grayson' and ended up writing a five-page essay on Napoleon's exile as punishment.
"Oh no, no! Not at all!" The curator gave a thin, oily smile. "I'm sure your work is... uh, fascinating."
"I know it is," Mr. Grayson said coldly.
Silence hung between the two men as Mr. Grayson glared down at the curator.
"Anyway," Mr. Kane said, forcing a smile back into the conversation. "We're grateful for the opportunity."
The three men locked eyes for an uncomfortable few seconds.
"I'm sure we're all very grateful for Mr. Grayson's expertise," Mr. Kane said diplomatically. "Shall we continue?"
"Of course," Dr. Martin said, a little too quickly. "Just as soon as we check your bags."
The security guards locked the doors behind us. They took our luggage, scanning it for any contraband. Then one of them reached for Mr. Kane's workbag.
"Ah, no," Mr. Kane said with a tight smile. "I'll keep this one."
The guard hesitated, eyeing the bag like he wanted to argue, but something in Mr. Kane's expression must've changed his mind. Without another word, the guard stepped back, letting Mr. Kane pass.
The curator turned and started leading us through the Great Court and towards the Egyptian wing.
Mr. Grayson stalked a few steps away from the group, pretending to admire a statue, but I could see his hand curling into a fist at his side. His whole vibe reminded me of a tea kettle about to whistle.
"Looks like someone's feeling unappreciated," Sadie whispered beside me.
"Yeah," I mumbled. "He's gonna be fun later."
As we moved deeper into the Egyptian wing, the air seemed to change — colder, heavier somehow. The polished floors reflected the towering statues around us, their stone faces frozen in stern, unblinking stares. I tried to focus on Mr. Kane's conversation with the curator, but my thoughts kept drifting back to Mr. Grayson.
He'd been quiet since his little spat with the curator — too quiet. Even when he was sulking, Mr. Grayson usually had a habit of muttering historical tidbits or loudly sighing to remind everyone he was still there. But now... nothing.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Mr. Grayson hadn't followed us into the room — instead, he'd lingered by a dark corridor just outside the exhibit. His face was shadowed, but I could still see him watching us.
"You seeing this?" I muttered to Sadie and Carter.
Sadie glanced at the place Mr. Grayson had been, then back at me. "Creepy teacher loitering in the spooky hallway?" She shrugged. "Looks completely normal for how today's going."
"Yeah, well... I don't think he's just sightseeing."
Carter studied me, trying to see if I was pulling his leg. "You think something's up?"
I wasn't sure how to answer. Mr. Grayson had always been weird, but something about the way he'd cornered the curator — that sharp smile, that tense posture — felt wrong. Like he was waiting for just the right moment to—
"I'll be back shortly," Mr. Grayson's voice cut in from the hall.
The guy didn't even wait for a response. He just turned and disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps echoing until they were gone.
Carter's eyebrows rose. "Yeah... that's not suspicious at all."
I didn't like it. Not one bit.
The guards stayed in the foyer as we followed the curator through the Egyptian exhibition. It was ominous at night. Dim light from the glass-domed ceiling cast crosshatched shadows across the walls like a giant spiderweb, our footsteps clicking on the white marble floor.
"So," Mr. Kane said, "the stone."
"Yes!" the curator said. "Though I can't imagine what new information you could glean from it. It's been studied to death—our most famous artifact, of course."
"Of course," Mr. Kane said. "But you may be surprised."
"What's he on about now?" Sadie whispered.
I shrugged, not sure what they meant either. They could mean the Rosetta Stone, but that was in storage due to protestors throwing soup at one of the other exhibitions.
I tried to focus on what Mr. Kane was saying, but my eyes kept drifting back to the corridor where Mr. Grayson had vanished. Something about the way he'd left — no explanation, no attempt to stay involved — didn't sit right with me.
I shook it off. Maybe I was just overthinking things. The guy was weird, sure, but weird didn't mean dangerous... right?
The curator led us around the Egyptian wing, and Mr. Kane was busy asking for some papers and —I kid you not— the actual Rosetta Stone, from the archives when I felt a hand clap down on my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
"Basil," Mr. Grayson's voice murmured, way too close to my ear. "A moment?"
I turned, trying not to look as startled as I felt. His smile was stretched tight across his face — fake, like a mask he'd forgotten to take off.
"There's something special I'd like to show you," he said. "An exhibit some of the staff set up. A... private collection, if you will."
His fingers tightened slightly on my shoulder, just enough to make me uncomfortable. I glanced toward Mr. Kane, who was still deep in conversation with the curator. Carter and Sadie were busy whispering to each other near a statue. No one was paying attention to me.
"Uh... I should probably stay with the group," I said.
Mr. Grayson's smile widened. "Oh, this won't take long. The staff insisted I bring you specifically — something about your... unique interests."
That set off alarm bells. I hadn't exactly made a name for myself as the 'museum kid' back at Westover Hall. Yeah I was an over achiever but I never talked about my personal interests with anyone, not even my mom. The only thing Mr. Grayson knew about me was that I was... replaceable.
Oh my goodness I'm going to be murdered.
"Come along," he said, his hand practically steering me toward the dark corridor he'd disappeared down earlier.
I shot one last glance at Mr. Kane, but the guy was still lost in his own world. Reluctantly, I let Mr. Grayson lead me down the hallway.
The shadows swallowed us fast, the dim museum lights barely cutting through the dark. The deeper we went, the quieter it got — no footsteps, no murmuring voices. Just me, Mr. Grayson, and the faint thud of my own heart.
"Where exactly are we going?" I asked. My voice sounded too loud in the empty corridor.
"Patience," Mr. Grayson said. "You'll see soon enough."
I didn't like the sound of that at all.
The corridor stretched on longer than it should've — way longer. The shadows seemed to close in, and the faint murmurs of the museum faded until it felt like we'd crossed some invisible boundary.
"Almost there," Mr. Grayson said, his voice low and oddly... breathless.
I was debating if I should make a break for it when he abruptly stopped at a large wooden door. It looked brand new, safe for some old — like ancient old — looking markings that I couldn't quite make out —they looked similar to hieroglyphs. The wood had dark stains near the bottom, something like fresh red paint.
"Here we are," Mr. Grayson muttered, more to himself than me. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a ring of keys —also stained with paint— and started fumbling with the lock.
"Uh..." I took a step back. "I don't think I'm supposed to be here."
"Oh, but you are," he said, flashing me that stretched-out smile. "You're exactly where you need to be."
Before I could answer, the lock clicked open, and Mr. Grayson pushed me inside.
I stumbled forward — and stopped dead.
The room... wasn't a proper exhibit. It was more like a makeshift altar. The air was thick with the stench of copper and something even worse — rotten flesh. Scattered across the floor were parts — arms, legs, bones — all from different exhibits. Some were skeletal remains, others still had bits of shriveled skin clinging to them. My stomach turned.
In the center of the room was a wide, circular pattern drawn in something dark — and I was pretty sure it wasn't paint. Candles flickered along the edges, their flames dancing against the red-streaked walls.
And the guards...
I swallowed hard. Some of the museum's security staff was slumped against the far wall, unconscious or worse. Their bodies were sprawled like broken dolls, and I couldn't tell if they were breathing.
"Wh—What is this?" My voice barely worked.
Mr. Grayson chuckled. The sound was sharp and brittle, like glass cracking. "This," he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, "is justice."
He moved around the room, inspecting the body parts like he was arranging decorations. "Do you know what it's like," he murmured, "to dedicate your entire life to something... only for the world to turn its back on you?"
He kicked what looked like chunk of brain matter out of his path. "Decades of study. Years spent unearthing secrets no one else could even fathom. And for what? To be overshadowed by him?" He spat the word like a curse.
"You mean... Mr. Kane?" I asked, stalling for time.
Mr. Grayson's head seemed to snap at me. His body lurched.
"Kane..." he said, saying the name like it was making a sore on his tongue. "I don't give a shit about Kane! That bald big nosed bastard doesn't stand half as tall as me. Sure, he waltzes into the field with his 'knowledge' and 'skill' and suddenly my work — my work — is nothing more than a footnote!" Mr. Grayson slammed his hand against the wall. "But this... this isn't about Kane."
He gestured wildly to the circle. "This... is about proving my worth. Showing that ingrate, Bellamy, that he can't just walk in and steal my wife! This, will give me what I deserve."
Mr. Grayson turned to me with a sick smile as he spoke in a low tone, "you... you will give me what I deserve."
I took a step back, my shoes sliding slightly on the slick floor. The candlelight flickered against the dark red stains, and the stench of decay clawed its way down my throat.
"I don't understand," I said, stalling for time. "What does this have to do with... me?"
Mr. Grayson laughed — a wet, rasping sound that scraped against my nerves. "Oh, you poor, ignorant child." He crouched by one of the candles and dragged his fingers through the dark circle, smearing the substance — blood, I realized — between his fingers like paint. "This isn't about you. You're just... convenient."
His gaze flicked up to mine, and the glint in his eyes made my stomach tighten.
"Convenient... how?" My voice was tight.
"You were never meant to be here," he said with a sneer. "It was supposed to be him. Harrison Bellamy — the son of the man who ruined my life. But no, you had to come along instead. So now..." He stood slowly, his fingers still sticky with blood. "Now, you get to be the replacement."
I swallowed hard. "You're... you're going to kill me."
"Oh, no," Mr. Grayson said, almost playfully. "No, no. Not yet." He gestured to the circle. "See all this? The jars... the remains?" He motioned toward several clay jars set carefully within the bloody pattern. They had carved faces on them, each one worn with age. "These hold the organs of many, important figures. Kings ... queens... children. Pieces of their khet, their body."
I stared at the jars, then at the sprawled security guards. The pieces started connecting in my head, and the picture they formed wasn't pretty.
"You're sacrificing them," I whispered. "The security guards... the bones... the jars... all of it."
Mr. Grayson's smile widened, and his eyes gleamed. "All of it," he agreed. "The khet — the body — the ba — the soul — and the sah, the spirit. All of it feeds into one perfect offering."
I backed up another step, but my heel hit something hard. I glanced down — a detached, human hand. I shuddered.
"You're insane," I said, my voice dry and shaky. My head felt too light, my thoughts too heavy.
Mr. Grayson chuckled again — that sharp, splintering laugh that sounded more like metal scraping glass. "No," he muttered. "No... I've just seen. Seen what's been hiding behind the veil. They kept it from us — the magicians, the historians, the major gods. But I dug deeper. I learned the truth." His fingers twitched against his sides, his nails blackened — not with dirt, but with whatever bile and viscera he'd scraped from the bodies to drawing those symbols with. "Ba-Pef... He will show them what I've earned."
He started pacing, stepping over body parts like they were nothing more than misplaced furniture. "Do you know what it's like, Basil? To work tirelessly, to give everything — your mind, your time, your life — and still be treated like you're nothing?" His eyes flickered with something wild. "I was supposed to be the greatest! I was supposed to lead the field in Egyptology. Then Harrison's father stole my wife — my wife! — and left me a joke. A nobody!" His breath hitched, his voice growing louder. "My papers ignored! My theories mocked! But this... this will change everything."
His hand shot out, gesturing to the grotesque altar. "Ba-Pef will make me powerful. Fear... true fear... that's his domain. The spirit of terror itself, and I will be his right hand! No one will mock me again. No one will pity me."
I couldn't breathe. My gaze flicked back to the unconscious guards — some of them had gashes on their heads, others bruises forming around their throats. The air stung with the scent of copper and rot.
"You're out of your mind," I said. "This isn't power — it's murder!"
Mr. Grayson's face twisted into a grin — too wide, too stretched. "Oh, I know," he said softly. "I know."
His hand shot out, grabbing a large bronze shabti statue from the altar — a figure of a man with crossed arms, clutching a crook and flail. It looked old, way older than it should've been. The edges were jagged and sharp.
"Wait—" I started.
I barely got the word out before he swung.
The statue slammed into my skull with a sickening CRACK.
The pain was instant — like lightning bursting behind my eyes. My vision blurred. My knees buckled. I stumbled back, hitting the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of me.
The world spun — colors bleeding together in smears of red and grey. My ears rang, and for a second I couldn't hear anything except the faint whoosh of blood pounding in my head.
I tried to push myself up, but the floor felt like it was tilting. I saw Mr. Grayson crouching over the altar now, his hands moving feverishly as he scrawled symbols along the floor with a blood soaked boomerang like thing.
"...bind the spirit... claim the sah..." His voice blurred in my ears. "...consume the khet... draw the ba to me..."
The candles flared — sparks hissing up the wax like fuses. The dark, twisted stains on the floor seemed to pulse, like veins in diseased skin. The air tightened around me, cold and sharp.
My vision kept slipping in and out of focus, but I saw Mr. Grayson rip the lids off the canopic jars and other organ holding containers. The air filled with a sharp, sour stench — like meat rotting in the sun.
The stench twisted my stomach. I tried to push myself up, but my limbs felt like lead — clumsy and weak. My head throbbed, the pain radiating down my spine. I could barely focus on Mr. Grayson as he reached into the nearest jar and scooped something dark and shriveled into his palm — something that looked too much like a lump of dried meat. He crushed it in his fist, smearing the remains across the bloody symbols.
"Ba-Pef, great spirit of fear," Mr. Grayson chanted. "Rise from the Duat! Answer my call!"
The room darkened. The flickering candles dimmed to pinpricks of light, barely illuminating Mr. Grayson's twisted smile. The air grew heavier — colder — like the breath of something vast and ancient had seeped into the walls.
The shadows in the room shifted. They pooled in the corners and stretched across the floor, slithering closer to the circle.
I coughed, tasting copper on my tongue. My vision blurred, but through the haze, I saw something — a shape forming in the gloom. It wasn't solid, not yet — just a jagged ripple in the air, like heat rising off asphalt. The shadows twisted and churned, condensing into something... wrong. Eyes flickered within the darkness — dozens of them, blinking in and out like sparks in a fire.
Ba-Pef.
I don't know how I knew, but I knew. This... thing wasn't just some ghost. It was ancient. Cold. The air seemed to hum around it, vibrating with something worse than magic — something that gnawed at my thoughts, whispering half-formed horrors directly into my skull.
"You see?" Mr. Grayson's voice shook with excitement. "It's working!"
He reached for one of the candles and plunged his hand into the flame. His skin sizzled, but instead of crying out, he smeared the fire across his chest, marking his shirt with soot and ash.
"Fear," Mr. Grayson murmured. "I will wield you like a blade."
The shadows coiled tighter, the shape of Ba-Pef growing larger. Its face flickered in and out of focus, shifting between shapes. A man's face, then one of a corpse, then one of a bull.
And then the eyes turned to me.
I felt my body seize up. Every nightmare I'd ever had — every fear I'd buried — hit me at once.
I couldn't breathe. My heart thrashed in my chest, hammering so hard I thought my ribs would crack. The air itself seemed to solidify, wrapping tight around my lungs.
I barely registered Mr. Grayson's voice — he was shouting something in Egyptian, his arms outstretched as if demanding Ba-Pef's attention.
The shadows twisted tighter, forming a warped figure that towered over us. A yawning mouth peeled open within the mass of darkness — no teeth, no tongue, just a void that seemed to swallow the room.
"Ba-Pef!" Mr. Grayson's voice shook with triumph. "I offer you this vessel! I offer you their fear!"
The shadows surged forward, swallowing Mr. Grayson whole.
For a second, I thought Ba-Pef was answering his call. Maybe the ritual was actually working — maybe Mr. Grayson would get his wish.
Then I heard the scream.
It wasn't a cry of power or victory — it was raw, guttural terror. Mr. Grayson's voice broke as the shadows writhed around him. His body twisted unnaturally, limbs bending in directions they shouldn't. His mouth stretched too wide, like something was trying to crawl out of him from the inside. His eyes bulged, flickering with flashes of light — memories or visions, I couldn't tell — but whatever Mr. Grayson was seeing, it was driving him mad.
He clawed at his own face, raking bloody furrows down his skin. "No! No, please!" His voice broke into sobs. "I — I did everything you asked! I brought you what you wanted!"
Ba-Pef's voice — or maybe it was just a feeling — rippled through the air, cold and jagged.
"I didn't ask for this."
The shadows swarmed tighter around Mr. Grayson, writhing like a nest of snakes. His screams turned wet and garbled, like something was filling his lungs. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at the air before his body buckled, collapsing to his knees.
Then, silence.
The pressure in the room lifted slightly — not gone, just... quieter. Like whatever dark thing had been stirring was now half-asleep.
I tried to breathe, but the air still clung to my throat, thick and cold. My vision was dimming. The pain in my skull had dulled to a cold throb, and my fingers tingled as numbness crawled up my arms.
Whatever was left of the darkness rippled, eyes flickering open and closed across its shifting form. I felt my body lock up again — the memories, the fears, the whispers gnawing at my mind.
"What's this?" a voice whispered in my head. Not my voice — something colder, silkier. The shadows shifted, drawing closer to me. The air tightened again. Like ice seeping into my bones, like nails scraping the inside of my skull. "Not dead... not quite alive..."
My fingers twitched. My breath came in ragged, wet gasps.
The pressure coiled closer, its presence twisting the air.
"You should've died," it murmured, almost curious. "But you linger..."
I couldn't answer — couldn't even move — but somehow the voice understood.
"So stubborn." It almost sounded amused. "I don't often find mortals like you."
The shadows coiled tighter around me, cold tendrils brushing my face. The whispers grew louder — faint voices muttering half-remembered nightmares.
"I could end it for you," the voice mused. "Take the fear away... stop the pain."
From within the gloom, a face flickered into view — no more solid than smoke, but sharp enough to make my heart stutter. It was skeletal and human-shaped, but the details kept changing — one moment it had empty sockets, the next, too many eyes. A grin stretched across its face, too wide and too thin.
"But you're not quite done yet," the voice murmured — more like a breeze scraping through dead leaves than actual words.
I couldn't answer. My tongue felt like lead. The floor still tilting beneath me as my vision darkened at the edges.
"Poor little mortal..." the voice cooed. "Such a waste."
I felt something cold trace across my cheek — a hand, one of a corpse. My breath hitched. The chill seeping into my skin, into my bones.
The darkness in the room shifted, condensing into a humanoid form. It was one of a man, but instead of a human's it was that of petrified flesh with the head of a bull. His hand resting on my cheek.
"You have potential," The man mused. "So much fear tangled inside you — ripe. You've spent your whole life running from it, haven't you?" His smile widened. "But I could give you more. Power. Understanding. A purpose."
I tried to pull away from his grip, but my body refused to move. The cold was spreading now, curling through my ribs like frost.
"I've grown tired of being forgotten," the man's voice murmured. "Your kind whispers my name in shadows, but they don't know me. They barely remember my power."
His face twisted, shifting like smoke curling in a draft.
"Do you know what happens to mortals who let their fear consume them?" The man's voice slithered through my mind, low and hungry. "They break."
His fingers dug into my jaw, cold and sharp like jagged bone. I felt my skin tighten, the chill burrowing deeper.
"You..." he murmured, studying me like a puzzle with missing pieces. "You've been walking that edge for a long time." His cold grin widened. "Trying so hard to be perfect... afraid of failing, afraid of not knowing enough, afraid of being less than him."
Luke.
My heart stuttered. Memories flared — endless afternoons spent poring over books, fighting exhaustion just to prove I was good enough. Perfect enough. I remembered the way May's gaze would linger on Luke's photo whenever I earned an award — how her smile never quite reached her eyes.
I wasn't afraid of dying — not really. I was afraid of being forgotten. Of not being smart enough. Of being just a failure in Luke Castellan's shadow.
The man's gaze sharpened, like he'd plucked that thought straight from my head.
"Yes," he breathed, delighted. "That's it. That's what I'll use."
I tried to jerk away, but my limbs still wouldn't listen. My chest ached with cold, and the taste of iron lingered on my tongue.
"Most gods of fear are pitiful," the voice continued, almost conversationally. "The Greeks have their twins," the voice sneered. "The Celts have their dark men... but I..." His smile gleamed like a knife. "I will carve my name into mortal minds again. And you... you will be my vessel. My avatar."
[DGW: Fear Dorcha and Doirich (literally Dark Man).]
His words slithered through me, wrapping tight around my heart like barbed wire. The cold dug deeper, spreading from my jaw to my chest, twisting behind my eyes. I tried to fight it — tried to remember how to breathe — but the world kept flickering in and out, my thoughts unraveling like frayed string.
"You'll carry my voice," Ba-Pef whispered. "You'll bring fear to those who forget what true terror feels like."
The cold deepened, curling around my mind like smoke. My thoughts blurred at the edges, memories bleeding together like watercolors. My body felt like it was being hollowed out — my ribs cracking open to make room for something older, colder.
I barely felt it when Ba-Pef's fingers dug into the side of my head — right where Mr. Grayson's shabti had struck me.
"Yes..." Ba-Pef murmured. "This will do nicely."
I couldn't breathe. My vision blurred into a haze of red and grey — flashes of memory sputtering like sparks.
My vision blurred, and suddenly I wasn't in the museum anymore.
Halloween.
I remembered it so clearly.
I was one year old again, sitting on the floor in our old apartment's living room. I barely remembered what that place looked like, but this — this memory felt sharp and vivid. The faint smell of pumpkin candles lingered in the air. The walls were warm orange, dimly lit by flickering jack-o'-lantern faces on the windowsill.
And May was there.
She was kneeling beside Luke, adjusting his Halloween costume. Luke was nine and dressed as a pirate. His plastic sword hung loosely at his side, and the red sash tied around his waist kept slipping down. He kept fidgeting, restless and frustrated.
"I don't want to go," Luke muttered.
"Don't be silly," May said, forcing a smile as she tied the sash tighter. "Your friends are waiting. Just go out for a little while, alright?"
Luke's face twisted — that sharp, angry look I'd seen a few times when I was younger. "I don't have friends," he muttered. "Nobody wants me around."
"Luke..."
"I'm serious!" His voice cracked. "They think I'm weird. They say stuff about you — about your... your visions." He spat the word like it burned his tongue. "They call you crazy."
May's smile faltered. Her fingers trembled against his sash.
"Sweetheart..." she said softly, but Luke stepped back, jerking out of her reach.
"Just stop!" His voice broke. "You always say things will get better, but they don't! Every time you have one of your stupid visions — you get worse! And nobody — nobody — cares!"
I didn't understand what he meant back then. I didn't understand what those visions did to her — how they tore her apart a little more each time. But I remembered what happened next.
May's smile wavered again, but she didn't yell. She didn't cry. She just knelt there, her hands shaking at her sides. "I care," she whispered. "I always care."
Luke stood there for a moment longer, his face tight and angry — like he wanted to scream or punch something, but he didn't. Instead, he turned toward the door.
He barely glanced at me on his way out.
"Bye, Luke," I remember murmuring. My voice had been quiet — tiny — but I'd meant it. I'd wanted him to turn back. I'd wanted him to stay.
But the door closed behind him with a soft click.
That was the last time I saw him — his pirate sash hanging loose, his face tight with frustration. He never came back.
The memory shifted, warping at the edges like smoke curling in on itself. The pumpkins in the window grinned wider — their eyes narrowing, their jagged smiles stretching too far. The flickering candlelight turned red.
I was back in the museum.
The pain in my skull flared hot and sharp. I gasped, choking on air that felt too thick to breathe. Ba-Pef's shadow loomed over me, his fingers still pressed against my face — his cold grin curling wider.
"Halloween."
I heard myself rasp the word, but it didn't feel like my voice. My tongue was heavy. My breath rattled in my chest like dry leaves.
"How fitting," Ba-Pef purred. His fingers dug deeper into my skull, and I felt something shift — a splintering crack that should have hurt but didn't. His cold presence slithered behind my eyes, curling like smoke in my mind.
"You will remember what it means to fear," Ba-Pef whispered. "And so will they."
The cold surged through me, flaring like ice in my veins. My pulse faltered, then stopped altogether. I felt something twist inside me — like my bones were curling inward, like my skin was growing too tight. The darkness pressed closer, swallowing me whole.
I didn't know how long I drifted there — trapped in cold and silence, memories flickering like dying embers.
Then —
I gasped. My heart lurched, thudding against my chest like a hammer. My limbs jerked violently, my fingers scrabbling against the cold stone floor. I felt something wet and sticky clinging to my face — blood? Sweat?
No... it was thicker than that.
My vision swam. I tried to focus, but everything felt... wrong.
I raised a hand to my face — or at least I thought I did. My fingers felt sluggish, stiff — like I was moving through syrup. My fingertips brushed the side of my head — where Mr. Grayson's shabti had struck me — and I froze.
The upper right side of my skull was gone. I could feel the jagged edge of bone, the cold air licking at something wet and exposed.
My brain.
I lurched away from my own touch, bile rising in my throat. I tried to steady my breathing, but my chest felt tight — like my ribs were bound with wire. My skin burned from the cold, and the edges of my vision flickered in and out like a broken film reel.
"Look at you," Ba-Pef's voice coiled in my mind, low and smug. "You should be grateful. So few mortals survive my touch —not sure why you're pink though."
I staggered upright, barely registering my reflection in the nearest glass case.
My hair had turned a sickly, pastel pink, like someone had spilled dye down my scalp.
My eyes...
My heart stuttered.
The pupils weren't round anymore. They were shaped like hearts and they glowed faintly, flickering between sickly orange, blood red and an electric yellow.
And my right eye...
It wasn't in.
It dangled loosely from its socket, connected only by a glistening cord of nerves. The exposed eye twitched and flickered, like it was still trying to blink.
I stumbled back from the glass. My breath came in ragged, shallow gasps.
"Halloween."
The word rasped from my throat again — not because I meant to say it, but because I had to. Like a splinter wedged under my tongue — stuck, festering, and impossible to ignore.
"Halloween," I whispered again, my voice shaking.
Ba-Pef's cold laughter rippled through my mind.
"Don't worry," he murmured. "You'll have plenty of chances to say something more... useful."
I tried to scream, but all that came out was a whisper — weak and broken.
"Halloween."
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DGW: Thank you all for reading, I truly hope you enjoyed the story and have any suggestions for what should go on. I'm sorry if things got a bit dark there. Ba-Pef is a real Egyptian god, I read up a bunch on him but there isn't an extensive research on him that I myself could find.
Tools Used: FANDOM WIKI app, Grammarly, Theoi.com, Wikipedia, google pdf, some manga sites.
Word Count: 6107