White lights guided me up the stairs. After a short climb, I was faced with a pile of furniture. I did some mental calculus, concluding that this was the barricade I had encountered earlier, just the other side.

I examined the pile of wardrobes, bed frames, and bookshelves, and noticed another line of salt on the ground. After my encounter with the kitchen, I was hesitant to cross it, but the only other option was going back into the basement.

Resigned, I started clearing away furniture letting most of it clatter down the stairs I had just climbed. My senses were on red alert for another poltergeist encounter, but nothing happened. Tearing down the barricade was simple work, since it wasn't nailed together, but I was dog tired. I really needed sleep, but there was no way I was going to close my eyes in ghost central.

I shifted enough rubble to make a human sized passage, and crawled through the mess. I could have tried to get to the door, and back to the ground floor, but instead made for the stairs going up.

There was another line of salt on the far side of the barricade. The white lights that followed me from the basement faded away as green gaslamps burst to life in the stairway. Back on track.

A noise came from behind me, and I jumped past the salt line before turning. A bookshelf that I had dropped down the stairs creaked as it was slowly enveloped by a white cocoon. I froze, images of giant spiders filling my head. Luckily, no giant furniture-eating spiders showed up, just a nimbus of white light that fully covered the bookshelf.

I watched as the cocoon of light slowly floated up, like the wax in a lava lamp. It didn’t stop when it hit the ceiling, just sunk right into the plaster and out of sight. More cocoons started to form over the other pieces of furniture I had dragged past the salt line, but I headed up the stairs. I wasn’t here to watch the phantasmal light show.

I reached the top of the stairs, and was relieved not to find a second barricade. The stairs exited on to a hallway, very similar to the one on the ground floor. I glanced out the window. Still dark, still raining, morning still far away.

I worked my way down the hallway at my best shambling pace, checking doors as I went. Like below, they were all locked. The Decoction Killer probably had the room keys. As I neared the corner of the hallway, a painting ripped off the wall and sped straight for me.

I hit the deck on instinct, and the painting flew over my head before smashing into the far wall. The heavy frame snapped like kindling and pieces scattered across the carpet.

A child’s voice burst out in gleeful laughter. I looked around wildly, but couldn't find the source of the sound. Bare feet running on carpet accompanied the laughter as it reatreated down the hall.

I leaned against the wall, heart pumping. I really hate this hotel.

I continued down the hall, keeping an eye out for hurled projectiles, and I found myself on a balcony overlooking the main foyer. I could see the double doors where I had entered the hotel. Every sign of my entrance had been erased.

The blue and white vase sat on the front desk. The chandelier hung silently from the ceiling, the floor absent of glass. The stairs were repaired, though I still couldn’t see the tripwire that had triggered the trap.

Shaking my head at the foyer, I made my way further into the building. A vase full of desiccated flowers flew at me, but I pushed it to the side. My spell wasn’t strong enough to stop the hurled projectile cold, but it was simple enough to change the trajectory. The vase flew past me, whistling through the air, and crashed into the balcony railing.

Pushing on, I tried the next door. To my surprise, it was unlocked. I opened it slowly, using the door to shield my body from incoming artwork. A spray of projectiles hit the wall next to me, showering me with a few ricochets.

I ducked back, surprised but unharmed. Studying the ground I realized the projectiles had been rock salt, grains the size of fine gravel. Why and how would a ghost be throwing rock salt? A grumbling voice came from the room.

“Couldn’t just be a creepy old building. Noooo, it had to be a haunted creepy old building. Bloody ghosts.”

I blinked. I knew that voice. “Ajax? That you?” I called.

“Will?” He hesitated a moment. “Damn, am I glad you're here. All this ghost stuff gives me the creeps. Come on in.”

“If I do, are you going to pelt me with rocksalt?” I asked with a grin.

“Only if you’re translucent.”

The room was a large dining area; tables still set with napkins and silverware. Ajax stood behind a long bar, revolver in one hand and bag of salt in the other. A scrap of cloth tied on either end with twine laid out on the bar. As I walked over to him, he emptied a generous helping of salt onto the cloth.

“You made a sling?” I asked.

“Yep. Way better than just trying to chuck salt at the spooky bastards,” he said.

“You took sling as one of your proficiencies?”

“Nah, I used to play with them as a kid. Between that and my high perception, using them without the proficiency is no big deal.”

Fair enough. “So catch me up, what did I miss?” I asked.

Ajax shrugged. “Not too much. After things calmed down at the Bitter Flagon, you were out cold, so I went back to the safehouse on Cloth Fair. There wasn’t much there, but I was able to get a sample of the killer’s blood. One visit to a thaumaturgist and six shillings later,” he held up an ordinary looking compass, “and bam, serial killer locator.”

“The hell is a thaumaturgist?”

“A sort of hedge-mage, focusing on sympathetic magic. You know, voodoo stuff. This game really would be an interesting setting to explore, you know, if not for the whole drugged, mind raped, and held against our will thing,” he said.

“Yeah…” I shifted awkwardly. “So, you found the killer then?”

“Sure did. He’s dug in upstairs on the second floor.”

I looked at Ajax in confusion. “We're on the second floor.” He rolled his eyes.

“The third floor for you, bloody American,” he said, but with a smile. “I took a couple cracks at him, but he’s pretty well fortified. Once night fell, he started sending out ghosts. He’s got this whistle that controls them. So I fell back to the bar here. It’s fully stocked and there’s plenty of salt.”

“So you are the one that put the lines of salt in the stairway and basement?” I asked.

“There’s a basement?” he asked, surprised. “No, I have just been hitting the ghosts directly. It tears through them like buckshot, but doesn’t keep them down for long. I haven't tried making a circle or anything.”

“Must have been the killer then. If he is putting salt lines down, he must not have full control over the ghosts.”

“Well, grab some salt. Now that I have some backup, I’m ready to take another shot,” Ajax said.

“Wouldn’t it be better to wait till morning?” I asked, my aching body relishing the idea of rest. “If the ghosts only come out at night, we could set up salt lines and hole up till daylight.”

Ajax shook his head. “The locator spell will come apart with the sunrise. If the killer has another way out of the building, he could get away.”

I rubbed my face and sighed. “Alright, what kind of fortifications are we looking at?”

“The floor is smaller than the others, more like an attic. As far as I can tell, there is only one staircase going up. He’s got it barricaded with furniture and is posted up with a Kalthoff repeater.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“An antique, but deadly enough. It's a repeating rifle, high capacity, but not as accurate as later models.”

“So you couldn't get a shot at him?”

“A few, but that magic shield of his recovered from the damage we did this morning. Between that and the ghosts running interference, I wasn’t able to do much before being forced to retreat.”

“Well, charging sounds like suicide,” I said. My push spell wouldn’t be much use against a bullet. “Does the attic have a window? We could try flanking.”

Ajax thought for a moment. “I think it does, but he might see us coming. We did the same thing at Cloth Fair after all.”

I nodded. “Ok, so you attack from down here. Draw his attention, keep him busy, while I flank.”

“Works for me,” Ajax said. He held out his fist, “don’t die.”

“Same,” I said, knocking my fist against his. I grabbed a bag of salt, tied it to my belt, and left the dining room. I went to the corner window of the hallway, where I figured it would be easiest to climb. The window opened without protest, and I stared out into the drizzling night. This was going to suck.

Leaning out, I examined my options. The roof overhung the window by a few feet up and over, just far enough that I had no hope of grabbing it. Luckily, the downspout for this section of gutter was within easy reach. Unluckily, the thick cast iron pipe was smooth and wet with rainwater.

I awkwardly shuffled out of the window, feet on the sill, hands clutching the pipe, and back hunched to keep from hitting my head on the overhang. I looked down at the two-story drop, and my stomach did a flip. Why did I suggest this stuipid plan?

Carefully, I stepped onto the bracket holding the downspout, and shifted my weight onto the metal pipe. It held, and I started squirming up. The metal was slick and cold, but I rallied my aching muscles and clung tight. The cut in my hand opened and started bleeding.

I got to the top of the downspout, where it met the gutter. I had to lean back to grab the gutter, working more from feel than sight. I had just gotten a second hand on the gutter when my wet boots slipped off the downspout.

My body swung out into empty air, supported only by my straining hands. Paralyzed, I hung for a moment, cool rain dripping down. My heart thundering, I took a deep breath and hauled myself up. It was hard, tired and weighed down as I was, but I managed to draw myself up to eye level.

I shifted one elbow over the lip, then the other. I pushed hard, getting my upper-body over the edge and flopped forward. I lay there, puffing, for a moment, the weight of my pack actually helping keep me balanced.

I eventually scrambled the rest of the way, shoving my body up the clay tiles. I rested for another moment and looked at the metal gutter. I doubted the gutter at my apartment could have taken that much weight. Either Victorian gutters were much stronger than modern ones, or game physics was working in my favor for once.

Shaking off the musing, I looked for the attic window. To my great relief, the attic window was just above the lower level of the tiered roof. No more climbing for me. I hurried up the slope to the window, careful not to make too much noise on the clay tiles.

My stealth turned out to be redundant. As I approached the window, the sharp report of Ajax’s revolver split the night. It was quickly answered by the deeper call of a rifle shot. I had gotten here just in time. Hopefully Ajax was playing it safe, and was just drawing attention. If he got shot, I wouldn’t be able to help him.

The room beyond the window was lit by a crackling fire. No Decoction Killer, he must be further in. I popped the latch with a careful push, and slid the window open. The warmth of the room felt nice after the cold rain, but there was no time to waste.

I pushed aside the curtain serving as a door, and there he was. Across the room, the Decoction Killer was posted up behind his barricade, attention focused on the stairway. The translucent green aura covered his body and I mentally kicked myself for never picking up Dispelling Push.

The killer pulled out a tin whistle and blew a harsh note. From down the stairway, I could hear Ajax cursing. I hurried forward, shamshir and damaged buckler raised. Something must have alerted him at the last minute, because he spun to face me. He leveled the rifle.

I pushed the barrel to the side just as he fired. There was a roar of fire and the ball whizzed past my right shoulder. I closed the distance before he could reload, slamming the shamshir down on the green shield. Cracks spiderwebbed from across the aura’s surface.

The Decoction Killer was caught flatfooted, crouched as he had been. I rained blows down on him, giving him no chance to recover. He managed to get the tin whistle to his lips and blew another note.

I got a few more good hits in before a chair slammed into my side. It didn’t break like on TV. The solid wood smashed into me, sending me crashing to the floor. A huge man, partially translucent, held the chair high overhead. My breath came in ragged gasps.

I scrambled back as the ghost advanced. Dropping the buckler, I ripped the bag of salt from my belt. It tore, spilling grains across the floor, but I was able to gather a desperate handful and send it flying at the huge apparition.

The salt sank through ghost flesh like lead weights tossed in water. Each grain tore a gaping hole as it passed. The ghost fell apart, chair clattering to the floor. Pain spiked through my chest with every gasp.

I focused blurry eyes on the Decoction Killer standing and the rifle pointed right at me. I repeated my trick, pushing the barrel towards the ceiling. The ball drilled into the wall a foot above my head. Calmly, the killer levered another shot into place.

My spell wouldn’t come off cooldown fast enough. “Ajax!” I yelled as I tried to gain my feet. As if on cue, shots rang out, rapid fire, from the stairway.

The Decoction Killer’s shield shredded under the onslaught, and his ear disappeared in a spray of gore. The killer stumbled and dove behind cover, blood pouring down the side of his face. He brought the whistle to his lips, but I hit him in a flying tackle before he could blow.

My ribs screamed at the abuse, but I ignored them. We hit the ground hard, me on top. The killer started to do something fancy, twisting my wrist painfully, but stopped when I broke his nose with my forehead.

I shoved one forearm into the man’s throat, pinning him for the moment. Yanking the largest vial off my belt, I uncorked it with my teeth and unceremoniously dumped the contents on the killer. The viscous brown liquid splashed liberally on his blood caked face.

He gasped and squirmed, trying to avoid the numbing agent, but it did no good. I held him down firmly, and after a minute or two, he stopped struggling. I sat up slowly, exhausted as the adrenaline drained away.

“Clear,” I called down to Ajax. I tore a scrap from the killer’s shirt off and wiped down my sleeve before the chemical could seep into the cloth. That done, I wiped off the killer’s face and turned him on his side. No sense going to all the trouble of taking him alive, only to let him drown in his own blood.

“Got him?” Ajax asked as he climbed over the barricade.

“Unconscious. We can tie him up and haul him to jail in the morning,” I said with a sigh. I wasn’t looking forward to taking a prisoner as slippery as the Decoction Killer through the Dead City. Watching him while fighting off zombies was going to be a nightmare.

Ajax’s thoughts must have mirrored my own, because he grimaced. “Alright,” he said and propped up the wooden chair. I helped haul the unconscious body into the chair, and Ajax clipped his manacles into place.

“Come on,” I said wearily. “Lets get salt lines set up. Keep off the ghosts till morning.”

Ajax nodded and handed me a spare bag of salt. “I’ll take this side,” he said, jerking a thumb at the barricade. I nodded and went into the other small room. I put a line of salt across the window sill, then along the wall for good measure.

That done, I sat at the room’s writing desk. God it felt good to sit. I hoped Ajax would take first watch, I really needed to catch a few hours of sleep. On the desk was a leatherbound journal. Curious, I flipped it open and read by firelight.

21.4.1845

I, Inspector Michael Cooper of the Paranormal Investigation Department, have been betrayed. I leave this record so that even in death my work will go on.

A cabal in the heart of the Metropolitan Police is consorting with the denizens of the Outer Darkness. When I took my findings to the Assistant Commissioner, he tried to have me killed and declared me a traitor to the Crown. I have no way of knowing how far the corruption goes.

Tonight, I will tend to my wounds. No one should know about this place. Tomorrow, I will start calling in favors. After twenty years, I have plenty of markers to call in, but it will be difficult to know who—

I jerked my head away from the words as a gunshot split the night. I jumped to my feet, shamshir in one hand, journal in the other. Ajax pushed aside the curtain, calm as ever.

He had his revolver at the ready and pointed right at me. Behind him, I could see the Decoction Killer, Michael Cooper, handcuffed to the chair. There was a bullethole in the back of his head.

“Your quest wasn’t to arrest the Decoction Killer,” I said slowly.

“I never said it was.” He noticed the journal in my hand. “I’m going to need that. And any other notes he might have left.”

“This whole time?” I asked, a pit in my stomach.

“No,” Ajax said. His eyes were sad, but the gunbarrel didn’t waver. “It started as just ‘eliminate the Decoction Killer.’ When we went to the track for the first time, I tried to get a search warrant, remember?”

I nodded stiffly.

“That’s when my boss filled me in. The quest changed to ‘eliminate the Decoction Killer and destroy any evidence of government involvement.’ Including any evidence that would reveal the milladen.”

“At the Bitter Flagon,” I said. “You were the one that insisted on burning the milladen corpses, Sarah told me.”

“Yeah,” Ajax said. “And at the church, when you confronted the killer without me.”

“The fire. I knocked the burner over.”

“Elemental burners shut off when knocked over, it’s a safety feature,” he said. I remembered relighting the burner during the receptionist’s interrogation. “I found you and the milladen in the church, both dead and the killer long gone. I lit the fire and waited outside for you to respawn.”

“You were just going to kill him? Leave me trapped in this stupid game?” I asked, anger seeping through the shock.

“Why do you think I didn’t wait for you to wake up at the Bitter Flagon?” He shouted, anger coloring his own words. “It’s not like I wanted any of this!”

I could take him. Push aside the gun barrel just like I did with the Decoction Killer’s rifle. It would get me enough time to close the distance. Ajax wouldn’t stand a chance up close. He put all his attributes into perception, his strength and constitution were a fraction of mine.

Push the gun, get close, take him out. He would respawn back in the city. Would I keep the journal if I died? I couldn’t count on it. I would have to get back across the river alive. Get to the Archbishop, show him the journal. Get out of the game.

I would win, Ajax would lose. Reading my expression, Ajax’s finger tightened on the trigger. I slapped the gun to the side with a push. The bullet shattered the window and I dove forward.

I slammed his gun hand against the wall, pinning the wrist with my forearm. He tried to draw with his off hand, but was far too slow. I brought the sword point to his neck. And stopped. Ajax froze too, staring down at the blade, hand hovering over his holster.

He had a daughter. That wasn’t manipulation. He told me about it before we even knew we could escape the game. Who did I have waiting for me outside?

I was so tired. In so much pain. I had felt more pain this past week than my entire life leading up to it. Could I really throw away my ticket to ending the pain? But could I really leave the others to face it without me? Ajax, Sarah, Jim, the other testers.

I stepped away from Ajax, swordpoint dropping. I looked at the journal, crumpled in my left hand, and tossed it into the fireplace. It crackled as it burned.

“Come on,” I said quietly. Ajax stood dumbly in the doorway. “Let’s make sure he didn’t leave any other records.”

Ajax made a quiet choking sound, swallowed, and nodded.