Somewhere along the walk back home (accompanied by a rather moody Gideon), Lacey has come to the realization that, despite her propensity for communicating with the dead, she has no real knowledge of how to summon a ghost. Truth be told, she's never had to: restless spirits are never in short supply, and all of her encounters have been a result of her sitting perched somewhere comfortable and the dead finding their own way to her ear. Even then, their company wasn't always welcome, so even if she did know how to summon one, what are the odds she'd actually want to?

It is this thought she carries with her through the front door, and it is this thought she's roughly dragged away from when her father rushes to meet her. "How was your walk? You didn't run into any trouble? Is Gideon with you still?"

It's an onslaught of concern and nerves that takes her off guard for a second, and when she takes a surprised step backwards, she accidentally steps on Gideon's foot. He makes a choked sound behind her, and with strain, lifts his hand in a wave. "Hi, Mr. Waits. It's me, ya boy."

Trouble? Her mind flashes back to the strange billowy patient in the woods, the hermit on his hill, the bony fellas dancing through the trees everywhere she looks. It all puts a bitter taste in her mouth, but nevertheless, she clears her throat and shrugs. "It was fine. I saw the part of town down by the lake. It's...nice?"

This half-hearted response seems to be enough for Jeremy, and he allows himself a moment to breathe, to straighten out, to not have a panic attack in front of these two bright-eyed teenagers. "Good. Good." He turns his attention to Gideon, who he doesn't have to look down at to make eye contact with. "Thanks for watchin' out for her. It's just all crazy here lately, y'know? Say- you wanna come in? You're welcome in whenever, you know that."

Lacey cranes back to look at Gideon. He smiles, but it's small, and his eyes look tired for once, more lidded and dull. "That's alright. I gotta get back home anyways. My mom'll be getting home soon and I wanna have dinner laid out."

A fresh sympathy that Lacey's become accustomed to witnessing plays out on her father's face: a corner of his lip tightening, brows lifting, eyes softening. Then, his features spread apart, making way for an idea. "Actually, I can help with that." He takes long strides into the kitchen and buries his head in the fridge. "I keep slaving away at this stove every morning and this girl refuses to eat, so I've got plenty of leftovers that'll just go bad if nobody else takes 'em."

"Oh, I...Thanks. That'd be great, actually."

"Breakfast for dinner. Who doesn't love that?" He's the only one who chuckles. He emerges with several plastic containers packed with food, and his long legs bring him back to Gideon. He shoves them into the boy's hands and nods. "Right, then. Put 'em on a fancy plate and nuke 'em in the microwave and your mom won't know the difference between what's fresh and what's not."

That makes Lacey suspicious, but she lets it go, turning to Gideon in full. "Okay. Bye."

Jeremy gives her a side-eyed look but says nothing, instead letting his hand rest on the doorknob as he thanks Gideon yet again...and again. Eventually, the boy manages to get away, and they're left alone, father and daughter, in silence. Much easier to deal with. The moment the door closes, she can feel herself decompress.

"Whew! Long day. Lots of activity." Lacey forces her yellow shoes off with her feet and starts for the stairs, bouncing a little too much for someone so drained. "I think it's about time for a nap. If you need me, I'll be doing that."

Before her socked foot can land on the first step, however, Jeremy's arm flies out in front of her and lands on the opposing banister, effectively blocking her off. She gives him an incredulous look. "What'd I do?"

"Nothing you did," he says firmly. "But-" A sigh. "Listen, I know things've been turbulent, but you gotta get back on your online program. You coming here doesn't mean you get a free pass to slack on schoolwork. I need you to start back up again tonight and get as caught up as you can. And keep working at it every day, I mean that. You wanna be on a schedule once I finally get ahold of that teacher." He pauses, eyes narrowed at the box held loosely in the crook of her elbow. "What's that?"

She glances down at it briefly, and the pieces inside tumble around, making that light cardboard-on-cardboard rattle. While an hour ago it'd seemed like a good bonding card, she's at a loss for everything she meant to say. "Oh. A puzzle. I stole it but it's okay 'cause I'm gonna put it...back."

A series of emotions flits across his face, first endearment, then shock, then confliction. "Do I have to worry about the police coming here?"

"Not even a little."

"I'll let it pass then. Now skedaddle. You've got work to do and so do I."

She doesn't wait twice. The moment he lifts his arm, she ducks under it and zooms up the stairs, box held fast to her chest. The musty smell of her room comes as a comfort, and once her door is closed, she tosses the box upon the daffodil quilt draped across her bed with glee. She has a name now; she has a world of information at her fingertips; she'll be watching the spirits spit salt on the sills in no time. Her hands reach for her phone, but just as soon as she's closed the door, it's opened again.

Jeremy stares in, his gaze expectant. "Everything's all set up in my office. Better get crackin'. I'll be checking to see how far you get."

She deflates. Alright. Fine. A few hours of this, and then we don't have to worry about demons ripping our throat out in our sleep anymore. Begrudgingly, she lifts herself, and once seated in the room across the hall, the toil begins.

It takes a solid mustering of will and motivation to get started, but Jeremy keeps his promise on checking in, passing by in his light-footed way, and never with the same time interval between peeking through the crack in the door and leaving. As such, she soon realizes how impossible it'll be to focus on what it is she really needs to do (hint: it's not history), and with that revelation in mind, she actually does manage to make a dent in her schoolwork.

But with the end of every assignment, she finds herself clicking open another tab, and with the accomplishment of every problem, her eyes manage to roam a sentence or two of a variety of articles detailing dealings with the occult. One minute she's reading up on renaissance politics, and the next, she's on some website that claims to sell incense that can change the course of a day. Of course merchants would've held the power back in their day, but where am I gonna find a ouija board? And if she thought she could get away without seeing a warning plastered every two sentences, oh, she was dead wrong.

"Be cautious. Don't play with the other side."

"Be respectful or be prepared to deal with the consequences."

"A ring of salt will protect you." Yes, but tabletop only lasts so long.

Knuckles drum against the doorframe beside her, and she jumps, clicking out of the tab in exchange for the drivel of her online textbook. Yeah, that didn't look suspicious at all. Still, she glances back at her dad with nothing more or less than innocence. "Huh?"

If he's bothered by her distracting herself, he doesn't show it. "I'm gonna go pick up dinner. Just fast food tonight. What d'you want?"

"Uh..." It strikes her now that the mention of food makes her stomach rumble, and she glances out the window out of habit, just to give her more time to think. She started this when the sun was high and bright and now it's sunk beneath the trees in their backyard, spreading stretched and tangled silhouettes across the grass. Has she really been working this long? "Chicken? I could go for some chicken."

"Sounds good to me." He pulls away to leave, but then tightens his fingers back around the frame, bringing himself back. "Hey, I'm proud of you for bucklin' down and working today. Keep it up, kiddo."

Lacey gives a flat-lipped smile, nodding her thanks, and Jeremy sends one back before finally disappearing from the hall. She sits there, frozen in the same position with her elbow digging into the arm of the chair, straining to listen with a far-off look in her eyes. The faint noise of her father struggling to force on his shoes drifts up the stairs, along with the tinkle of keys, and finally, the resounding shake of the front door being pulled back into place.

As soon as she hears the rumble of his truck over gravel, she's up. Her foot snags on the chair in her haste, but she redeems herself long enough to make it to the next room over. She falls to her knees and yanks the edge of the blanket up so that she can latch onto one of the suitcases she'd shoved under the bed a few days ago (she was too lazy to unpack it more than need be). It emerges with a cloud of dust. As if the room needs to smell and feel mustier than it already is.

Coughing and irritable, she unzips it, flinging the lid back. Her hands dig around summer clothes, moving them aside as she pats the bottom of the bag. Eventually, her fingers wrap haphazardly around a variety of objects. Unused candles. A pendulum (just some cheap crystal with a string looped through it, really). She may not know how to use any of the shit, but she's still collected a few things in her day, because, well, she sees ghosts. Why wouldn't she?

Kicking the bag back under the bed, she hops up and quickly makes her way down the hall to Jeremy's room, where she snags the lighter he's always kept in the same glass dish on his dresser. When she returns to her own room, she makes sure the door is shut tight and turns back to the mess on her floor. "Alright. Let's get to work."

Using some drink coasters, she props the candles up in a circle and begins to light them, one by one. More than a few times, she curses the wicks she's got her hand cupped around, but eventually, she's surrounded by an aroma of vanilla that's finally strong enough to cast out the mustiness that seems to plague her bedroom. When she turns out the light, it's a trade of bright, firm gold for dim, unstable honey, smearing itself across the walls with the help of trembling phantom palms. The flames look themselves in the mirror in the corner, enamored by their own dance.

Lacey looks herself in the mirror, too, and sits down in front of it. Around her, the ring of fire dances its calm, quiet dance, fringed by deep shadows, but she doesn't move a muscle.

The plan is this, and based entirely on a semi-credible looking source: because mirrors are often referred to as portals to the other side, she is to sit in front of this thing until something happens. It requires minimal effort and is something akin to what she usually does when interacting with the spirit world, so she favored this suggestion the most. Eventually, Darcy should show up, and then they can have a solid conversation and work out all of their misunderstandings. Easy. Then, maybe she can use her newly regained help to find Erie.

And now, Lacey waits. The excitement filling her chest is too much, though; she read that she should be calm, that she should meditate, even, so she takes a deep breath and lets it go slow, easing herself into a rhythm. It's not something she'd want anyone else to see her doing, but if nothing else comes of this, at least she can say she had a minute to relax.

Eventually, the fluttering in her gut dies down, and the thoughts in her head cease to exist, replaced by sounds and happenings, inside and out. The house itself creaks and mumbles distantly, groaning quietly whenever a gust of wind blows against the panelling outside. It makes the window screen click against the glass every now and then, too, and beyond that, leaves just starting to drag their way to fruition brush against one another, filling the air with nature's static even though she's got the window fastened tight. She breathes with it, can imagine herself moving with it, almost, until she remembers that she's seated stiff and solid, thighs sticking to the cold wood. Rooted in place.

When she opens her eyes, she finds the room warped. Though she's been sitting here in the dark, she hasn't quite adjusted to it yet, what with the candles throwing light every which way and morphing the size of the furniture in wicked, cartoonish ways. The neglect of the mirror has never been more apparent, streaks finally showing themselves, and light trying to reach beyond specks of dust that are larger now than they were. She sees herself dotted by these specks, sees herself twisted into an image she doesn't recognize. Even her usually round cheeks appear hollow, and her forehead seems paler than usual. It glints with...is that sweat?

She presses two fingers to the beads strung along her skin, picking up cold moisture and bringing them down to stare at. When she does, she sees her own breath materialize from her parted lips. An involuntary shiver trails up her spine, slow and spasmic. It doesn't make any sense, really. She doesn't feel hot, doesn't feel cold. Maybe a bit drained, though. She'd better get this show on the road. Sucks that she didn't come up with a dialogue plan beforehand.

With a great gulp of vanilla and smoke, she settles her gaze on the mirror. "So, uh...Darcy. You there?"

Nothing. Nothing but static and crickets and wax dripping onto the coasters. That's fine; maybe her message is just taking a while. Sort of like "standby." She'll keep trying. "That's right, Darcy. I've taken the initiative to go out and find your name. I need to talk to you now."

Still, nothing. Lacey continues to breathe in at the same pace she was, continues to strain for something beyond the standard noises of the night, but frustration writhes in her chest and she has to swallow it down. "Darcy. You told me to help you. I can't help you if you don't show up."

A solid minute passes by, and Lacey pinches her eyes to a close, cheeks flushing now that her patience is running thin. "I swear to God, girl, if you don't show up in the next couple seconds, I'm done playing your game."

Still, silence reigns, but there's a shift. The familiar scratching song of the crickets has stopped mid-hum, choked off all at once. When Lacey takes in another gulp of air, the taste of vanilla is gone, replaced with a mustiness even stronger than what lay beneath it originally. It's a wet smell.

Her eyelids pop apart and in the mirror is a face, pale and small. There are eyes in the middle of the face, but they're beady compared to the dark circles surrounding them. In the firelight, the raw redness, like she's been crying for months without fail, is puffy and prominent. It's an angry slather of color for a set of angry eyes. Had Lacey been anyone else, unaccustomed to seeing faces like these crawl out of the darkness time and time again, she'd be shitting herself right here in this very spot.

But Lacey is not anyone else. She turns around to find the little ghost girl much closer than she appeared in the mirror. Here, she can see the quiver of her chin, and just how hard it seems to be for the girl to not dig her nails into Lacey's throat and see her blood mix with the hot wax on the floor.

She tries to ignore this. "Took you long enough," Lacey says.

"I didn't wanna talk to you," the girl spits out, mumbling around pursed lips.

"Well, you should want to talk to me. I've been doing my research on you, taking the time out of my day that could be spent living my life, just like you wanted. Your name is Darcy. You died, like, thirty years ago. You fell off a cliff."

For the first time, something like a softness falls over the girl's moistened face, and her clenching fists loosen. The room feels less tight. For a while, there's silence, but Lacey chooses not to break it, mostly because she has nothing else to say. Just wait for her to grant the salt-breathers permission to be in my zone again.

The softness settles into something flat, a middle ground for uncertainty to play. "Time doesn't move that fast. And I was pushed. Someone had to've pushed me."

Lacey shakes her head. "Time does move that fast. It's been years. And-" She hesitates, and her hair falls in front of her face, a glowing golden curtain with the candlelight curling through it. She pushes it back with the curious sweat and proceeds. "If I'm being completely honest, I don't think it was foul play, Darcy. Kids rough-house and accidents happen. Can't you let this murder thing go and accept that this is just the way things turn out sometimes? Can't you let me off the hook?" Whether Lacey believes this or not doesn't matter - whatever she can say to get out of this situation, she'll say.

"It wasn't an accident!" she screeches. Her foot stomps the ground, and a heavy groan spreads throughout the foundation of the house, making Lacey fear that it's all about to come crumbling down. "I know it wasn't! You said you'd help me! You said you would!"

"I- Okay, first of all, I said no such thing, you just gave me zero choice. Second of all, do you even remember what happened? Can you say with absolute certainty that you didn't just trip and fall all by yourself?"

But instead of considering anything, another grating shriek fills the air. Lacey's forced to press her palms to her ears to block out the sound, but that doesn't keep the overwhelming scent of dead rodents and a rotting world out of her nose. It heightens with Darcy's ghost breath in her face. "I didn't make a mistake." Trembling. "I need my momma and poppa to stop crying." Pulsing. "I need to go to a good place." Sweltering. "I need the one who made me dead to burn."

The flames burning down the wicks shift from a dance to a frantic fight with the air around them, spinning and rising a few inches taller than physically possible without an accelerant of some kind. The sweat on Lacey's brow finally starts to make some sense with the way the room feels like it's closing in on her, with the way the air oscillates between humid and icy. It all culminates in a dizzy brain and a throbbing skull, and it brings Lacey right to the end of her rope. "You're, like, a forty year old woman at heart by now! Get the fuck over it and then you'll go to whatever good place sits beyond the rainbow! Just put shit back to the way it was before you do!"

Darcy simmers with her words for a moment, her face tipped down so she can look Lacey in the face. It's an unreadable expression, but there's something menacing behind it- no, that's not quite the word. There's something...malevolent.

And it is at this point, on her ass and vulnerable, that she realizes that maybe, just maybe, she's gone a little too far again, and that maybe, just maybe, this is where she's fucked up. All maybes go out the window when it begins to open behind her, slow and scratching under Darcy's shifted gaze. "They'll burn someday. I made a deal with Mal-ev-ol-ence." She enunciates it clear and proud, smug about being able to say it. "I'll find someone else to figure out who made me dead, and when they do, they'll burn with what Mal-ev-ol-ence let me have. They let me be strong so it can happen."