Chapter 6
Spencer's POV
I sat with Allen in the living room of my remote penthouse, the city lights glittering far below like scattered diamonds. He was a trembling mess, spilling a glass of expensive whiskey as he gestured wildly, explaining how his day had been derailed by phantom military equipment.
"—and then a jet, Spencer! A full-sized, roaring military jet started firing missiles at my freaking Prius! In the middle of the suburbs!" he yelled, his eyes wide with residual terror.
"So," I said, taking a slow, deliberate sip of my drink. "Now you believe me?"
My gaze drifted to Wednesday, who was sitting serenely on the couch right beside Allen, completely invisible to him. She picked up a decorative apple from the fruit bowl, examined it, and phased her hand through it.
"What are you looking at?" Allen asked, following my line of sight and shivering.
"Well, at the lady who chased you all the way here," I said casually.
His eyes widened into panicked saucers. "She's here?" he whispered, his voice cracking. He began looking around frantically, adjusting his position on the couch and inadvertently scooching even closer to Wednesday.
"Yes. And I wouldn't panic if I were you… because you're moving closer to her."
He let out a blood-curdling scream and launched himself off the couch, scrambling behind it as if it were a fortress wall. I couldn't help it; I laughed, relaxing deeper into my armchair.
Wednesday smiled at me, a rare, genuine expression of amusement. At least I'm not the only one running insane, it seemed to say.
"What's funny? This isn't funny!" Allen squealed from his hiding spot. "You! The one who first saw this ghost is all relaxed, and me, the one who doesn't know anything about it, is suffering for it!"
I shrugged, the motion fluid and unconcerned. "Such is life."
"I'm out of here!" he declared, emerging from behind the couch. "And you tell her… you tell her that I don't want her following me around like a bug! I'm not her killer!" he snapped, pointing a shaky finger in my direction.
"Well, I wouldn't say that if I were you," I retorted, glancing at Wednesday. She had uncrossed her arms and legs, a dark eyebrow raised.
"Fuck you, Spencer!" he yelled, turning to leave. But the moment his hand touched the doorknob, he screamed again, stumbling backward. Pure, unadulterated fear was etched on his face as he stared upwards at the empty space above the door.
"You didn't tell me you had a giant ammo tank guarding your penthouse!" he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at nothing. "How did it even fit through the door?!"
"There is nothing there, Allen. And I didn't keep any ammo tank at my door," I replied calmly.
He muttered a shaky "oh" and crawled back toward me, his courage utterly spent. "How do you even see these ghosts?" he whispered, inching so close I could feel his nervous breath on my neck.
"To be honest," I whispered back, "I don't even know."
"Please," he begged, his eyes pleading. "Tell her—if you can speak with her—that I'm sorry and I just want to go home. My girlfriend won't want to see me running mad."
I chuckled. "Give him a sign," I said to Wednesday.
In an instant, she materialized a heavy pistol, the sound of her cocking it echoing sharply in the quiet room. She pointed it directly between Allen's eyes.
"No, no, no, no!" I said quickly. "I don't mean that kind of sign! I mean a less dangerous sign!"
She narrowed her eyes but lowered the gun.
"Wait… did you hear a gun cracking?" Allen asked, his voice trembling.
"Well, she was about to blow your head off," I informed him.
He gnashed his teeth, a fresh wave of fear washing over him. "I think I just peed myself."
"Soaked," I confirmed. "And dude, that is gross."
Frustrated, Wednesday stamped her foot. A loud thud echoed, and when she moved her leg back, a boot mark soaked in mud was stamped clearly onto my pristine white marble floor.
Allen stumbled towards it in awe. "She's real," he breathed, the truth finally crashing down on him. He stared at the mark. "Does… does she have only one foot?"
Wednesday rolled her eyes and stamped her other foot, leaving a second, matching print.
"Okay… she has two feet," he said, shivering. "And she's probably in front of me right now, right?" He was staring directly at her.
"Isn't that obvious?" I asked.
The last of his bravery evaporated. "I'm out of here! I've had enough of this!" He bolted for the door, yanked it open, and fled into the night without a backward glance.
Wednesday burst into laughter, the sound echoing strangely in the room as she collapsed onto the couch. "Did you see his face? He even peed on himself!" she howled.
I'd had enough. I climbed the stairs to my bedroom, utterly exhausted, ignoring her completely.
"Hey!" she called after me. "I'm talking to you! You shouldn't walk out on a ghost!"
I just rolled my eyes and muttered, "Whatever," before shutting my bedroom door.
---
The deep silence of the night was shattered by a whisper. "Spencer."
I stirred, lost in a dream.
"Spencer." The whisper was more urgent, colder. "Wake up."
Slowly, I fluttered my eyes open—only to see Wednesday's face an inch from mine. Our lips were almost touching, our noses a breath apart,my heart limped. But I felt no warmth, no breath from her.
"Shit!" I jolted, but her icy fingers clamped over my mouth before I could scream.
"Shhh," she muttered, her eyes deadly serious. She sat up, and I scrambled into a sitting position on my king-sized bed, my heart already racing.
"You can't be that damn close to me! I don't want to kiss the dead for a second time!" I hissed.
She rolled her eyes. "Well, you're going to be a dead man kissing the living if you don't shut your mouth and stay quiet," she retorted. "Assassins are about to enter the building."
My blood ran cold. "What?"
"Yes. Whosoever they are, they are here to kill you. And right now, a guy has a sniper pointed at your head."
As if on cue, a small red dot of light—a laser sight—appeared on the wall right where my head had been a second before.
"What the f—" I began.
"Down! Now!" she ordered.
I didn't need to be told twice. I rolled off the bed and hit the floor just as a bullet thwipped through the window and buried itself in my headboard with a sickening crunch of wood and stuffing.
Holy shit.
"Take this," Wednesday said, bending down. She pressed the cold, hard shape of a pistol into my hand.
I took it, the weight familiar and comforting in my grasp. At this point, I didn't care where it came from. Survival was the only thing that mattered.
"Now hurry! Go behind the door!" she instructed.
I rolled across the floor, my body low, and pressed my back against the wall behind the now-locked door. My heart was pounding so fast and so hard I thought it would break my ribs. Who wants to kill me? The question screamed in my mind.
I heard gentle, deliberate movements from the hallway outside. They knew I was in here. The fear was a living thing, coiling in my gut.
Wednesday stood up in the middle of the room, a calm fury in her stance. She slowly pulled a butcher's knife tied to a long, wicked-looking chain from behind her back—where she'd been hiding it, I'll never know. The knife rested on the floor, and she held the chain taut, ready to strike.
BANG! The door knob was shot out. The door swayed open.
The first assassin stepped in, his gun raised. I acted on pure instinct. I grabbed his ankle and pulled hard. He crashed to the floor, his gun skittering away. I didn't want to fire my own weapon and alert the whole neighborhood—having the police surround my penthouse was the last thing I needed. Besides, I couldn't even wield a gun properly in a close-quarters fight.
The second assassin entered, alert and scanning the room. But before he could even process the scene, Wednesday's butcher knife sailed through the air in a silent, deadly arc. It embedded itself with a wet thunk right in the center of his forehead.
The man's eyes went wide with shock for a split second before he crumpled to the floor, dead.
Woah.
A third assassin stepped over his body, his gun coming up. The knife, seemingly of its own volition, wrenched itself free and flew straight into his chest. He screamed in agony as Wednesday, with a stylized flick of her wrist, pulled the chain and ripped the blade free. In one fluid, brutal motion, she swung it again, and the knife cleanly separated his head from his body.
The fourth and final assassin stood frozen in the doorway, witnessing a knife tied to a chain moving on its own, slaughtering his colleagues. He raised his rifle, his finger tightening on the trigger.
But he was too slow. The spectral knife whipped through the air and smashed, pommel-first, into his temple, pinning his head against the doorframe with brutal force. With a swift, vicious pull, she yanked it free and, as his body sagged, thrust the blade deep into his collarbone, ripping it out in a spray of blood as he fell.
I had to confess, she was damn good.
Meanwhile, I was still struggling with the first assassin on the floor. I'd managed to shake off his grip and now had him in a headlock. I was on my back, wrapping my arms around his neck, trying to choke him out. He was strong, stronger than me. I saw his hand fumble, then pull out a pen knife, the small, sharp blade glinting in the moonlight.
Just then, I saw a silver flash. Wednesday's butcher knife swung down and buried itself deep in the assassin's stomach.
I gasped as a searing, white-hot pain erupted in my own side. I looked down, my eyes wide with shock and confusion.
The knife had gone straight through him… and pierced me, too....
To be continued.....