Chapter 4: Constance's End
POV: Adam Carter
The house shuddered around them like a living thing in pain, and Adam's scar felt like someone was carving new lines into his wrist with a red-hot blade. Constance's presence had grown from a cold whisper to a roaring storm, and the afterimages dancing at the edge of his vision were multiplying like reflections in a funhouse mirror.
"You're wrong," the ghost hissed, her voice layering over itself until it sounded like a choir of the drowned. "All of you. Wrong, wrong, wrong."
Her form solidified until she looked almost alive—if you ignored the river water pooling at her feet and the way light seemed to bend around her like she was a hole in the world. When she moved toward Elena, the temperature dropped so fast that frost began forming on the windows.
Adam's mental energy was hovering at 20%, barely enough to keep his phasing ability stable, but he had to try. The locket was still glowing on the floor like a tiny sun, and every second it remained intact was another second for Constance to grow stronger.
He reached for his power, feeling it flicker and stutter like a candle in a hurricane. The world went translucent around him as he phased, his fingers passing through the locket's chain without making contact. He tried to solidify just his hand, to grab the silver while keeping the rest of himself insubstantial, but Constance's grief slammed into him again like a tidal wave.
Suddenly he wasn't in the bedroom anymore. He was standing in the same room thirty years ago, watching a younger Joseph Welch tangle his fingers in his secretary's hair while his wife stood in the doorway with tears streaming down her face. He was Constance, feeling her heart shatter into pieces too small to ever put back together. He was Constance, clutching the locket—their locket, the one that was supposed to mean forever—and understanding with crystal clarity that forever was a lie.
The emotions paralyzed him. He stood frozen between phases, neither fully solid nor fully intangible, while Constance's love and betrayal and devastating sorrow crashed over him in waves that threatened to pull him under entirely.
[You're drowning in her pain, kid.] [Swim.]
The system's words cut through the psychic storm like a lifeline. Adam forced himself to focus on his own heartbeat, his own breathing, his own very-much-alive body that was definitely not thirty years in the past. He solidified with a sound like breaking glass, his hand closing around the locket just as Constance lunged for Elena.
The silver burned his palm like acid, but he held on.
Dean's lighter was already out, salt poured in a careful circle around a small pile of kindling. "Toss it here!"
Adam's throw was perfect, but Constance was faster. She materialized between him and the fire, her form blazing with rage so bright it hurt to look at directly.
"NO!" Her scream shattered every piece of glass in the room, and Adam felt something deep in his chest crack in sympathy. "You don't understand! He promised! He promised forever!"
For a moment, her face shifted, and Adam caught a glimpse of who she'd been before the betrayal had eaten her alive. Young. Beautiful. So desperately in love that she'd built her entire world around one man's promises.
It broke his heart. Which was probably why he froze.
The locket hit the edge of the salt circle and bounced away from the flames, skittering across the floor toward Constance's feet. She dove for it, her form becoming solid enough to interact with the physical world, and Adam just stood there like an idiot while everything went to hell.
"Move!" Dean's voice cut through his paralysis, and suddenly the hunter was between Adam and the ghost, shotgun raised and loaded with enough rock salt to exorcise a small army.
The blast caught Constance center mass and sent her tumbling backward, her form flickering between solid and translucent. Dean was already reloading, his movements quick and efficient, but Adam could see the futility of it. Rock salt could hurt her, could even dispel her temporarily, but as long as the locket remained intact, she'd just keep coming back.
"The fire!" Elena shouted, diving for the scattered kindling. "Get it to the fire!"
Sam was there before Adam could move, scooping up the locket with his bare hands and tossing it into the flames Dean had prepared. The silver began to melt immediately, centuries of tarnish burning away to reveal the bright metal underneath.
Constance's scream could have shattered mountains.
She launched herself at Sam with desperate fury, her fingers stretching into claws that looked sharp enough to tear flesh from bone. But the locket was already dissolving, and with it, her anchor to the physical world.
"I loved him," she sobbed as her form began to fade. "I loved him so much."
Adam felt tears on his face and realized they were his own. The ghost's sorrow was still echoing in his chest, a grief so profound it felt like drowning in reverse—being pulled up from the depths of despair only to find that the surface held nothing but empty air.
When the light faded and the temperature began to climb back toward normal, Constance was gone. The room felt hollow without her presence, like a stage after the final curtain call.
"Well," Dean said, breaking the silence. "That was fun. Everyone still have all their limbs?"
Adam took inventory. Scratched ribs from his unplanned encounter with the floor joists. Burned palm from grabbing the locket. Mental energy sitting at a dismal 15%. And ghostly afterimages still flickering at the edge of his vision like visual snow.
"I'm good," he lied.
Sam was studying him with the intensity of someone examining a particularly interesting specimen under a microscope. "You froze again. Right when we needed you to move."
"I know." Adam rubbed his burned palm against his jeans, trying to ignore the way Constance's phantom form kept appearing in his peripheral vision. "Her emotions were... loud."
"Emotions?" Sam's voice sharpened. "What do you mean, emotions?"
Shit. Adam scrambled for an explanation that wouldn't involve admitting to mysterious supernatural powers or voices in his head. "I just meant... she was sad, you know? Really sad. It was hard to watch."
Sam's expression suggested he believed that about as much as he believed in Santa Claus. "Right. Sad."
Before Sam could press further, Elena cleared her throat. "We should go. Local police are going to investigate the noise complaints, and I'd rather not explain why we were burning jewelry in an abandoned house."
Dean was already packing up his supplies, but his eyes kept drifting back to Adam. "Kid's got a point about the emotions thing, though. Ghost was pretty torn up about the whole betrayal situation."
"They usually are," Elena agreed. "Woman in White spirits are powered by romantic betrayal. The stronger the original love, the more devastating the eventual hatred."
As they headed for the stairs, Adam caught sight of movement in a broken mirror hanging on the bedroom wall. Constance's reflection stared back at him for just a moment—not angry anymore, just infinitely tired—before fading away like smoke.
[Retribution: Whisper ghostly regrets for 24 hours.] [Keep it quiet.]
"He said I was beautiful," Adam murmured, the words falling from his lips without permission. "He said I was the only one who mattered. But they all lie, don't they? They all—"
"Adam." Sam's hand landed on his shoulder, heavy and warm. "What did you just say?"
Adam blinked, realizing he'd been speaking in Constance's voice again. The regrets were spilling out of him like water through a cracked dam, and Sam was looking at him like he was either a fascinating puzzle or a dangerous weapon.
"Nothing," Adam said quickly. "Just... thinking out loud."
"Thinking in a dead woman's voice?" Sam's suspicion was practically visible now, crackling in the air between them like static electricity.
Elena stepped between them before the tension could escalate further. "We need to move. Now. I can hear sirens."
They made it to the Impala just as the first police car rounded the corner, red and blue lights painting the abandoned houses in garish colors. Dean had them moving before the cops could get close enough to read the license plate, and Adam slumped in the back seat, exhaustion hitting him like a physical weight.
His scar pulsed once, sharp and sudden, and for just a moment he could sense something else out there in the night. Something bigger than ghosts, older than grief, with attention focused on him like a spotlight.
[You're a blip on hell's radar, kid.] [Something's hunting you.]
"We did good tonight," Dean said, his voice carrying forced cheer. "Saved some lives, sent a ghost to her final rest. I call that a win."
But Adam could still see Constance's afterimage in the passenger-side mirror, and her whispered regrets were still falling from his lips: "He promised forever. He promised, and I believed him."
Sam's stare was burning holes in the back of his head, and somewhere in the distance, carried on the night wind, Adam heard something that definitely wasn't a police siren.
A howl. Wild and hungry and getting closer.
[You survived, kid.] [Barely.]
The system's voice held no comfort, and Adam had the distinct feeling that Constance's ghost was going to be the least of his problems.
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