Snow was supposed to be white.
It was supposed to cover the world in a blanket of pure, muffling white.
It was not supposed to be red.
It never should have been red.
The faded russet that had once been red of his brother’s hoodie was the only color he wanted to see. Not the bright, far too bright, cherry that stained his white shirt. Not the black of the crossbow shaft sticking out of his chest. He only wanted to see brown, and white. White like the snow. Brown like their matching eyes. White like the puffs of air that came out of his mouth, puffs that had no twin.
He didn’t have a twin. He didn’t- this wasn’t.
A boat with no sail.
There were no breaths.
Nothing. Nothing as the world came into painfully sharp clarity around him. Like he was staring at himself. But he wasn’t, he was staring at the man who shared his face. He had gotten fat over the past thirteen years.
The forest groaned under the weight of snow that gathered on the branches of centuries old pine trees. Every so often, the unceasing howling wind that accompanied the snow would fling the weights from the boughs, and they would spring up to try and capture the faint and grey rays of sun. In the forest there was a clearing, trees hadn’t been allowed to fill it, kept at bay by the hard work of man. The forest knew man well. It often gave up its trees for man, but man kept the fires away, and man fertilized its roots, and man cut down the trees that would choke the evergreens that the forest so prized. So, the forest let man keep its clearings and logging camps.
The clearing had taken a good many trees, but most of them never left it. Instead man had built up a dwelling, it was large, and the forest did not mind the man who lived there. He was careful of the way that he walked, and he would deep into the places where the forest was twisted from wounds that it could not heal over, and take away those troublesome splinters to his clearing. The clearing was home to great darkness, but it was not the forest’s darkness. At one point, another man had come to the clearing, but he did not hold the same steadfastness that the first did, and he left soon after he came.
It was strange when another man came. The forest doubted that any would’ve after the last. But he came, the forest saw him come from afar, he drove quickly, even when the ice filled the roads, it was reckless. The forest had seen many men die that way. The man drove until his car couldn’t push through the snow, then he walked. He walked until he came to the clearing.
He opened the door, and, then a moment later he fell back, clutching at his chest. The forest felt the wood bury instead deep the man’s core. Then, the other man was at his side, they held each other in a way that trees could not. And the man took the corpse into his cabin.
The forest was not surprised. Trees lived longer than men.
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Two six fingered hands slick with blood shook as they frantically rifled through drawers. Stubborn tears burned at the back of Ford’s eyes as he tossed aside pages of neat calculation. He slammed the drawer shut and opened the next, throwing a glass prism on the floor and letting it shatter. There was no time. He hissed as he slammed that drawer as well. 37 hours. He had 37 hours until that monster would return. He opened a third drawer, then instantly closed it. He couldn’t die knowing that- that he had-
…
His mistakes were his own. Stanley shouldn’t have to suffer for them. Ford didn’t have the time to pursue true reanimation. Zombification was easy, but wouldn’t solve anything. Fourth drawer, he scanned it for a moment, before beginning to frantically dig through the geological samples. Petrification was an option, perhaps he could even take him to the bunker and put him in Cyro. The power down there should last at least two hundred years. More than enough time for some enterprising scientist to try his hand at bringing back a corpse. But there was no guarantee, to many variables.
Even if… Would Stan want to live in a world centuries ahead of this one? Ford didn’t know. He could guess, based off a conversation they had had over thirteen years ago. But they were barely seventeen at the time. So much had changed since then. He realized that he didn’t know anything about his brother. Thirteen years was a long time. His hand clutched around a plain looking rock, larger than a pebble, but small enough to fit in the palm of his hand without touching any of his fingers. Compared to the other samples, it was plain. Although, on its own, it was rare to see a crystal that formed completely smooth.
He nearly dropped it, before shoving it deep into the front pocket of his trench coat. Phantomization was easy enough, but that would eventually lead into degradation, and loss of self. He left his cluttered study and barely noticed the elevator ride before beginning to run up the stairs two at a time. He hadn’t slept in nine days, and was subsisting purely off of caffeine, adrenaline and now guilt, somehow that concoction was enough to make him almost ignore the exhaustion in his limbs, that and the ever-growing fear that Bill would possess his brother’s corpse, gave him enough energy to run through his house like the mad man the townsfolk thought he was.
Reincarnation would be impossible to achieve in the timespan he had. Well. Sort of. There was a way that… almost counted as Reincarnation. A way for Stanley to stay… Stanley. He reached the kitchen and suddenly, at the sight of what had been Stan laying on the table every ounce of strength that he had somehow kept vanished. He felt dizzy, and his entire body ached, he couldn’t fill his lungs with enough air. Ford stumbled toward the table.
Stanley’s eyes were staring blindly at the ceiling. He hadn’t gone entirely cold yet, it took hours for a body to go cold, but somehow Ford was surprised when he reached out and touched the lukewarm skin, his fingers only just beginning to turn to ice, even in the blizzard, and Ford not paying his heating bill, there was still warmth. He looped his six fingered hand around his brother’s five fingered one, lacing their digits together. Each of his fingers bordering on one of Stan’s stiff ones. Clicking together like puzzle pieces.
“We still fit.” He whispered, barely audible above the muffled sound of the wind.
With his other hand he pulled the smooth crystal out of his pocket. His hand shook as he placed it over Stan’s heart. On the skin, where the crossbow bolt had ripped his shirt. Maroon began to leach into the grey stone. Like a drop of food dye in hot water. It was almost hypnotizing. Ford didn’t notice that he had closed his eyes.
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When Stan opened his eyes, he was lying on top of a table. Not the strangest place he had woken up, certainly not the worst. He pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side and-
And-
Shoot.
He stared through his legs. They were the same legs he had had before, same pants, but now they were transparent, with a slight blueish tinge. He looked down at his chest. Old hoodie, mullet, threadbare white shirt… that all looked like a bubble under a blacklight. That didn’t make any sense- he turned around, a red pebble with a gold Pac-man lookin’ fish on it was the only other thing on the table. He recognized the symbol from some cult thing his pa was in, the Holy order of the Mackerel, or Order of the holy Mackerel, or somethin’? He had barely looked at the rock for a second before he realized he wasn’t alone.
Stanford sat slumped in a chair, glasses slipping down his nose, his eyes fluttered slightly in REM sleep and he breathed deeply. He was wearing an old blood-stained trench coat, dress shirt and tie that he definitely hadn’t changed in the past month. He hadn’t shaved recently either, which meant that the small, but plentiful scabs on his face weren’t from a mishap with a razor. And somehow, he doubted that the fading bruises on his neck and hands came from any… social activities. Even when he was sleeping, Ford looked tired.
Why was he here? It didn’t make any sense-
Then everything came flooding back. The postcard. The frantic drive. The crossbow-and now…
Hot Belgian Waffles was he a ghost? Were those bloodstains, his bloodstains? He held up a hand, and looked through it. Yes. It appeared he was. Huh. Well. Stan could think of worse afterlives then haunting his brother’s house. Wait, did- Did Ford murder him?
Stan glanced back at his sleeping twin. Somehow, he couldn’t find it in him to care whether his death had been intentional or not. He was surprised Ford had even been able to lift a crossbow. With a sigh, he pushed off the table. His feet soundlessly hitting the floor without disturbing any dust. If he was going to be haunting this place, he might as well take a look around.
The kitchen was a mess. It had a single round wooden table that could comfortably seat four people, although there were only two chairs, the counter space filled two walls, along with wood cabinets above that mirrored it, the faded white counters were stacked with papers, unidentifiable pieces of metal, a cubics cube and two separate microscopes. Some of the junk had escaped onto the floor, which had about an inch of dust on it. It was occasionally marred by footsteps, the led from the door, to the coffee machine, then to the chair Ford was currently sitting in.
The sink was filled with dirty coffee cups. Only coffee cups. Likewise, the trash was overflowing with coffee filters and grounds. Stan furrowed his brow. Three of the cupboards were open, only one of which had actual dishes in it, the rest were filled with freaking science bottles. Several spiders were living in the test tubes. Stan doubted that those were some kind of experiment. The table was empty, except for that rock, but it was surrounded by various shards of glass and scraps askew paperwork written in nerd that hadn’t been covered in dust yet.
It was ridiculous, Ford had a kitchen, he owned a house, a swanky forest cabin no less, and he was using the space for what? Coffee and naps? Stan couldn’t even see the stove top. He wasn’t the neatest guy but, he liked the stuff he could get, and he liked to make sure that it didn’t break, heck, he’d had the same car since he was fifteen. (What had happened to his car anyway?)
He reached down to where a cracked beaker sat near the table, it hadn’t shattered entirely. If Ford left this much broken glass around, maybe it wasn’t such a mystery where his scabs came from. Stan felt mild relief when his hand closed around the beaker with no difficultly, then he tried to lift it, it felt much heavier than it should have. With a grunt, he pulled it out of the pile of glass that it sat on, he added his second hand to his first, slowly, the beaker began to lift off the ground. It seemed to get heavier and heavier the longer he pulled, he had maybe gotten it an inch in the air before his hand suddenly phased through it and it fell, shattering completely.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Ford jolted awake. Stan fell, landing flat on his back still without disturbing any of the dust. Ford adjusted his glasses and jumped up from his chair. Stan realized that he didn’t have the energy to move, it felt like his entire being had been drained. Ford was frantically checking himself over, he stared at the foot prints in the dust with a bewildered expression. Stan realized that he wasn’t laying on the floor, but rather in it, resting on something below the wood paneling. Ford’s eyes fell on the empty table, his stomach dropped.
“Stanley?” He called.
“Over here.” Stan said.
Ford didn’t seem to hear him, instead he picked up the rock.
NAME: STANFORD PINES
LV: 18
RACE: HUMAN
CLASS: CRYPTOZOOLOGIST
EQUIPPED: DUNGEON CORE
REPUTATION: TREASURED
CURRENT STATUS EFFECTS: SLEEP DEPRIVATION IV, MALNOURISHED II, DEHYDRATED I, CAFFEINATED V
HP: 28/32
STR: 5 (-3)
DEF: 6 (-3)
AGL: 8 (-5)
SPD: 8 (-5)
INT: 12 (-2)
WIZ: 3 (-2)
CHAR: 2 (-4)
Stan craned his neck toward Ford, the effort felt enormous. A hologram lookin’ screen was floating above the rock now. He gave him an annoyed stare that he couldn’t see.
“Seriously Pointdexter? You touch a rock and math comes out?” He called, no response. Also, sleep deprivation- was that a four or a six? “Go back to sleep you nerd.” He added for good measure.
Ford set the rock down, and for a second Stan thought that he heard him, but then he walked to one of the cabinets, and pulled out a knife.
“Sixer?” Stan asked,
Ford walked toward the door, but he hesitated before leaving the room. “Stanley? If you’re there…” A thousand half formed expressions flashed across his face in a fraction a second. Guilt, anger, fear, hope, resignation. His mouth moved to form an I’m sorry, but instead all he was able to croak out was “What happened was entirely unintentional.” He quickly turned away, then he slipped out of the kitchen, his knuckles white around the knife handle.
Stan huffed.
-------------
His existence proved to be a boring one. He could leave the kitchen, but the further away he got from that stupid rock the harder it got to move, like he was walking up a mountain. If he stopped actively trying to move, he started getting pulled back to the kitchen. And he couldn’t take the rock out of the kitchen either. It’d been maybe a day since he had been brutally murdered by his twin. And other than creaking the cabinets open slightly and failing to open the fridge, he had mostly laid on the floor or played with The Rock.
The rock was the only thing that was a normal weight. He could lift, it, throw it, he could even set it on his ghost bod. He had been tossing it up and down earlier, but based on the fact that dropping it made him feel like someone had thrown him down a flight of stairs… he decided to stop doing that. There was one other thing.
NAME: STANLEY PINES
LV: 1
RACE: DUNGEON CORE
CLASS: KITCHEN SPECTER
EQUIPPED: DUNGEON CORE
REPUTATION: YES
CURRENT STATUS EFFECTS: INCORPOREAL
HP: 3/4
STR: NULL
DEF: 2
AGL: NULL
SPD: NULL
INT: 7
WIZ: 13
CHAR: 8
Math rock strikes again. Apparently, he wasn’t human anymore… surprise. Stan didn’t know what a ‘dungeon core’ was, apparently him? He set the rock on the floor beside him and stared at the ceiling. He made shapes out of the popcorn ceiling like he was watching clouds. Like he used to in high school. Ford shambled into the kitchen. He somehow looked worse, and was muttering under his breath. He made a bee line to the coffee machine, opened a cupboard, there weren’t any cups so he fished one out of the sink.
Stan sighed. That was the fourth time he’d come in. Looking more and more disheveled each time. He kept muttering something under his breath. Was that ‘ten hours?’ or ‘pen powers?’, knowing Sixer it could be either. Ford poured himself a mug of cold coffee and shambled back out of the kitchen. That couldn’t be healthy. Stan knew that you could overdose on caffeine, heck, he knew a kid who had downed a bag of caffeine powder and died from a heart attack. He didn’t know how much coffee someone could safely drink in a day, but he figured that Ford was somewhere in the Way Too Much range.
Stan reached for the rock, and screamed. He couldn’t help it. He doubted that any sane human being (or dungeon core or whatever) could turn and see that thing and not scream. He wasn’t scared of spiders, per se, but that Thing could barely be considered a spider. It was twice the size of the rock, and was only a few inches away from it. It was brown, and honestly looked malicious. Could a bug just look evil? Or buff? Stan had barely scrambled away before remembering that he was a ghost, and that the spider couldn’t even see him probably, when the spider scurried onto the rock.
NAME: N/A
LV: 11
RACE: BROWN RECLUSE
CLASS: PREDATOR
EQUIPPED: N/A
REPUTATION: MINOR TERROR
CURRENT STATUS EFFECTS: N/A
HP: 10/10
STR: 14
DEF: 5
AGL: 7
SPD: 8
INT: 3
WIZ: 3
CHAR: 1
LV 11 BROWN RECLUSE REQUESTS THE DUNGEON’S BOON IN EXCHANGE FOR PROTECTION.
YES? NO?
Stan swallowed hard. Then laughed. He didn’t like making deals without knowing what he was giving up but… He glanced back at the coffee machine and a mischievous smile appeared on his face. Protection sounded pretty good right now and, he doubted that spider was trying to steal his soul. What would a spider do with a soul anyhow?
“Sure why not?” Stan said, at least something was happening other than the shadows growing longer.
The Spider convulsed. It seemed to stretch, and grow bigger, not by much, but by enough. It was the size of a coaster now. Its eight eyes seemed to glimmer with red. Stan swallowed. It curled on top of the rock, and looked up at him.
“Hey uh… Brownie.” Stan asked, seriously? He couldn’t think of anything better? The spider shifted slightly in what he hoped was attention. “That protection of yours extend to other people I wana protect?”
The next time Ford stumbled into the kitchen, he ended up stood in half awe and half frustration in front of the coffee machine. It’d taken Brownie a few hours to web that thing up all the way. She had crawled around the entire machine spinning silk, while looping over and over again, until it was covered in a sticky white cotton so thick you couldn’t see the black of the machine.
Ford reached out to swipe it away, but Brownie peaked out from the webs and he staggered back quickly with a shout. That had gotten his attention. Stan leaned against the countertop, with one hand he swept one of the unbroken glass vials that he had painstakingly pushed to the edge of the counter off the edge, and onto the floor. Ford flinched and turned toward the sound. Squinting at the air next to him.
“…Stan?” He whispered.
Stan pushed off a second piece of science ware, this time a beaker. Ford took a step back.
“Stop breaking things.” He chided.
With one last push he sent he final piece of glass spiraling to the ground. He slumped against the counter, the glass shards phasing through his incorporeal body.
“…I’m glad you’re okay.” Ford said, after waiting a moment to make sure that no more glass would fall from somewhere.
“I wouldn’t call this okay Stanford.” Stan said, “I’m dead.”
“Can you release my coffee machine? I know that was you. Somehow.” Ford said, rubbing his eyes.
“Absolutely not.” Stan said, even though Ford couldn’t hear him.
“I don’t have time for this Stanley.” Ford groaned, there was something in the way he said it that made Stan think he wasn’t talking about the coffee maker.
He pulled the knife that he had taken from the kitchen earlier and began to cut away at the web. Brownie shied away at first, but then she began to creep closer.
“Careful.” Stan said.
Brownie lunged. Ford shouted and swatted at her with his knife, sending her careening toward the counter tops. She was dazed and struggled to regain her footing, Ford raised the knife awkwardly. Hey! That was his spider. Stan picked up the red rock and threw it at Ford’s head. Regretting it the instant it made contact.
Ford flinched and grabbed at his head. Stan screamed as his entire being was flung into a brick wall, pain rocketed through every inch of his phantom existence, he wasn’t sure how he gotten onto the floor, something to do with the constant, unending feeling of falling-
He was certain that he was going to hit the ground- splatter- no, shatter, explode, like those stupid glass bottles. Dangit was this really worth the stupid spider? He was hurtling downward, ever, always downward. He couldn’t breathe he couldn’t- There was another dull thunk as he landed, distantly, he had lost grip on his form. Where was his body? Who was screaming? It took him a minute to remember who he was, then longer to remember when.
Stan opened his eyes, his stupid inconsequential ghost eyes, and found that he was curled in on himself, he had once more lost the energy to move, but he felt warm, like he was being held.
“-Don’t ever do that again you imbecilic-! Do you have any idea what could’ve happened if I hadn’t caught you?” Ford was the one who was screaming, and for some reason that was surprising.
Stan didn’t know why, but he began to laugh.