“That’s all eight of the Ogdoan Quad, so yes.” Matthew answered.

“Very good.” Mr. Carter said. “At least this part of the ordeal is over with.”

Mr. Carter checked his pocket watch. “So…the haunting shouldn’t happen until 10:30, though given how it keeps happening earlier and earlier, it’ll likely happen before 10:30. Still, my watch says it’s only 9:00…so, what do we do now?”

“What else can we do?” Matthew said. “We wait.”

“I don’t suppose you know any good street food vendors in Essex?” Joseph asked.

“I’m sorry, sir, “street food?”” Mr. Carter couldn’t believe that a manesologist ate penny foods like some sort of manual laborer. He remembered the mess on Dr. Morton’s desk back, but it was still such a strange idea--a man who wielded the power of an ancient, pre-human race bundled up in a little candle--eating stall foods!

“Vendor foods are his weakness.” Martin said.

“Oh, “his” weakness! As if you don’t love jellied eels.” Joseph said.

“They’re very good in the right broth.” Martin said. “So good they transcend being street food. You know good and well some restaurants serve them.”

Mr. Carter believed that jellied eels were a fine British tradition and were indeed good in the right broth--but that was when they were served in a restaurant. If they came out of a tin--good lord!--there was no telling what else came out of the tin with it!

If the manesologists were, in fact, ghosts inside dead bodies, perhaps street food was how they died…

“We’ll wait right here, Mr. Carter.” Matthew said. “It won’t feel as long as you think it will.”

“That’s the trick about waiting for ghosts to go into their act.” Joseph said. “The wait only feels long until it actually gets long. You think “Oh no, we have to wait for sunrise before the ghost starts ringing the bell in the chapel tower!” But then before you know it, it’s sunrise, and the bell’s ringing but you can’t get up the stairs fast enough because someone sat the wrong way and their leg fell asleep.” Joseph cut his eyes at Martin.

“Are there any chairs we can borrow, Mr. Carter?” Matthew asked.

“There are plenty…in the theater.” Mr. Carter answered. “I’m sorry. I should have made sure to leave chairs out, I’m not sure why I didn’t think of doing so. But there’s one or two in the kitchen. I’ll go retrieve them…but of course, I’ll need one of you to go with me.”

Joseph raised a bushy eyebrow. “But the ghost is in there, in the theater. Why would you need one of us to go with you to guard you as you move…away from the ghost?”

Mr. Carter paused. Dr. Morton had a point.

But he still wanted someone to go with thim.

“You raise a very salient point, Dr. Morton.” Mr. Carter said. “I will admit, that while most of my feelings concerning ghosts and hauntings are informed by logic, some of them aren’t. This is one that isn’t. I simply cannot stand the thought of being alone in this building.”

“Remember what I told you about ghosts, Mr. Carter.” Joseph said. “It’s rational to be afraid of them. It’s rational to be afraid of anything that can kill with just a touch.”

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“Thank you for reminding me of that fact.” Mr. Carter grumbled.

“But there is something wrong with being incurious about ghosts, and you’re being so incurious as to be irrational. You’ve been in this building before, alone, while the Astral hand was present. It was always present, it was just simply beyond your awareness. And what’s more, the kitchen is away from the theater! You can’t get around that point, Mr. Carter!”

“I am being irrational. I admit it. But an irrational thought can still be a very strong, very pressin thought!”

“And your irrational thoughts are strong, are they?”

“Yes. Very strong!”

Joseph sighed. “Very well then, if you need me to chaperone you down to the kitchen, I’ll come with you.” Joseph said. “I’ll protect you from the dust bunnies.”

“Don’t even bother.” Martin said. “There’s no need.” Suddenly, Martin was seemingly sitting on the air itself, legs crossed and feet inches off the ground.

“You’re floating!” Mr. Carter exclaimed. “Oh! I know what this is! You’re using your dogs!”

“Yes I am.” Martin said.

“His magic dogs are very versatile.” Joseph said. “They can block bullets, pin down ghosts in all their forms and manifestations, and make very nice seats.” Joseph sat next to Martin and put his arm around him. “If only he was as versatile as his pets, eh?”

“Very bold of you to say that when I could order one to bite you.” Martin said.

Matthew joined the other three on top the dogs. Mr. Carter remained standing on the ground.

“Um…may I touch it?” Mr. Carter asked.

“Now hold on!” Joseph exclaimed. “Ghosts vex you to the point I have to walk with you to the kitchen, but Dr. Glass’ weird invisible thought-beasts fascinate you? Don’t you know they came out of his mind, his dirty, little mind!”

“Ghosts are uncertain creatures.” Mr. Carter replied. “But Dr. Glass’ dogs were created by him and are controlled by him.”

“That is true.” Martin said. “They are extensions of my will. They obey my will and are, in fact, composed of my will.”

“Oh, like you aren’t an uncertain creature yourself.” Joseph said. “You’re the most talked-about member of our group. Half the letters to Illustrated Phantom Stories come from people claiming that you’re the Sandman because they swear they saw you in their dreams, or that you’re Springheel Jack because they swear they saw you leaping over their heads one foggy evening, or that you’re a vampire because they swear they saw you in Parliament.”

“So, may I touch it?” Mr. Carter asked again.

“You can do more than that.” Martin offered a hand. “Come on. Take a seat.”

Mr. Carter took Martin’s hand and climbed up on the invisible bench.

“Incredible!” Mr. Carter exclaimed. “It’s just like how they were described in Illustrated Phantom Stories! They’re not hot, or cold, or fuzzy, or slippery. There’s no texture or temperature. I suppose if I had to say that they were something, I would say that they were smooth--but there must be something like friction at work since we’re not falling off.”

“It’s all force and energy, all push and pull.” Martin explained. “It’s an animal without meat or skin.”

“They are so neat! I almost asked you back at the office to make them appear.” Mr. Carter admitted.

“Oh, they’re always there.” Martin said. “Even when I’m sleeping, they’re right by my side.”

“Such incredible things! Beings of pure thought-energy!” Mr. Carter exclaimed.

“Bessantic energy, to be precise.” Martin said. “Ghosts are made of Odic energy. Thought-forms, such as my dogs, are made of Bessantic energy. But the difference is rather academic, I’ll admit.”

“Oh, look at you, being all technical in front of the client.” Joseph said. “The important difference between Bessantic energy and Odic energy, Mr. Carter…is the taste.”

“The taste?”

“Yes. You see, Bessantic energy pairs best with white wine and Odic energy with red wine.”

Mr. Carter looked questioningly at Martin.

Matthew hid his smile behind his hand.

Martin sighed. “Odic and Bessantic energies are not edible.”

“They are.” Joseph said. “That you can eat them is the best-kept secret of the Ror Raas. It’s how they keep up their magic powers.”

Martin nudged Joseph with his elbow. “Don’t pay any mind to Dr. Morton, Mr. Carter. He’s back in one of his moods.”

“I don’t mind some jesting.” Mr. Carter said. “After all, we have some waiting ahead of us. We have to do something to entertain ourselves.

The group sat together on the dogs for what to Mr. Carter felt like minutes, but was, in fact, a single minute. His anxiety needled him and he could not become calm like the three manesologist. He kept watching the Astral hand, waiting for it to do something to signal the coming of the blue ghostlight. He kept watching and sweating and worrying, and then he decided that he had to say something or he would burst.

“Is this the worst part of the job?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Joseph asked.

“I mean this infernal waiting, it's the worst part of this whole ghost business to me, having to wait night after night after night. I remember sitting right here and waiting, just waiting, and it would be so quiet I could hear my pocket watch ticking away, just tick-tick-tick, and I’d wonder how many ticks had passed. Then I’d take my pocket watch out in the light of the kitchen and see that I’d spent hours waiting--many hours. All that time, burned up by ticking.”