Samson stared at the revolver as I spun it around a few times before stowing it in a conjured holster.
"I don't really know how to fight any other way, but my dad loved guns," I said.
"you miss him?"
Raw emotion seemed to hit me like a punch to the gut in that moment. I'd been seriously avoiding thinking about my family since becoming a genie. The last months of my life were stolen by Thasmius, meaning my dad watched me pass on by now. I'd checked with the Contract and if a genie is freed he can never use or be affected by most magics ever again, so Thasmius had made a big mistake in the long run.
"More than anything in the world," I replied back.
Samson put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. There was pain in his gray eyes.
"I lost my own dad just last year," he told me, "and then I had to help him move on all by myself. If you ever need to talk about it, I'm available." He then laughed and clarified, "if I'm still alive."
I wanted to tell him that Dad was probably also still alive, that I just couldn't see him and even if I could, he'd probably already watched me die.
Instead I simply thanked him. We had barely known each other for half an hour and already felt like comrades-in-arms. I felt almost like there's a shortcut for connecting with Masters, an emotional head start of sorts that just cuts through initial awkwardness.
"How do wights fight?" I asked him.
"Like a poltergeist turned up to eleven: emotional attacks combined with powerful telekinesis. The only advantage we really have is that wights aren't invisible like most ghosts, so your aim should be fine."
We nodded and without any other words shared between us, strode up the stairs to the heavily warped door at the top.
Melted salt, speckled with what I now knew were iron shavings, was scattered all over the top of the stairs. With every bang on the door more salt scattered, before sizzling into the growing puddle.
"I rigged a pouch of his ashes to dump on him the moment we open the door," Samson said. Seeing my displeasure, he explained, "dark I know, but nothing confuses a ghost like throwing their remains at them."
"I don't know if that's exclusive to ghosts, pretty sure that would confuse anybody."
He rolled his eyes and gestured at the door.
Guessing his meaning, I walked up to the door and attempted to kick it open, forgetting my much-increased strength.
My foot hit the door with a loud crack and the door simply shattered. Wooden shrapnel shot through a small kitchen, several pieces impaling a grayish figure to no effect.
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At first glance Mr Frederick looked like a normal old man behind a sepia filter, but a closer look robbed the wholesome image. His arms were much longer than they had any right to be and ended in extended, bony, claw-like fingers. Instead of eyes, there were just torn black pits.
He let out a guttural shriek and charged the basement doorway. Before he could float more than a few steps forward, ash rained down on him, causing the spirit to choke and sputter in a baffled rage.
I emptied the revolver into the wight's center mass, reloading out of habit before cursing myself for forgetting I didn't really need to.
The wight let out a different screech this time. A wave of blue energy rocked out from it, slamming into my mind like a bus.
My little brother flexed in front of me, smiling wide. He was so proud of his "gains." Me and Dad shared a look of pride and amusement as my little bro excitedly explained the intricacies of his workout plan and diet.
"I miss you guys," I said with a sad smile.
"Then why'd you leave?" Dad asked.
"Because I-"
"You lied to us!" My brother interrupted angrily.
"I had to protect you!" Tears started to stream down my face, "I didn't want you guys to spend my last months alive feeling miserable and helpless."
"You're disgusting!" They called.
"How can you claim to miss us?"
Their words rang through me like an unavoidable truth. I was selfish, I took their choices away from them by hiding my problems. I should have done better, tried harder. I'm pathetic.
"You chose the coward's way out," Dad said, glaring with his torn eyes.
"No! Dad I- wait." I looked around.
The room had become fuzzy and indistinct. My family stared at me through sightless holes, stretching out elongated claws.
"This isn't real."
I was back in the kitchen. The wight floated in the middle of the room, holding itself. Samson swayed back and forth with a vacant expression.
Noticing me, the wight shouted out another wave of blue energy. This time it just pissed me off.
I looked down at my revolver, then banished it. I replaced the gun with glowing silver brass knuckles, tackled the spirit to the ground and started pounding my fists into its head.
It tried to kick me, so I crushed its legs. It tried to rake its claws over my face so I ripped its arms off. It tried to scream so I shattered its jaw. All that mattered was that the thing that hurt me had to die, again.
A voice called my name a few times, but it didn't matter. The pain was too loud and someone was screaming.
Suddenly a strong set of hands pulled me up off the floor. I turned to swing on them, but was forced to stop with a lurch by the part of my soul that held my Contract.
Samson looked at me with tears on his own cheeks. I looked down and saw that the wight was dead, I had simply been fighting the floor and probably screaming the whole time.
"It's ok Tristan, we're safe" Samson said.
"Sorry, I just… I saw things I didn't want to see."
"Me too kid, me too."
---
I repaired Mrs Frederick's house to the best of my ability and collected her husband's ashes back into his urn. Samson went downstairs to explain everything to her while I went outside to try to get my head together.
It was a bright, clear night out, the kind of night where the full moon was a spotlight illuminating the world in blues and grays.
Samson found me leaning on the railing and looking up at the stars. He wordlessly leaned next to me, reaching into his jacket and producing a flask. After taking a swig, he offered it to me.
I just shook my head, alcohol was not a good combination with stress for me.
He nodded and then rifled through his pockets for another minute, producing a joint this time. I raised my eyebrows at him.
"We're in Washington," was his only reply.
We passed it back and forth a few times, both of us pretending we weren't crying, neither of us calling each other out on it.
It was a beautiful night.