Greg let himself be led into Taz’s room, leaving the two ghosts to converse on the couch.
The door shut; Taz turned to Greg, wearing an unreadable expression. “What the hell was that?”
Greg blinked. Taz wasn’t just stunned, but also bit mad. And definitely bewildered. Not sure how to respond, Greg simply said, “I don’t know. I guess I got caught up… in… the moment…” he trailed off.
Gods dammit.
Greg had inadvertently triggered a Tradition, or something adjacent to it. Probably some kind of Fate thing, or maybe a Call to Adventure? Whatever it was, it made Greg act like some kind of narcissistic asshat that thought he could sway hearts with just a few grandiose words.
Greg shuddered. He did not enjoy being fucked with like that. It was violating. He didn’t want to be that kind of person, and whatever it was that just happened, turned him into something wasn’t.
He hadn’t meant to summon such seemingly important ghosts, nor promise to change the world. After he had Called for Nurmueth, upon noticing the ease with which he did so, he felt on a roll. Clearly, he had let it go to his head.
“Fuck,” Taz groaned, having come to the same conclusion.
Greg asked, “What do we do? I can’t just send them back! I made a promise!” Then, he paused, and asked, “What happens if I break that promise? I assume bad things happen.”
Taz nodded and said, “Yes, the betrayal lingers like a stench that other ghosts, spirits, and the like, can sense. Not only will they refuse to cooperate with you, but many will also attack you on-sight.”
Greg and Taz discussed the issue further over the next few minutes. They decided to stick with the original plan of opening a magic shop to pay rent and living expenses, and if it just so happened that things spiraled out of control, so be it.
---
Taz quickly realized things had not, in fact, escalated nearly as quickly as he had thought. Nurmueth, while knowledgeable, was not as wise as one might expect given how long they had lived (and been dead) for. Their suggestions for what magical items could do for the common man were either obsolete by centuries, not at all applicable to the needs of humans, or the solutions were too extreme for the presented problems. Greg would present a situation, such as forgetting one’s wallet, and Nurmueth would suggest a combination of attention-deflection wards and sacrifices to esoteric entities associated with chance encounters and coincidence. When Greg asked if a minor teleportation or some sort bound-item magic existed, Nurmueth huffed and began a lengthy rant, accusing Greg of employing barbaric solutions when more elegant ones existed.
Yeah, Nurmueth was that kind of old person.
On the other hand, now that Taz was no longer under the influence of the pseudo-Tradition and could operate with a clear mind, realized Catherine was a walking bucket of red flags. Narcissism being the biggest of them. Most of her other issues stemmed from that. Slightly delusional, overestimating her competence, embellishing her accomplishments (verified with a quick internet search and a helpful Wikipedia article). While she was skilled at reading body language and grasping underlying motives, she wasn’t always accurate, and she rejected the notion that she was anything but, no matter what evidence to the contrary was presented.
So yeah, classic narcissist.
Wonderful.
These ghosts are literally living rent-free in my head, and I don’t know how long I can take it.
---
“Boy,” Nurmueth’s gravelly voice called out to him.
Greg turned from his laptop where he had been brainstorming what magic he might be able to sell, either as enchanted items or spell services for the past few hours. “What?”
“You should get your future read.”
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“Huh?”
The fox chuffed, “Do not make me repeat myself, I very well know you heard me the first time.”
Greg sighed. The old fox was always like this, like some kind of wise mentor that dispensed words of wisdom like they were nuggets of gold. They got cranky when not taken seriously. Greg thought for a moment. What kind of response is Mr. Miyagi looking for? He asked, “Are you implying the future is not pre-determined?” It was pure philosophical bullshit, but he was sure Nurmueth would take the bait.
The fox grinned. Yup, gottem, Greg thought. “Correct. Now, this won’t take much of your time, and it’s relatively simple to perform…”
---
Automatic Writing. A séance where the medium channels a ghost, which then possess the medium and writes out information on a sheet of paper. According to Nurmueth, it’s a very flexible séance, and with Greg’s aptitude, pulling a bit of knowledge from the future, while extremely taxing on the existence of the medium, will be much easier than for most.
Greg wasn’t sure the risk of suddenly not existing anymore was worth the potential gains, but the very idea of peering into the future was just too exciting for him to pass up. And, despite Nurmueth’s potentially addled mind, Greg was confident that they knew what they were talking about when they had assessed Greg’s capabilities.
Kind of a hell of a thing to gloss over, in Greg’s opinion, but whatever.
It would be fine. Probably.
Anyways!
The materials were shockingly basic-bitch-tier for what all could be accomplished with the séance. Paper and pencil, obviously; a memento of a departed family member (at least three generations separated from the medium); a tablespoon each of peppermint and ochre, lightly mixed in a small silver bowl (actually, it just has to be reflective, not silver); and a totem (trinket, knick-knack, whatever. Just needs to be palm-sized) that can be regarded as symbolizing the future (in this case, Greg chose to pull up a tech article on his phone that talked about some new development in the field of AI).
Surprisingly, Nurmueth confirmed that last item would work.
Thus, with all the materials gathered, Greg sat at the kitchen table, taking deep breaths to calm his excited heart down.
He began by smearing the ochre-peppermint mixture across the backs of his hands, drawing a pattern that Nurmueth had demonstrated earlier.
Then, with one hand cupping the memento, the other clutching the totem (phone), Greg began to Call.
Nurmueth had likened it to singing. One’s Intent reaching out to touch the Impact of others; a call-and-response. Though, in Greg’s case, he treated it more in line with its namesake. He Called out, packing his Intent with as much conviction and clarity and purpose as he could in one burst, and then maintained it. A single, sustained note, rather than a rhythm or lyric.
And he waited.
Before long, though Greg could not tell how long, he felt a presence descend, hovering just over his shoulder. He examined it without looking. Felt without touching. It was not hostile and harbored no ill intentions. It was curious, if not amused. It asked for permission, and Greg gave it.
---
Taz watched on, ready to intervene if something went wrong. Hellfire primed, just barely kept from manifestation. He wasn’t sure if it would burn the ghost, but judging by the fearful looks he was given by Nurmueth and Catherine, he was willing to be it would be effective where it hadn’t with spirits.
Greg’s eyes rolled back. He let go of the memento and totem, and grabbed the pencil, hunching over the table. For the next several minutes, the sound of an unhurried hand adding words to a page was the only noise heard throughout the apartment.
---
Hand cramps were the first thing Greg felt as he regained consciousness. He blinked, his eyes suffering from strain. He dropped the pencil and leaned back in his seat.
“Did it work?” he asked.
Taz replied, “Take a look for yourself.”
Greg took a moment to think. What would he find? Cryptic bullshit? Something actionable? A warning? Really, it could be any number of things. Might as well rip the bandaid off. Greg sat back up and stared down at the sheet of paper in front of him.
---
> A future in flux, hidden by the fog of indecision.
>
> Beware the poultry, for it hides behind a disguise of innocence and a veneer of indolence.
>
> The noose tightens.
>
> Two forces move in shadows, one seeking the light, the other seeks to smother the former in the cradle.
>
> Home and hearth are you sanctuary, seek it in times of distress.
>
> The noose grows taught.
>
> Those that failed to collect you have not forgotten you. They will descend upon you with violence and death.
>
> The past is not fully known to you, seek out answers before it is too late.
>
> The noose constricts, and the neck snaps. Death comes to collect its due.
>
>
>
> P.S. Brush your teeth, your breath stinks and your mouth tastes like room-temperature milk.
---
“Rude,” Greg snorted.
There was… a lot to unpack here. Something about chickens? The “noose tightens” is obviously some sort of warning of an impending death, probably related to the mysterious figures that “will descend upon you with violence and death.” Speaking of which…
“What the fuck?”
Greg felt numb. If he was understanding this correctly…
He looked up at Taz, a storm of emotions whirling within him; fear, despair, regret, dawning-horror. “It wasn’t an accident,” he was somehow able to force out the words. “It wasn’t…”
Taz came over and peered over his shoulder, reading the page. Greg simply sat there, numb.
“Hm,” Taz said, as he finished reading.
“They didn’t have to die,” Greg said sadly.
Taz didn’t try to correct him or say that it might not mean what he thinks it does. He simply kept his hands on Greg’s shoulders, a comforting presence.