Controlling objects takes an incredible amount of concentration. The ability can be amplified through various means, but generally, a single ghost is limited in what they can do to affect the physical realm.
In numbers, the ability grows stronger. The more ghosts present, the more they can accomplish.
Even so, there are limits. And that’s just with objects.
Controlling the living is more difficult.
It takes them a minute or so of combined effort to wake Beecher. His eyes flutter open, confused. Keller smiles.
Hey, baby.
Toby sits up easily, without much persuasion from those present. Slides out of the bunk, walks over to the sink, all of his own volition. He splashes some water on his face, stares at himself in the mirror.
The next part is where it gets tricky.
His hand reaches out, slowly, with little jerky movements. His fingers touch the bottom of the shelf below the mirror, where the shank is hidden.
There, they stop. Toby’s breath quickens, his fingers tightening their grip on the edge of the shelf as he resists.
“Come on, baby,” Keller whispers.
Slowly, painstakingly slowly, he pulls the shank free of the tape holding it down. Grips it in his hand, eyes now wide with fear.
Come ooon.
Controlling the living is difficult, and his Toby’s a fighter. But 13 to 1 (or even 4) is no contest, and inch by inch, the shank is raised to his throat.
“You can still stop this,” Said murmurs, without looking away. His entire body is rigid, the full force of his concentration aiding Beecher’s resistance. Keller says nothing.
I can’t.
“Yo, this is fucked up, man,” Omar whines. Keller can’t feel any energy coming off him; he seems like he’s in shock. 13 to 3.
“Shut the fuck up.” Guenzel and Vern respond, almost simultaneously – Vern with a slur tacked on at the end.
“Beecher’s good people. Why are we doing this?”
“I said shut up.” Only Guenzel, this time.
The blade reaches Toby’s throat, hovers just above the skin. He’s hyperventilating now. “Keller,” he croaks, and Keller feels a surge of emotion.
He knows. Of course he knows.
Keller steps forward, his hands resting as close to atop Toby’s shoulders as he can get.
“I’m here, Toby,” he says. “Always have been.”
“You...have...to.” He chokes out the words, trying to focus on keeping the shank from touching him. “Let...me...live.” His eyes swim with tears.
I can’t.
The blade presses into his flesh. Toby gasps. Vern inhales sharply.
“Come on, sweet pea.”
Everything freezes for a moment. Toby stares at his reflection, holding the shank to his throat. His gaze drifts, and it’s like he’s looking right at Keller stood behind him. Keller smiles, kisses his cheek.
The only thing that matters is you and me.
Then, suddenly, his eyes close. A single tear falls, tracks down his cheek.
And the blade rips across his throat, tearing it open.
A collective sigh from the room as the psychic energy drops. A little cry from Omar. A surprised sniff from Torquemada. A triumphant laugh from Vern.
Toby, I’ve got a plan.
He falls to the floor, dark blood pouring from the open wound – Said and Keller both follow him down. “Toby, Toby,” Keller croons, cradling him as best he can. Said’s gaze is pained as he looks down at Beecher, his hand uselessly stroking his forehead.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’ll be over soon.”
Toby coughs up blood, his chest heaving with panicked breaths.
A way to get Schillinger out of our lives forever.
“What’d I tell you, Tobes?” Keller leans in, another kiss planted on Toby’s unfeeling lips. Toby’s eyes stare vacantly at the ceiling as the life slowly drains from them. “I can’t live without you.”
In this life or the next.
He watches Toby’s breaths slow. He hears the rattle in his throat as the last one escapes.
And then, it’s over. His lover lies still.
Above him, Vern laughs again.
“Good riddance.”
He blinks out of existence. As expected.
The other Aryans follow, along with Andrew and Guenzel. Keller doesn’t look back to check, but he assumes Metzger’s gone with them.
All of their enemies passed on, now – their business on Earth finished.
At last.
Keller glances down at Toby expectantly.
Come on, baby.
Hernandez and Schibetta step into the pod. “He dead?” Hernandez asks.
“Looks like it,” Stanislofsky responds. He sighs. “A shame.”
Toby isn’t breathing, isn’t moving. His eyes remain closed.
Something’s wrong.
“Pleasure doing business with you gentlemen,” Schibetta says. “You ever need any help whacking anybody else, you know who to call.” They leave. Stanislofsky turns to follow them, then hesitates.
“Sorry I couldn’t have been more of service,” he says, addressing Said, who doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge him – like Keller, his gaze is fixed on the body. The Russian smiles slightly. “It was an interesting experiment, though.” He makes his exit.
Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.
“Why ain’t he getting up?” Omar whimpers. His hands are pressed to the side of his head like he’s holding it together. “Get up, Beecher.”
“Toby,” Keller says softly, an edge of desperation in his voice. “Hey. Tobes.”
He should have gotten up, by now.
“Doesn’t happen for everybody,” Torquemada says quietly. “You know that.”
Not everybody becomes a ghost. People with a strong belief in the afterlife, people at relative peace with their lives, their deaths – most of them don’t hang around, just pass on immediately.
But Beecher...
“You got no fucking business being at peace,” Keller hisses. He tries unsuccessfully to shake Beecher’s corpse. “You wake the fuck up, Toby.”
“Keller.” Said’s voice is hollow. “It’s over.”
“It’s not fucking over. Toby. Get the fuck up.”
Don’t you see? I did what I did out of love.
Toby remains still. The tape rewinds further.
You don’t know me at all.
Keller slams his fist into the floor, casting his rage out into the room. The mirror cracks, and half the items on the shelf clatter to the ground. Alvarez wakes up with a start.
“What the fuck?” He sees Beecher on the ground, throat slashed open, shank still in his hand. “Oh, fuck. Jesus. Oh fuck!” Alvarez slides to the floor, scooping up Beecher in his arms, hands pressed uselessly against the wound. “Fuck! Fuck!”
On a sudden, sadistic impulse, Keller projects all his pain and anger into Alvarez, amplifying his existing panic. Alvarez’ body shakes, and he grips the sides of his head like Omar, rocking back and forth.
“Stop it,” Torquemada mutters. Keller can feel him trying to calm Alvarez down, and it makes him angrier.
“Oh, now you wanna get involved? Hey.” He focuses on Alvarez. “Watch this, you freak.”
Alvarez’s fingers close around the shank. Torquemada’s eyes widen slightly.
“I said fucking stop it,” he snaps.
“Not enjoying the fucking show anymore? Me, I think it’s time for an encore.”
“Keller,” Said threatens, adding his own energy to the mix. Keller laughs bitterly.
“Okay, 2 against 2? You’re on.”
Keller digs deep inside himself, taps into the well of unending hatred that opened up like the Grand Canyon that day back in Lardner. 17 years old, Vern Schillinger’s cruel smile beckoning him.
You can come over here, or I can drag you over here myself. Up to you, prag.
Alvarez isn’t Beecher. Beecher never cut himself open. Beecher never stuck his head in a noose.
Aren’t you tired?
The hand holding the shank twitches slightly. Keller grins.
“Stanislofsky was right. Pretty fucking in –”
Torquemada steps into Keller, and Alvarez’s body goes limp.
Cast into the void, a world of frozen anguish. All-encompassing darkness. All-encompassing pain. Every non-existent nerve ending activated times a thousand, eternal torment. He can hear someone screaming, and distantly recognises it as his own voice.
This is hell, he thinks. I’ve finally gone to fucking hell.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts, doesn’t know how long it takes him to come to his senses once it ends. When he does, he sees Said crouched next to Alvarez, attempting to soothe him as he sobs in the corner. Omar pacing back and forth. Torquemada crumpled on the floor.
Toby still lying there, cold and empty. At peace.
“Fuck you.” Keller’s voice is thin, raspy. “Fuck all of you.”
The hacks are breaking into the pod now, surrounding Beecher’s body. Murphy’s calling for the hospital, Mineo’s shaking his head. One of them grabs Alvarez, tries to pull him up – he screams and struggles. Torquemada reaches for him weakly, then his hand falls, limp.
“Fucking hell,” Keller hears Murphy say, “first O’Reily, now Beecher. What the fuck is going on?”
Mineo shrugs.
“Full moon.”
They’re taking Beecher now, and Keller reaches out too, but he’s likewise drained, so tired. So very fucking tired.
Nothing’s changed, Chris.
He can’t take it anymore, and steps through the wall, out of the pod.
You are death.