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Part Four

Near midnight, the ghosts grew suddenly restless. To Buffy, it seemed as if their activity increased with the tempo of the storm. As the wind picked up speed outside, books would randomly fly off of their shelves, banging into walls or falling to the hardwood floor with a crack. Lamps would topple, sounding in time with the groaning of the trees outside. Sometimes the faint outline of a face would appear in the far shadows of the room, its dead gaze flickering in the dim candlelight.

It was about to drive Buffy mad.

While the storm obviously made Spike uncomfortable, the ghosts didn’t appear to concern him much. They annoyed him but didn’t seem to frighten him in the least. His attention was drawn instead to the creaking of the house, as it seemed to almost stretch and bow over under the weight of the wind. When he wasn’t staring anxiously at the eastern wall of the house, he busied himself with drinking, tinkering nervously at the piano, or reading from one of the books the ghosts had tossed his way. Sometimes he did all three at the same time.

Buffy couldn’t concentrate on anything. The book Spike had set in front of her remained unopened. Next to it was the game of Solitaire her nerves had kept her from finishing. She sat in a dim circle afforded by a single candle, clutching a blanket so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She shivered even though she was far from cold. The only thing she seemed capable of doing was thinking – and none of her thoughts were particularly comforting.

She couldn’t figure out why she was so afraid. Fear wasn’t a sensation she was used to, not unless she was facing down a god or the original source of evil in the world. A hurricane or a ghost hardly matched the might of Glory or The First – so why did Buffy feel so afraid? It took her a while to figure it out, but when she glanced at Spike’s back, seeing the way it was turned resolutely against her, she finally pinpointed the real problem – and it just about scared her to death.

She was alone.

Even through the darkest times of her life, Buffy had never been truly alone. Sure, there was a certain amount of isolation that came with the Slayer job description, particularly when it came to the bigger fights – but she had her physical strength to make up for that. In her everyday life, however, she had always had people around to support her, even when she didn’t want them there. Her parents had been there when she was young, then Giles and the Scoobies had come along. Angel had been there, too, for a time. And then of course, there was Spike. During that horribly dark period of her life, he’d been there for her the only way he thought she’d let him. He’d continued to stand by her side until he burned to ashes.

But that was a long time ago.

He was sitting only five feet away from her now, but it wasn’t the same. The rift between them might as well have been a literal chasm. Physical proximity had nothing to do with it. She had made it clear that he wasn’t allowed the privilege of closeness with her anymore. It was meant to be a punishment to him – only now she discovered she was also suffering from it. A big part of her wanted to ask him to come sit by her and maybe talk to her like he used to, but pride was a difficult thing to swallow. And the fact that he’d stopped trying to communicate made her even angrier. It was turning into a vicious cycle, spinning and churning like the storm overhead.

On the coffee table in front of her, the last candle in the room blew out, casting the parlor into complete darkness. It hadn’t been the first time that evening that it had done so. The ghosts seemed intent on leaving them in the dark. Candle after candle had gone out, and Spike had finally given up trying to keep them all going.

“Could you relight it?” Buffy asked Spike, clutching the blanket tighter to her chest. “You’re the one with the lighter.”

“What’s the use?” asked Spike, not budging from his place on the piano bench. His tone was tired and annoyed. The storm was wearing on him. “The ghosts’ll just blow it out again. ‘Sides you’re not doing anything but sitting. Don’t need light for that, do you?”

“That’s not the point,” she argued. “And what about you? Weren’t you reading?”

“Vampire, remember? Can see the words in the dark if I squint hard enough.”

“Just give me the damn lighter, Spike. I’ll do it myself.”

She heard him sigh and get to his feet. His boots thumped loudly on the hardwood floor as he crossed the parlor – he wasn’t the stealthiest vampire when he was annoyed. There was a flicking sound that she barely heard over the shriek of the wind, and a tiny flame spouted from Spike’s lighter – only to be blown out a split second later.

He muttered a curse, trying to get the lighter going again and again. “Damn thing won’t stay lit. Oy, stop that!” he called to the ghosts. “What’s the harm of a little candle? Girl doesn’t like the dark, see? Not doing you any harm.”

Fear had gathered into a tight knot in Buffy’s stomach. “Why are they doing this?”

“Hell if I know,” he replied, flicking his lighter shut. “Dunno what to tell you, Slayer. Looks like we’re in the dark until they get tired of playing games.”

“Great,” she muttered, burying her face in the blanket. “Just when I thought this night couldn’t get any better. What’s next? Pianos flying across the room?”

Spike threw himself down on the couch beside her. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be giving them ideas.”

They grew quiet then and listened to the storm together. If there was thunder, Buffy didn’t hear it – the winds shrieked and whistled louder than any thunder she’d ever heard. The rain sounded uncomfortably close, as if it was falling right there in parlor around them. “Shingles must all be gone,” Spike noted. “Rain’s hamming right on the wood, now.”

Something hit the side of the house with such force, the floor and walls vibrated and shuddered. Somewhere in the foyer, a frame fell off the wall and the glass shattered when it hit the floor. “Our rental car isn’t going to make it through this, is it?” Buffy asked timidly, afraid to hear the answer.

Spike snorted. “Lovely thing, insurance.”

Another piece of debris hit the house, and the chandelier began to sway. “I didn’t know it would be like this. Are you sure we’re safe in this room?”

“Not really, no.”

Her jaw dropped. “Spike.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, getting defensive and piqued. “I’m no expert at these things, you know. Did everything I know to do and guessed at the rest. Whole bloody house is a trap if you ask me. If the roof and walls make it, we still might have to deal with flooding before the night’s over.”

Buffy stared at his profile, barely visible in the darkness. “You’re really good at this reassurance thing. Did you know?”

“Wasn’t trying to reassure you. Just telling you the truth. Want me to lie?”

“Yes,” she said mechanically. “Yes, I do.”

She froze when his hand closed over her wrist. She could feel his eyes on her, glittering in the darkness, burning with gravity. “Relax, Slayer,” he said in a low tone that was probably meant to be soothing. Instead it made her want to cry. “We’re gonna be fine, yeah? No need for me to lie.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Yeah, actually I do.”

“Then why do you keep talking about traps and floods and then start staring at the ceiling like it’s about to come crashing in on us? It’s not helping me feel better about things. God, I need another drink.”

A glass flew across the room, unseen by Buffy’s eyes, and smashed into the wall. “Sure about that, Slayer?” asked Spike, bemused. “Ghosts appear to be teetotalers.”

“I don’t care. I need something to help me calm down.”

Spike rose from the couch and went for the open wine bottle on the piano without another word. Buffy found his attentiveness surprising and a bit out of character. She didn’t mention any of that to him, though. If he wanted to act civil toward her, she certainly wasn’t going to complain. As he poured her a glass, she retrieved his lighter from the coffee table and tried to get it to light. Spike might be okay with sitting in the dark, but she certainly wasn’t.

On the fifth try, a weak flame appeared. “There!” she said, bringing it to the candle with a triumphant smile. She looked up, her pupils huge in the dim candlelight.

One of the ghosts – the man – was standing next to her, looming impossibly tall over her seated form. His eyes were bottomless wells of darkness, burning into her like acid. His lips moved wordlessly, revealing a black hole of a mouth that made no sound. He didn’t have to speak. It was obvious to Buffy he wanted her gone. The man drew his hand back, and she saw the glimmer of candlelight flashing off of a mirror as it flew from the wall.

And smashed directly into Buffy’s surprised face.

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To be continued.





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