8. Chapter 8 (1/2)

a/n: final chapter! sorry it took so long for me to get here! i've really had fun writing this. hope you enjoy!

though george's rare instance of good aim had, in fact, taken care of the primary haunting, the secondary visitors were another story. the absence of their collective murderer seemed to bolster them; their forms regained their previous radiance and their voices swelled. they eyed us hungrily, inching ever closely to the chain circle.

"we've got to get out of here now!" i yelled. "the visitor could reform at any moment!"

"there's so many of them," cried george. "how are we going to get past them all?!"

"plan j!" lockwood yelled, "execute plan j!"

"plan j?!"

"what the hell is plan j?!"

"oh, for the love of—do none of you listen during strategy training?!"

"um—"

"don't answer that! look, just get behind me, both of you! i'll cut a path forward, and both of you stay behind me. lucy, to my left. george, to my right. defend the sides and back. ready on three!"

george and i scrambled into place, rapiers raised, iron canisters clutched in our spare hands.

"one!" lockwood slashed his rapier through the air, cutting a woman with rollers in her hair in half.

"two!" george and i swiped our rapiers through the ghosts on either side of the newly dissipated apparition, then

aced ourselves.

"three! go, go, go!"

we were off, george and i walking almost backward, slashing and parrying, our swords whirring through the air.

disembodied faces rushed at us. ghostly arms reached for out, fingers attempting to grasp us, hold tight. we hacked frantically through them all, half-walking, half-running towards the exit. i hoped to god that none of us had been ghost-touched, but with the burning chill of the house, it was hard to tell the difference between a ghostly em

ace and the choking, cold air. gray wisps of things surged past me. i slashed and parried, panting, slashed and parried, twisting ward-knots in the air with my rapier.

"cover me!" yelled lockwood. by some miracle, we'd reached the door. lockwood was fumbling with the doorknob. george and i turned fully to face the onslaught, the apparitions pouring from every corner of the house to rush at us, to hem us in, to entrap us in the same fate they'd been doomed to suffer all these years. i threw down my canister, spilling iron filings in a line in front of us, simultaneously

inging up my rapier and stabbing through the leering face of a lanky old man reaching for my neck. i slashed and hacked some more, panting with exertion, feeling the sweat dripping down my neck. beside me, george was panting, too, his face set in a snarl as he stabbed and hacked his way through the onrush of ghosts.

and then, suddenly, we were stumbling through the door, barreling down the porch, crossing the property line and seeking refuge in the

ight white circle of light cast by the ghost-lamp in the street.

from here, the little unassuming cottage was lit up, its windows and open front door suffused with greens, blues, and violets. as i watched, a pale blue wisp of a ghost tried in vain to follow our path down the porch but was promptly sucked back into the house. it was as we'd hoped; the haunting was too local. we were safe, beyond the house's influence, too far for any of them to reach.

we stood there awhile, panting, shaking, feeling the sweat cool on our necks, checking ourselves for injury.