75 Godiva Street, Thursday night
Eliot was gasping by the time he reached his front door, his nose bleeding from the effort of keeping Johnny Bartlett at bay. The entire way home the dead serial killer had pointed out every single thing that could be used as a deadly weapon, describing in great, bloody detail how he would murder every person, or even any vaguely person shaped shadow, that they passed.
It was digging up some old memories, things Eliot hadn't so much repressed as repented, daily and continuously. More than that, it was bringing up the tormented joy that had once accompanied them.
Eliot staggered inside, throwing the door closed and throwing every one of the half dozen deadbolts on it and setting the alarm system, none of which would stop Johnny if he got loose, but would at least slow him down a little.
Come on, Johnny whispered seductively. You'll enjoy it. I can tell.
Eliot headed for his tool chest, pressing his hand into the pinprick wounds on his chest. It didn't take him long to recognize a pattern. Getting thrown into the wall at the diner. The werewolf's claws. Johnny wasn't good at pain. Pain made Johnny weak.
I'm not going to let you kill anyone.
Johnny snorted, and Eliot felt a strange pulling sensation as the ghost decided to leave his body. He grit his teeth and pressed harder into his chest, making Johnny howl and shrink back in.
I'm not going to let you out, either.
Eliot pulled a utility knife and a pair of heavy duty, reinforced handcuffs from his tool box and locked his own wrist to the radiator. He sat down on the floor, wincing as the action put pressure on what were going to be some spectacular bruises, and settled in for a very, very long night.
[establishy. Since the new flist view doesn't show cut text, I'll repeat the content note here: there is self-harm in this post.]
It was digging up some old memories, things Eliot hadn't so much repressed as repented, daily and continuously. More than that, it was bringing up the tormented joy that had once accompanied them.
Eliot staggered inside, throwing the door closed and throwing every one of the half dozen deadbolts on it and setting the alarm system, none of which would stop Johnny if he got loose, but would at least slow him down a little.
Come on, Johnny whispered seductively. You'll enjoy it. I can tell.
Eliot headed for his tool chest, pressing his hand into the pinprick wounds on his chest. It didn't take him long to recognize a pattern. Getting thrown into the wall at the diner. The werewolf's claws. Johnny wasn't good at pain. Pain made Johnny weak.
I'm not going to let you kill anyone.
Johnny snorted, and Eliot felt a strange pulling sensation as the ghost decided to leave his body. He grit his teeth and pressed harder into his chest, making Johnny howl and shrink back in.
I'm not going to let you out, either.
Eliot pulled a utility knife and a pair of heavy duty, reinforced handcuffs from his tool box and locked his own wrist to the radiator. He sat down on the floor, wincing as the action put pressure on what were going to be some spectacular bruises, and settled in for a very, very long night.
[establishy. Since the new flist view doesn't show cut text, I'll repeat the content note here: there is self-harm in this post.]