Information

Cooke
Legacy Name: Cooke

The

Storm Serpenth
Owner:

Kaela

Age: 10 years, 2 months, 3 weeks

Born: February 8th, 2014

Adopted: 10 years, 2 months, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: February 8th, 2014

Statistics

Level: 1
Strength: 10
Defense: 10
Speed: 10
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 0
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

WESTLEY COOKE, LSM

A potted calathea lies directly in front of the door, soil sprayed out onto the thin carpet. "Seriously? Come on," West grumbles, their hands on their hips. With a sigh, they right the pot and return it to its post next to one of the bookshelves, then retrieve a hand vacuum to clean up most of the dirt. It won't get everything, but it's enough that they can leave it for a proper cleaning later on.

Shaking their head in dismay, they get back on task and take a seat at their desk. Seven new consultation requests clutter West’s inbox, even though they’d only been gone an hour. Most of them begin with some variation of “I’m normally a rational person, but…” But nobody else has been able to help me. But I have no other options. But I’m desperate.

They jot down a couple notes in the notebook beside their elbow and reply to three of the emails. Three of the others are pranks – you know how to spot them after a while – and the last two simply aren’t worth their time. They’re a busy person, after all.

They shut the laptop and stow the notepad into the desk’s top drawer. From the file organizer in the bottom drawer they retrieve a thin folder freshly labelled MARKOWITZ, J. It only contains the page of notes she’d taken when they spoke on the phone earlier that week and a blank copy of their standard agreements. They scan through the notes to refresh on the most basic information they were able to gather, and by then they need to get going once again. The file goes into their trusty messenger bag, slid into a side pocket to protect it from all the other equipment stuffed through the rest of the bag.

Brushing their hands off, they look around the office, taking just a moment to ground themself. A loveseat and wingback armchair angle toward each other in front of the desk, a space for her to meet with clients. The wingback is their favorite chair; they found it in a thrift store, had the cushions reupholstered, and deep cleaned the ugly antique print until it looked like new. Outdated, overly busy, and streaked with contrasting colors, but like new.Tapestries drape along the walls, muting the light, except where an ornate mirror hangs in a prominent position across from the seating. Two bookshelves carry only a couple handfuls of books, surrounded by chunks of stones, carvings, and a couple animal skulls. Candles and potted plants scatter on end tables and the corner of their desk. Few of the decorations serve any real purpose, but people expect certain things when they walk into the office of a person like them. And West rather appreciates the air of mysticism it imposes upon people.

They don’t have time right now to enjoy the space they’ve curated like a display case of themself, though. They have a second house call on the schedule, and West is nothing if not rigorously punctual.

Their office is on the second floor, their door at the top of a wood staircase around the corner from the street front. A hand and eye design adorns the door window, the words “Westley Cooke, LSM” arcing above it. Getting the window painted was the first thing they’d done with the paycheck from their first job, nearly four years ago now.

They chained their bike on the side of the street, which gets enough foot traffic during the day that a bike thief would have to be impressively daring to touch it. They tighten their bag strap so it sits comfortably on their back as they swing onto the bike and head off, narrowly veering past a pedestrian as they launch off the sidewalk and into the bike lane.

The client’s address leads them across the river to a more prettily modest neighborhood and into an apartment complex with a maze of covered car lots interconnected with narrow drives and coiling walkways. West circles through twice before finding the right building. They lock up their bike, approach the front door, and wait until their phone turns over to 3:30 pm exactly before ringing the bell.

After a few seconds, a young woman cracks open the door to peek around before opening it wider. West offers her their most professional smile. "Jacquelle, right?" They outstretch their hand to shake, which she does, however briefly. “This is the apartment you believe is haunted?”

"Um, yes. But… most people just call me Jacky. Nice to meet you, Mx. Cooke." She swallows and takes a deep breath. Her hands clasp together in front of her, her shoulders folding in and reducing the space she takes up as much as possible. "And in the past few days, things have changed. I… definitely need your help."

West frowns. "Changed? It’s gotten worse?" They step inside as Jacky gestures for them and pauses in the doorway. A cold tickle dances up their lower back; a low pulse of dread thumps at their temples, encouraging them to turn and leave. Well. There’s definitely something here.

"Not exactly. I mean, it's all pretty much the same, except. I saw him. The… ghost." Jacky leads her down a short hall to the kitchen, which is small but comfortable, populated with little cow statues and magnets, cows on jars labelled for flour and sugar, cows everywhere.

West draws short, diving one hand into their bag for a notepad and pen. "A full body, or just a face?"

"His whole body. And--"

"Full body apparitions are rare, especially with how relatively little activity you've seen otherwise. What did it look like? For how long did it apparate?"

"Only a couple seconds. It… he was my boyfriend, Tristan."

West blinks. Stares at her. "Your boyfriend."

"Yes, he got sick last year, and… and died, three months ago. Then all this started happening a couple weeks ago." She hugs herself tight and drops her gaze down to her feet.

"Spirits don't usually get this strong, if there was nothing violently traumatic or unresolved about his death. Demonic entities, however, often take advantage of emotional distress and can appear as the deceased and loved ones." West lays Jacky’s file out on the island counter and removes the page containing their fee breakdown from the contract. She loosens her grip on the counter to take it. "Demons are a bit more complicated, so this is a good time to review my pricing."

"I don't know, Mx. Cooke, he hasn't actually tried to hurt me or-- are you kidding me?" Jacky stares at the page for another second before dragging her gaze back up to West. "This is… a lot higher than the others."

West shrugs and levels a frank gaze at her. "The 'others' are not licensed by the most renowned medium and psychic network in the country, I assume. You're welcome to go work with them, if you want to risk getting scammed."

Jacky sighs, heavily, beginning to thaw out of her stiff nervousness with a healthy dose of irritation. "You don't have to be like that, you're already here. Where do I have to sign?" With a little flourish, West turns the file around on the island so Jacky can spare the rest of the contract a brief glance and sign at the bottom with the pen West provides. “Can I get a copy of this?”

“Of course. I'll email it to you.” West signs their own name beneath Jacky’s and closes the folder over it. “Now, I want to look around." Jacky shrugs and gestures with a wave of her hand.

West wastes no time poking their way through Jacky’s apartment. She trails behind a few paces, largely silent, ever with a thoughtful frown and wary eyes. The living room hangs off the side of the kitchen, connected with a wide doorless entry, and loops back to connect with the hall. They poke their head briefly into the bathroom, open a storage closet, and finally find their way to the bedroom. It's spacious enough and decorated in soft pastels, with a walk-in closet and a full bed flanked on both sides with matching tables.

"This is where I saw him, over there." Jacky points to the far corner. "I was bringing laundry back and he was just standing there."

West takes two steps into the middle of the room and closes their eyes. Breathes deep and slow. The weight of animosity bears harder down on them, prickling their neck and arms with a chill and leaving the taste of ash on the back of their tongue. "Who's here?" they ask, "I'm not leaving until we get some answers. What do you want?"

Nothing. They beckon to Jacky, who shuffles forward obediently, and on West's lead they both sit on the floor, facing each other. "It doesn't want me here," they explain. "Have you felt like it's trying to drive you out? Or make you do something else?"

"No? I mean, not as far as I can tell." She repositions herself on the floor to get more comfortable. "What are we doing?"

"I'm going to try and talk to it." West produces a notebook and pen from her bag, then a mirror carefully protected in bubble wrap that they set aside. "Every medium is a little different. Reflective surfaces have always worked best for me to build a connection."

Jacky's eyes widen. "You just said he-- it doesn't like you, are you sure talking to it is a good idea?"

"Please, what's it going to do, possess me?" West scoffs, laying the mirror flat on the ground in front of them and placing her palm on top of it. "That only happened once. Now be quiet." Whatever objection Jacky began to raise, she strangles it quickly on West's command, making nothing more than an indignant squeak before giving West the silence they need.

With their eyes closed, they slow their breathing and let their mind fall open. They’d always been too sensitive as a child, had to make sense of the things they saw and heard and felt, had to learn through trial and error in middle school how to guard themself from spirits and unseen forces.

Exposing their senses to spiritual manifestations is simply a matter of relaxing into it. Whatever unwelcoming presence has been nudging at the back of their mind hovers close, nearly shocking them out of their focus. They take another slow breath and say in a conversational tone, “We would like to speak with whoever is in this room with us. Can you tell me your name? Or why you’re here?”

A whiff of stale roses permeates the room. West feels the presence move, shifting closer to Jacky. Jacky gasps. The glass under West’s palm goes ice cold. They hiss and recoil their hand, eyes opening on reflex. The lights have gone out, shadows pooling long in the dim bruised darkness. And between them and Jacky, a haze of darkness like contained smoke crouches in a vaguely human shape. It has no features, no face, but West can feel a steady gaze meeting their own when the head swivels away from Jacky to them.

Demons play games and tricks. Demons don’t appear outright in front of you. West struggles to swallow with a dried-out throat and sits up straighter. “Who are you?” they demand. It leans forward, then collapses into formless mist and dissipates. As it goes, the breath of rushing air passes their ears, forming a whispered, “Tristan.”

West doesn’t move an inch until her heart rate returns to something closer to steady. “Whoa,” they whisper, then clears their throat and tries again, less hoarsely, “That… doesn’t usually happen.”

Jacky doesn’t respond right away, still staring at the place the shadow had been. “Was it him?” she whispers, “Did he say anything?”

“All it said was ‘Tristan.’” They sit up straighter again, rubbing their own upper arms to dispel the last of the chill. “That was… very surprising. Okay, we should get started on cleansing this place, we’ll start with some basics and work our way through--”

A clatter near the closest bedside table interrupts them. Jacky leaps to her feet and scurries over, gasping a soft, “oh,” as she picks up a fallen picture frame. “This is him,” she says, holding up the photo. A man with thick swooping hair and dark blue eyes grins out beside Jacky’s face. “Did he look like this?”

“It didn’t really look like anyone.” West stands up, digging into their bag for an oblong chunk of amethyst, a fist-sized jar of salt, and a spray bottle with fresh rosemary and cedarwood oil mixed into the water. "We'll start by spraying this around the room, starting in the far corner there--"

The bedside table shakes, spilling half a dozen or so objects from its surface. The air in the room gasps like it’s being sucked out; “No, no!” it wheezes, “Please!”

“Oh my god, Tristan!” Jacky squeals.

West grinds their teeth together. It created a shadow figure, and still has the energy to manifest an audible voice? They raise the bottle in their left hand and spritz their water directly above their own head, then march toward the furthest corner with the nozzle held out straight in front of them. They only get out a few bursts of mist before Jacky grabs their arm from behind and tugs on them. “Wait, stop!”

“What?” West snaps, rounding on her.

Jacky recoils her grip, but she keeps her feet planted, eyes flashing in the dimness. “Look, he doesn’t want to go! I’ll pay you the full fee, just don’t do this!”

Slowly, they lower their bottle. The atmosphere in the room settles into an uneasy silence, every breath held as Jacky and West watch for the other to break their gaze first. The hostility bearing down on them has eased back, now a buzz of anxiety and wariness at the edges of the room.

“You don’t just… live with an active haunting. And of your dead boyfriend? You know that’s just one new crush away from becoming an absolute nightmare, right?” West arches both their eyebrows.

Jacky juts her chin forward, pursing her lips. “Who says I can’t? We’ll work through it together, like we always have. I may not be a medium, but we can… find a way to communicate.”

“He’s far stronger than an average spirit has any right to be, it’s dangerous to try to interact with him at all. He won’t be Tristan forever, he’s just a big bundle of leftover energy and emotions, he’ll lose composure eventually. At best he’ll fade away into nothing, at worst he’ll lash out.”

“Then I’ll deal with that when it comes.” Jacky crosses her arms.

West scowls at her for another two seconds before throwing their hands into the air in surrender. “Ugh, fine! What do I know, this is just my whole job.” They press forward, forcing their way out of their cornered position between Jacky and the bed. “I’ll charge you for a standard haunting, since I guess it doesn’t seem like a demon after all.” They scoop their bag off the floor and dump their belongings inside, rewrapping the mirror as they stride out of the room.

Jacky’s footsteps hurry to catch up behind them as they return to the kitchen. “But… well, thank you, for your help. I do appreciate it.” She pulls a cell phone from the pocket of her sweater. “Can I just send it to you on this?”

“Sure.” Their folder still lies on the kitchen counter where they’d left it, which West takes and puts away as well. “You know this is a very stupid idea, right?”

“I’ve had worse boyfriends,” Jacky laughs, sobering when West narrows their eyes. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“Keep my number on hand.” West frowns, glancing toward the hallway. The presence lurks somewhere in the dark, but it is no longer apprehensive, only quiet and brooding; West has never felt a spirit sulk before. “Let me… Can I come by and check in every few weeks? I’ve never seen anything like this. I want to know why he’s so strong, where all this energy is coming from. This could be huge for our understanding of spirits and their energy.”

Jacky smiles, a soft, cautious tilt of her lips. “Sure, I think that would be nice. It has been a little lonely around here recently.” She blinks and hesitates, her eyes flickering backward. “Uh, no offense?”

West can’t help it; they laugh. “Yeah, good luck figuring this one out.” Their phone pings with the confirmation of Jacky’s payment. “I’ll give you a call in a few days, I guess, to make sure everything is still… going okay.” With a wave over their shoulder, they exit Jacky’s apartment into the muggy late afternoon.

Jacky and her situation have given West a lot to think about and look into, more than Jacky could understand; in spite of themself, they're eager to get back more thoroughly prepared. They bike back to their office; they have no more appointments for the day, house calls always exhaust them in one way or another, so they'll drop off their equipment and call it a day a couple hours early. The stairs creak under their boots in a familiar, grounding way. Their key fits loosely in the lock, requiring them to jiggle it a few times before it catches and turns.

They place the amethyst and salt on a bookshelf, dump out the contents of the spray bottle, and sort Jacky's file into their filing cabinet of completed cases. The office is muted, the sinking orange sunlight diffused through the shades over the window behind her desk. West breathes deep, already beginning to feel better, though a long hot shower and junk food for dinner will do wonders.

The final thing they do before leaving is clean the mirror on the eastern wall. They fetch a rag and glass cleaner from the bathroom and start by wiping down the frame, working into all the little notches and crevices made by the twists and weaves carved into the design. The frame is burnished brass, sporting a few nicks here and there from its long life but still just as impressive as when it had a place in West's childhood home.

A smell like dust and wet dirt leaks around her, cloying deep in her nose. A flicker catches West's attention, drawing their eye up to the glass. Directly behind them stands a hazy figure, defined just enough to look like West, except a little skinnier, hair a couple inches shorter and still natural blond. Half its face is missing, melting away into a fine mist. It peers at West unblinking.

They sigh, then smile into the glass. "I'll tell you about what happened tomorrow," they promise. "You're not going to believe it."

It opens its mouth like it's going to say something, but all that comes out is a pitiful groan. West swallows and curls one hand into a fist, resting their knuckles against the mirror. The figure gapes and doesn’t react for a beat, then slowly, its hand raises limply. Goosebumps rise on West’s arm as its hand hovers over theirs, superimposing itself on their reflection. Its fingers don’t curl tight, and it holds its wrist at an awkward angle, but it presses its knuckles against West’s. “Boom,” they whisper, flashing their hand open as they withdraw it, and the figure opens its own hand palm-forward in a sluggish imitation.

“See you in the morning.” Above the mirror, a silk curtain is pinned to the wall and held up by a cord, and West pulls the cord to drape it down over the mirror. As the silk falls across the mirror, the figure is already gone. West smooths out the curtain, lingering over the soothing coolness, and finally tears themself away to head home for the night. They're going to be awake for a long time, stewing. Maybe Jacky and Tristan can provide insight into how spirits accumulate and retain their energy, where it comes from and how it keeps them sentient. Maybe its replicable, or at least transferrable.

West locks the office door as they leave with a smile.