Disclaimer: I do not own Thirteen Ghosts, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to Dark Castle Entertainment, Warner Brothers, and their respected owners.

In Pieces

Chapter One

October 26th, 2013

Helena, Montana

Thirteen years later

…

The misery I know
Like a friend that won't let go
Is creeping up on me now once again

So I sing this song tonight
To the ghost that will not die
And somehow it seems to haunt me till the end

Do you feel the same
For what was remained
Yesterday is gone, we can't go back again
Do you ever cry for the ghost of days gone by

I remember summer days
We were young and unafraid
With innocence we'd glide beneath the stars

It seems so long ago
Beyond the life that I now know
Before the years would have their way and break my heart

Do you feel the same
For what was remained
Yesterday is gone, we can't go back again
Do you ever cry for the ghost of days gone by

And I know it's drawing closer
With each day I feel the end
I, don't wanna die
Don't wanna die, don't wanna die

I don't wanna die

Do you feel the same
For what was remained
Yesterday is gone, we can't go back again
Do you ever cry for the days gone by
Do they haunt you like a ghost until the end
Haunt you till the end, until the end
Until the end, until the end

"Ghost of Days Gone By" – Alter Bridge

…

"Good character is not formed in a week or a month. It is created little by little, day by day. Protracted and patient effort is needed to develop good character." – Heraclitus

…

"Okay, Tom, just tell Mr. Harrison that everything will go smoothly with the transaction between Community Trust and Montana First Financial next week," Kathy said as she pulled into the graveled driveway of her home, just outside of the city. She heard an exasperated sigh on the other end of her Bluetooth as she placed her hunter-green Toyota Highlander into park.

"If you're sure," she heard on the other end of the connection. "You know how Maxwell gets when he thinks someone is gonna have second thoughts and pull out at the last minute. God, I wish you were still here at the office. You're about the only one who can talk him out of jumping from the edge of a cliff."

Kathy visibly grimaced at the comment. In a way, it was true, but still…

"Look, Tom, no one is going to jump off any cliffs—either literally or figuratively—anytime soon. The merger will go through in three weeks. The Recession is pretty much over, and we still have jobs to our names, right? So, stop worrying about next week. Otherwise, I'll have to walk two people away from a cliff," she emphasized with a half-joking laugh.

Hearing a sigh on the other end, she said her good-byes and hung up as she issued her own exhausted sigh. Today had been nothing but a long line of negotiations and making deals behind the scenes. It hadn't been bad, per se, but it had been no less tiring and frustrating for the banks' executives to agree and seal the deal on a potential merger, now made inevitable.

"I think a bubble bath and a glass of champagne are in order for the evening," she murmured quietly to herself, and then glanced at the small, brown paper bag that held a bottle of Korbel Brut champagne.

It had been a while since she'd celebrated like this—completely by herself and enjoying a quiet evening away from her colleagues and work—as she would relax and soak and breathe in the quiet Montana air from her hot tub.

Thinking back briefly on the many rounds of congratulations and the need for people to join together and laugh and chat over a drink, she questioned whether she should've accepted the invitation to go out for a drink. She often joined her colleagues, but she made an exception for herself tonight.

After all, tonight…was…

Turning off the ignition, she expunged the thought. There was no point in having a private celebration if she was going to spend it miserably.

"Kathy, my girl," she said to herself as she glanced once again at the concealed champagne, "You are going to party tonight."

A soft wind met her proclamation, brushing against her cold cheeks, and Kathy smiled, finding a sense of comfort in it.

After all, she had no boyfriend, let alone a family on this side of the States. Her father and brother—who was currently away at college—were living in a small town in Vermont, while the few friends she had were either still in Seattle—where she'd spent her undergrad days at the University of Washington—or scattered among their cozy Philadelphian suburban homes, with jobs and families. Kathy, to her credit, only possessed one of those attributes.

It wasn't the most ideal life, to be thirty-two and single, but there were worse ways to make a living.

For while many women in her position would probably despair over the idea of spending their days, alone and isolated, their youth and marriage prospects dwindling with each subsequent year of self-imposed celibacy, she had come to appreciate life—whatever it handed her—just so long as she saw another day—warm, breathing, and alive.

She shook her head at the thought as she opened her door as she made her way to a warm, quiet house. She briefly took in her surroundings of snow, stone, and pine. The house had a century and ten on it, built as it was at the turn of the century.

The price hadn't been too demanding; the down payment she'd made on it was a quarter of the asking price. Naturally, she had to renovate two out of three of its bedrooms and install new plumbing throughout. The kitchen had to be gutted and rewired for new lighting. She'd also knocked out a wall, so that it had an adjoining dining room.

Overall, she'd spent a year's salary on remodeling her home. Nevertheless, it was a sturdy structure of cobblestone and timber—and well worth the price. It felt like a home—her home.

As she opened the door, she stamped her snow encrusted boots on the rubber mat next to it before removing them completely. A quiet shiver ran down her hands as she adjusted once again to the warmth her home calmly emitted. A dip in the hot tub would soon be in order. Afterward, she would set a fire and enjoy a book next to it as she enjoyed the last of the champagne.

"I really need to begin reading Gone Girl," she said to no one in particular, glancing at the suspense novel on a nearby end table. She'd read Stieg Larsson's original Millennium Trilogy, and desired to continue with what would hopefully be an interesting novel from a new author. After all, it certainly beats out that bondage series. But then again, I also have Dr. Sleep.

Kathy sighed, remembering the book she'd accidently ordered—the one still in its Amazon packaging. While she was far from a horror fan, she'd read The Shining her freshman year of high school and loved it.

Now, seventeen years later, her book club had, somehow, mistakenly sent her the sequel. She'd considered reading it, but a sequel that focused on an older Danny Torrance—one, who survived the traumatizing events of a terrifying winter's night with a murderous father in an isolated hotel—hit a little too close to home.

Maybe she would read it later—at a sunny beach in Florida, perhaps.

The voice in the back of her mind seemed appeased by her decision to forgo reading a dreadful horror sequel as she continued into the kitchen. Mechanically setting her purse on the table, she set the champagne in the fridge, and took a swift glance at the contents of the fridge, She groaned at the sight that met her.

"Really? I've had pasta for most of the week." She hesitated for a moment, staring grimly at the refrigerator as she received a continuous hum from the fridge in response as she mulled over the possibilities of a quiet evening alone. "I don't want pizza, and I've just had enchiladas. Chinese was recent—like last Saturday recent. Ugh. I'm burned out on sushi, too. What should I have tonight? This is supposed to be a special occasion."

She closed the door and looked at the daily quote she'd fashioned from a jumble of magnetic words. Today's had been about patience: Good character is not formed in a week or a month. It is created little by little, day by day. Protracted and patient effort is needed to develop good character. – Heraclitus

She recited it, as was her custom when stressed, and decompressed the pressures her work had subsequently impelled on her for weeks. For now, she considered what she desired most out of her evening.

Thinking for another moment about dinner, she caught something out of the corner of her eye fall from the edge of the kitchen countertop. Warily moving towards it, she frowned as she was met with an opened phonebook with listings of various restaurants in town.

"Strange," she muttered before picking it up. She skimmed through the pages—a copious list of restaurants of various names and hours—and, wait, a moment…

Steffano's.

"I've not had anything from there in ages," she remarked happily to herself, half-shaking her head in perplexity as she thought of the phonebook falling from the countertop in the first place. Perhaps she'd set it too close to the edge? She hadn't thought so, but then everything had been a blur to her for the past week, with the banking merger and Tom's relentless phone calls and panic attacks. The last two weeks at work had been akin to that of a madhouse run by the inmates.

As such, she had doubtlessly bumped something as innocuous as a phonebook one morning in a rush to get to work. Either way, it had been a fortunate coincidence since she intended to make well on her folly and call in for some Italian. She pulled out her iPhone from her purse and dialed a number. The vaguely familiar voice of the restaurant's greeting chimed in her ear.

"Yes, I'd like to place an order for a meatball sub with parmesan, a garden salad with French dressing, and a side of plain chips. Yes. It's Kathy Kriticos on the South End. Yes. Thirty minutes? Yes, that'll be fine. Perfect! Thank you," she chirped before ending the call.

She then pressed the call button again, and stared at the long list of calls she'd missed. Almost everything was business before her conversation with Tom—most of the calls were from him, anyway—and so she resolved to call the others the following Monday. Everyone at the bank was already gone for the day, save for Tom.

However, she noted one phone call that caught her attention.

Dad.

A tired smile rested at the corners of her lips. It had been a couple of weeks since she'd last checked in with him. Conversations with her younger brother, Bobby, were of an even less occurrence since his admittance into graduate school. Somehow, her little brother—a decade younger than she—had received a full scholarship to Johns Hopkins University.

Her father had been beyond ecstatic—the reality that one of his children would attend such a prestigious college—had been beyond his expectations. Kathy, however, while happy and proud of her little brother, was far from surprised by the scholarship. After all, Bobby never flinched from anything dealing with the human body. His peculiar fascination with death had stemmed into a thorough study of human life and how to preserve it.

"Kathy, after I graduate from high school, I'm going to go to a good college and become a brain surgeon," she recalled a younger version of her brother—a gangly thirteen-year-old, who boasted a foray of pimples and a crooked grin—admitting, as he already knew his path in life. He wanted to make a difference in the world, as he would focus on life instead of death. He'd spent too many nights with nightmares about that…place.

Naturally, Kathy encouraged him, given that he poured through every medical textbook and journal the local library possessed. On the rare occasion, he'd even asked to read her biology book, offering to help her with work from her college class. She'd almost taken him up on it, as the inner workings of the human body, cells, and microbes weren't her thing.

After all, her alma mater was a far cry from the medical school her brother attended; for while he learned the ins and outs of the human body, she focused her attention on commerce and finances as she graduated from business school. She initially worked in Seattle, just after her graduation. And, as her father was accustomed to wanting his family close by, had wanted her to move home—well, what he now deemed home in Waterbury, Vermont—for work, but Kathy was reluctant to leave everything that presented a semblance of normalcy that she couldn't find around her family.

She felt a little guilty, especially since her father and brother were disappointed to only see her during the holidays, but she had to do what was best for her mental state. She never told them about the nightmares she still had about that night. Nor did she impart to them the disgust she felt, every time she looked in the mirror.

Absently, her fingers traced the deep lines carved into her cheeks and across her neck. Like her father, the scars left from that night hadn't been superficial. Both had been attacked by the same entity; however, the injuries inflicted on her had been more intentional, as if her attacker had pleasured himself in issuing a primal sense of stripping her of her beauty and innocence. She'd felt absolutely violated by him. Having earned the crude moniker of "Scarface" from a few drunken frat boys, the name spread like wildfire at college.

Kathy's expression darkened. She'd never truly gotten past that night.

Yuh still beautiful, the familiar voice of her conscience echoed with its foreign intonation. When will it evah be true faw ya to finally see it?

She smiled, half-heartedly wanting to believe, but remembering how her appearance had lessened the interests of those who proposed a date with her. Powder and concealer could do little for the deep white lines that traced her face and neck.

At first, she'd tried to hide them with layers of concealer masked by her hair, but soon gave up when she saw people staring at her in class, on the street, and even among the distant relatives who would visit for family functions. Most were polite to her, trying not to stare, but few could manage looking beyond them. The scars had been a burden to bear, an obstruction that prevented her from truly enjoying her college years.

Even now, she noticed her colleagues—most of whom she had known for several years—were still unable to resist the urge to stare.

It's just as well, she figured, as she considered everything she'd done since leaving her life in Pennsylvania behind. In college, she'd attended concerts and tried to enjoy everything campus life had to offer, despite having the secret desire to simply hide in her dorm room, away from everyone. The few friends she'd made wouldn't hear of it, as they'd encouraged her to join them in some campus fun.

She still kept in touch with the handful of friends she'd made; Shay, Jocelyn, Trent, and the Seattle Crew were worth it. They hadn't minded the scars, as the empathized with the horror of an unexpected assault she'd survived.

The story, though relayed in half-truths, had gained a few trusted friends. Although, in turn, it gained her even fewer boyfriends. She'd been continually friend-zoned by even those who were in want of a nice of girlfriend.

Whereas those who looked past the scars had either been desperate or…

She inwardly grimaced.

There was no need to think about that particular incident. It was bad enough that the police had to involve her dad, who naturally panicked when he received a 4:00 A.M. call from the campus police.

Nothing had happened.

She'd survived with only the slightest effect from a date rape drug, followed by a making mental note of never taking another spiked drink from someone again. That included boyfriends who'd barely made it to first base with her.

Even her conscience, ever the faithful fount of wisdom it was, had once urged her to run from her then-boyfriend-of three-week's apartment. She vaguely recalled her conscience's guttural accent, as it screamed at her to lock herself in one of the complex's public bathrooms, and promptly vomit up whatever she'd been given. She'd been all too happy to comply, considering that she would put a firm end to her relationship with a misogynistic, rapist asshole.

It didn't matter that, in the time she retched up foul thing ingested in her stomach, said asshole threatened to break the door down when she refused to unlock it. She couldn't care less about him damaging his hands in the attempt to get in, let alone the commotion he caused when he shouted obscenities about her scars before fighting off his own drug-induced panic of something following him.

In ten minutes' time, he'd been promptly handcuffed and carted off by campus police who believed that one Mark Bryant was clearly out of his mind and tripping on Ecstasy. She herself could barely register anything, dazed as she was by the date rape drug he'd administered to her. She couldn't fathom where she was, much less acknowledge her new ex's claims that something was chasing him, threatening him bodily harm. He'd even claimed that "something" was in pieces in his report.

When the case was closed, Kathy trashed her copy of the report, an EPO served and a permanent suspension from the university to her attacker.

He never her troubled again.

Nevertheless, she hadn't dated anyone seriously after that event; and while she now went on the casual one-time date, simply to appease her friend, Shanna, at work, she was disinclined to pursue anything beyond it. Even her dad, who wished she would find someone, had been reluctant to broach the subject with her, despite the fact the incident had happened a decade ago.

She'd become a self-made woman, wholly independent of ever needing a man.

And, for now, she intended to keep it that way. She wasn't in any rush to settle down and have a family. She'd already had one of those and lost it. Why have another, for it to be possibly taken away in a similar manner as the loss of her mother?

Best not to take that chance again, she mused, feeling the stirrings of her protesting conscience. She quelled it instantly and dialed her father's number.

After a few rings, someone picked up, a soft, middle-aged voice of a man answering. Kathy beamed instantly. "Dad, hey, it's me," she greeted; and, for the first time in days, actually felt herself relax. "Sorry, I haven't called in a while; I've been busy with a bank merger, and it's going to be crazy for the next few weeks…"

Their conversation lasted for over an hour as father and daughter caught up on the goings on of each other as half of their conversation focused on Bobby and his classes. Kathy learned from Arthur that Bobby had gotten serious with his girlfriend, Amy, who was a nurse at a local hospital in Baltimore. Neither doubted that he would eventually pop the question, although Arthur hoped that Bobby would wait until after graduate school.

As for Arthur himself, he was still a high school math teacher. Having never remarried, he intended to stave off retirement for as long as possible. He even went so far as to venture that the administration would be digging his grave before he retired, having now been the Math Department Chair for over eight years and winning Teacher of the Year for a consecutive three. Indeed, Arthur Kriticos wasn't quite ready to pursue a leisure life of fishing and reading all of the novels he'd planned to read since his own college days just yet.

For now, her father was living comfortably in a house that he had finally paid off, the debts from another life wiped clean by what little remained from the Kriticos family fortune. For while Arthur never actually signed for his uncle's house, the property and destroyed contents thereof went to the county to be properly disposed of and sold. The money left had been enough to start a new life far away from Willow Grove.

The authorities who found Cyrus Kriticos' dismembered remains deduced that the man had faked his own death, and somehow met his demise in an explosion, brought on by the strange machinery in the house. The other three bodies found were also believed to have been caused by the house.

Luckily, the authorities had only questioned Arthur and his family about their knowledge who Cyrus Kriticos was, as it was a closed case soon after. The few, distant relatives who remained of the family never questioned Arthur or his children about what happened, preferring instead to forget about Cyrus entirely.

The eccentric businessman had always been a black stain on the Kriticos name, as he consequently became nothing more than an afterthought before being almost entirely forgotten. Arthur never again spoke of the house, although he would share fond memories of his beloved wife with anyone who would indulge an old man his momentary happiness in remembering the love of his life. He never considered finding love again, even though Kathy and Bobby had assured him that they wouldn't mind if he found someone who loved him. Their father would, naturally, shake his head and say that he was happy with just having time with them, and was as reassured in the knowledge that he would see their mother again.

It was enough for him; and, for his children, it, too, was enough.

By the end of the conversation, Kathy promised to fly in for Thanksgiving, jokingly declaring that wild horses couldn't keep her from visiting. She heard him laugh, and it heartened her to hear it.

Saying their goodbyes, Kathy glanced at the takeout on the coffee table—something of which had arrived during her phone call. She looked at it, famished. Having only salad and little else for lunch, tonight's delivery would be a feast—accompanied by some champagne, of course.

Thinking once again about her book selection, she opted for her psychological thriller and began to read as she ate. After all, reading about a woman who was undoubtedly troubled by the breakdown of her marriage and the subsequent disappearance and possible murder of another woman who seemingly had the perfect life. The former appealed more to Kathy, instead of having an evening full of potential nightmares with a troubled Danny Torrance, who apparently shared the same temptation in drowning out the nightmares by finding his answer at the end of a bottle.

To her shame, she'd read the novel's synopsis online, and imagined it had a dismal conclusion. It was part of the reason she'd gotten the champagne, if only to forget things for one evening. Her private celebration had been a convenient excuse.

She ignored the voice of her conscience nagging at the back of her mind. No. She wouldn't indulge in its wisdom tonight. She wasn't an alcoholic, but she needed something to silence the static in her mind. Nothing hard. Just a little champagne. She'd seen what monsters could erupt from drugs and alcohol.

It was half past eleven when she, after enjoying herself in the hot tub with a few more glasses, finally collapsed into bed. Drifting off soundly to a wine-induced sleep, she failed to hear the slight pounding of fists on the floor in the hallway outside. Nor did she hear the agonized wail of something akin to sadness as she dreamt of everything and nothing, all the while ignorant of the storm that quietly raged from her conscience without.

After all, it was thirteen years to the moment when her fate collided with that of a faceless entity who'd watched over her since, a distant shadow that lingered in the background of her thoughts—a shadow, who, while remaining nameless, adored every transient moment that passed with her—as it continued to watch her, both ceaselessly and most devotedly…until the end of her life.

…

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone reading this in an otherwise ghostly archive. It's truly therapy for the spectral imaginings as one lost in finding good ghost stories.

A confession: most of these chapters will vary in length, but will probably be shorter than my usual fare. I'm really just writing for the pleasure of writing this story.

Heraclitus of Ephesus was a 5th/6th Century Greek philosopher and is known for coining the term Logos. He predates Socrates, but his philosophy is still studied today.

Steffano's is an actual Italian restaurant in Helena, Montana. I haven't eaten there myself, but the menu there is absolutely mouthwatering.

I have the next chapter written; I just need to proofread before posting. Hope everyone is enjoying the story thus far! We shall soon see who is Kathy's beloved "conscience" presently!

Until then!

— Kittie