Chapter Text
Baron “Bear” Bailey lay upon Nikki’s lap, convulsing and foaming at the mouth.
His final moments were spent dying a coward.
He even lacked the conviction to end his own life, to free Nikki Freeman from the binds he had conjured through the sorcery of a willow tree’s malignant branch.
Bear had pondered that notion throughout the past few days, as Nikki degraded from everything he had ever desired—the perfect partner—into whatever entity now wore her face and mimicked her voice.
That was all he could hear.
Nikki’s sobbing pleas, asking what he had done to himself.
This came as an unnerving surprise to Bear. He could not remember how he had gotten into this position. He could remember barricading himself in the bathroom, firearm in hand, ready to end it all. He remembered taking the first pill, the second, and then the whole bottle. He remembered hunching over, reaching for the bin to regurgitate the pills he had swallowed.
It was a testament to his lack of conviction, and the lack of will he had to atone for even a fraction of his sin through this action alone.
Then something snapped.
A faint, passing chime encompassed the room, and he could feel carrion talons grasp his soul. He remembered brief moments of lucidity: an unnatural smile there, a faint giggle here, and arms smaller than his catching his collapsing frame.
Yet here he was on the floor, shoved away by a now-conscious Nikki, her screams engraved upon his very soul. He could feel life escaping his body, something clawing at the veil separating the living from the dead.
Bear did not fear death, not now at least. He could not feel the dread of his death; it was drowned out by the screams of his friend.
For a brief moment, he wondered if this was the price he needed to pay for his hubris.
No, not hubris.
That was an expression reserved for men elated by pride.
No, this was not hubris.
This was cowardice made manifest.
This had been spawned by his cowardice, its mitigation hindered by his cowardice, and ultimately, their deaths caused by his cowardice. He deserved no such respite. He deserved this, and yet how saddened he felt for being such a coward—for believing that it was even Nikki behind whatever it was.
He did not even have the courage to accept the realization that none of it was real.
He had been so desperate and selfish.
This thought escaped him as quickly as his last few breaths. Facing the walls and floors of his grandma’s house, tainted by the sin he had committed, Baron “Bear” Bailey died.
He allowed the same talons that had spawned this ordeal to envelop him. He could feel their cold embrace as a clawed arm grabbed him.
If only he could be brave.
If only he could be different.
Bear was jolted awake, suddenly conscious of his surroundings.
Only moments ago, he had been dying on the wooden, carpeted floor of his grandma’s home. He was dazed, so he looked around.
He was not dead.
Not in any literal sense, at least.
His arm shot to his face in an attempt to feel for the foam around his mouth. It was dry, absent of anything. He looked around again and saw, sitting in front of him, a woman wearing a waitress uniform held down by a ribbon.
She stared back, confused.
Bear had yet to realize the sheer paleness of his face. He did not realize that she was staring at him with deep concern. He did not realize he looked like a man who had seen apparitions across from him.
He was in the diner.
He could feel the cushioned seats of the booth. He could see the light broken up by the open blinds.
Then he heard it.
“Dude, you good?”
It could not be him.
He had lain dead, murdered by whatever had controlled Nikki.
“Earth to Bear? You’re scaring the waitress, dude.”
Bear braved a glance, and he could feel bile rising in his throat. Whatever meal they had just had was about to make a swift exit. Bear slowly turned his head, cold sweat forming, his hands shaking.
There he was.
Bear’s eyes met his.
Ian.
His friend. His confidant. His wingman. His saboteur.
His victim.
There Ian sat, smiling nervously at Bear, unaware of the conflict that wrestled within him.
It happened in rapid succession. Bear could not handle the burden placed upon him. Dashing to the restroom, he reached a vacant toilet. With no regard for anything else, he hunched over and vomited.
Tears ran down his face, and his head throbbed with an amazingly complex pain. When he was done, he sat down, resting against the porcelain. He could tell he reeked of vomit and sweat.
This did not faze Bear.
He was contemplating whether this was some cruel trick being played upon him, a carrot on a stick to lead a coward toward his inevitable torment.
But no such things came.
No demonic enforcers bearing infernal tridents arrived to drag him to whatever lay beyond life. There was no laughter, and there were no twisted beings wearing the faces of his friends.
Bear would have checked, but he had left his phone on the table.
No, there was nothing.
Only a familiar chime.
But he could not discern what it was.
Nevertheless, he was content to collapse and let the porcelain seat act as his support.
That was until he heard the restroom door creak, followed by footsteps and a subtle knock on the door of the stall he had barricaded himself in.
“Yo, dude. Bear, you good, man? I get that you’re nervous and all, but I didn’t really expect you to react that way when I commented on that honestly horrid attempt at confessing.”
It was Ian.
His friend was standing right there.
Bear could see his shoes and the shadow cast by his presence.
Bear moved to respond, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. Either he had no voice at all, or he was too shocked to say anything. Perhaps it was a mix of both.
He could not comprehend what was going on.
But he had to know for sure.
Bear collected himself and prepared to stand. It felt different. He felt less scared. For all he knew, when he opened the door, some eldritch horror could be waiting, ready to serve whatever justice was befitting him.
It could also be his friend’s rotting corpse.
Bear could not forget that.
Ian lying on his stomach with a bullet wound to his temple, a pool of blood collecting around him. The only forgiving trait was that it had been a quick death.
Ian was never a great friend. His attempts to offer guidance or advice had turned out to be veiled attempts to sabotage Bear. No, Ian had his eyes set on Nikki, or at least that was what Bear thought. Regardless, Ian seemed to have set Bear up for failure.
But was that really justification enough for his death?
Bear did not think so.
Perhaps, in some twisted way, Ian had just been trying to be his friend. Even then, what Ian had done was dwarfed by the grave sin Bear had committed.
There was no use dwelling on it.
Bear grabbed the lock and slowly turned it. The rusted lock scraped across the metal it was wedged against. Bear slowly opened the door, and standing in front of him was Ian.
He was alive.
And, hopefully, real.
Bear instantly reached in for a hug, grabbing Ian with a strength that even shocked himself. Ian exhaled, caught by the hug with genuine surprise.
“What the fuck, Bear? Why are you hugging me? And fuck, dude, you smell like shit.”
“Are you on something? You’re sweating like a pig, and you’re acting weird as fuck.”
Bear did not care for the insults hurled at him. He knew this was how Ian showed concern. Bear was just so relieved Ian was real. He could feel Ian’s warmth. He could feel the realness of the situation in front of him.
He was not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.
As Ian, confused by the sudden act of affection, began to analyze the Bear in front of him, his gaze was drawn to the toilet. He could see faint spots of blood in the bowl.
Before he could comment on it, Bear moved to speak, making a poor attempt to distract Ian.
“I’m good, Ian. You didn’t have to check on me.”
Ian was many things, but thankfully, an idiot was not one of them. The way Bear responded—the tone, the sheer emotion of relief and gratitude—told him something was wrong.
Then Ian saw the streaks of tears and the baggy eyes.
It was as if Bear had witnessed something unholy, and that made Ian deeply worried.
“Dude, are you sure you’re good? Should we go to the hospital?”
Bear quickly responded, “No, I just needed a moment to collect myself.”
Unconvinced, Ian moved to apologize, feeling some guilt. He knew his friend was a nervous wreck, yet he had still made him practice confessing.
“Hey, man, I didn’t mea—”
Bear cut him off.
“No, really. I think it’s the weather, man. I think I just need some rest. Can’t miss trivia night, right?”
Ian, still unconvinced but resigned to Bear’s tone, let it go. Bear cleaned himself up, and they both left the restroom.
Out front, the waitress looked concerned, her headband slightly ajar. She quickly handed Bear a glass of water.
“I am so sorry. I hope I didn’t say anything to offend you.”
Bear shook his head.
“No, trust me, I’m fine. I’m really grateful for your help and time. But it seems there are things I’ve got to do real quick.”
Bear handed the waitress a twenty-dollar bill and headed urgently to his car. Ian and the waitress did nothing to hinder his dash to the exit. They could only stare, confused, seeing a complete and sudden shift.
Ian noted how Bear walked with more confidence, less hesitant with each step. He wondered if he had anything to do with that, and he only hoped Bear would be okay.
At his car, Bear grabbed his phone before fleeing whatever situation that had been. When he saw the date, it shocked him to his core. The sheer unbelievability of the circumstances finally hit him.
It was that day.
The genesis of his undoing.
The day Bear made his fatal mistake.
The start of his wish, and the twisted obsession that had shackled Nikki.
He wasted no time.
Perhaps he could save his cat.
Maybe this was avoidable if Sandy had not gotten into his pills. Then again, he was not sure when it happened. All he had was hope that it had yet to occur.
Driving like a madman, he dashed through the LA streets. Had any police officers been patrolling, Bear would have been pursued, arrested, and tried. But in a twist of fate, the roads were mostly barren, the lights were green, and the roads were visible.
Bear made it home in record time, and he could not remember ever moving with such speed and urgency in his whole life.
He rushed through his front door.
And there lay Sandy.
He had been too late.
Too careless.
Too cowardly.
He could not even save his companion.
He fell to his knees and let out a guttural cry. Despite this gift, he could not save everyone. He wept over her body, caressing her fur and letting his tears land upon Sandy.
Something was off, though he could not identify it.
Sandy had died, but she looked more peaceful. The pills were still scattered around her. Perhaps rigor mortis had yet to set in, or perhaps this was the boon. Her death had been inevitable, but maybe she had not suffered as much.
Bear wasted no time.
He slowly collected Sandy, wrapping her in a blanket and giving her a final kiss. He carried her with such care and grace that it would have shocked the old him.
Grabbing a shovel, Bear dug.
And dug.
And dug.
Dirt and mulch dirtied his clothes. He did not care. Not when his arms screamed and burned. Not when he gripped the shovel so tightly that his nails drew blood.
He was in some great trance of singular focus.
When he was satisfied with the hole, he laid Sandy to rest, placing her favorite treats and flowers beside her.
How horrible Bear must have been.
This was his only companion, someone who had meant so much to him, and yet he could only realize that now. He had not shown it when Sandy was among the living.
He wept, not out of self-loathing or some delusional notion that he did not deserve such tragedy. By all accounts, he deserved tenfold whatever this was to compensate for his crime.
No, he wept out of love, sorrow, and regret.
He had not shown his love for Sandy.
In this, he was too late, and the realization crushed him.
His regret was far too much for him to handle.
Bear buried Sandy, sniffling and pausing after every shovelful of dirt. He then retrieved a stone large enough to act as Sandy’s headstone. It was nothing beautiful, but it was big, and it was a miracle that someone as frail as Bear could even move it.
To think there had existed a time when he would have thrown Sandy into a trash bag.
What a cruel coward he had been.
Exhausted, depressed, and frankly defeated, Bear walked into his home, not even bothering to close the door, and collapsed.
He did not smell decay.
Not like last time, at least.
Rather, it smelled of wet grass and old books.
Bear could see all the pills scattered across the floor. He made a mental note to dispose of them all. Tears rolled down his face.
He did not remain awake for long.
The fatigue hit him, and he fell into a deep sleep.
Across his reality, in some forsaken place, a thing incomprehensible sat in front of a phone.
It was not privy to the fact that it had lost a customer. It did not know the scheduled call from Baron Bailey would not come.
Quite frankly, it did not care.
Whatever had chosen to defy fate itself was not its concern.
However, it took notice of a wish among the forested willow trees around it: a branch bearing the paw print of a cat.
How peculiar, it thought, chuckling to itself.
“I suppose they do have nine lives.”
Its voice boomed in a cosmic, distorted manner. For the first time in untold millennia, it laughed.
An unnerving laugh.
Its cosmic foresight divined a collapsed Bear. It used a single talon from whatever body contained this entity and crossed Baron Bailey off its list of sinners.
Bear slept a little better afterwards.