Chapter 13: Earthbound Spirit Symposium
At this moment, in the basement.
The room, which had just been checked by Rango a short while ago and was empty except for scattered debris, was now overflowing with ghosts.
Among them were men, women, and even babies, all dressed differently. They formed a circle, cramming the narrow space full.
In their midst was the effeminate ghost who had just been beaten half to death by Rango.
"I have instructed you countless times!"
A middle-aged male ghost, dressed in 1930s attire, wearing a top hat and sporting a thick mustache, pointed at him and cursed angrily, "Before Moira figured out the owner's background, I told you not to easily reveal yourselves in front of the homeowner! Did my words just go in one ear and out the other?!"
The effeminate ghost lying on the ground wanted to explain himself, but thinking of the other's authority among the spirits, he gritted his teeth and stayed quiet.
However, another ghost who had been holding his head spoke up in his defense, "Cut the guy some slack — he was naked in the bedroom, stretching and striking seductive poses like he was putting on a show! He was clearly trying to bait us out!"
"And you," someone else chimed in, "you died a few decades later than the rest of us. Stop strutting around like you run the place!"
"Excuse me?!"
Dr. Arden — the mustached man — was furious. But before he could fire back, Moira, the maid ghost who had been silent up until now, cut through the bickering. "Everyone, shut up. This homeowner is different from the ones before. Based on what happened to Lain, he's almost certainly some kind of exorcist."
She folded her arms and continued, "When I was watching from upstairs just now, I saw a blue light flash on his right hand every time he threw a punch. If I'm not wrong, that's how he does it. If we don't get organized, he's going to pick us off one by one."
"Hold on," the ghosts around the circle murmured in confusion, "since when do exorcists use their bare hands? Aren't they supposed to use Bibles, holy water, crosses — all that stuff?"
"Maybe exorcism has evolved since we've been stuck in here," someone offered.
"Great. So now they just beat you to death. Fantastic."
"I gotta say, when this guy first walked in, I thought he was a decent guy. Decent looking, too. Didn't peg him for a psychopath."
"Yeah, just look at Lain. The guy doesn't even look like a ghost anymore."
A heavy silence settled over the basement.
"Alright, enough moping," someone finally spoke up. "Moira, you should be the one to go after him. No guy's gonna say no to—"
"And Elizabeth," another ghost added, turning toward the corner of the room, "back when you were performing on Broadway, they called you the 'Black Dahlia.' A fresh face like this kid? He won't stand a chance against a woman like you."
Every pair of eyes in the room drifted toward Elizabeth.
She stood apart from the others, leaning against the far wall with an easy, languid confidence. A woman in her thirties with a lush, curving figure, she wore a form-fitting black dress that clung to every line of her body, with a fur stole draped lazily over one shoulder. Bold red lipstick, smoky eyes, the whole picture — she looked like something out of a 1940s Hollywood poster. A half-smoked cigarette dangled between her fingers.
She glanced at the group with mild annoyance. "I don't do boys. If you want to try seduction, send Moira."
Moira shrugged. "I thought the same thing at first. But I'm pretty sure I already pissed him off earlier tonight."
She recounted what had happened — the blood illusion in the shower, and the way Rango had reacted.
The room went quiet. Over the past century, dozens of homeowners had come through this place. Most had been scared off within days. A handful had stayed, eventually fading into residual spirits of their own, joining the ranks. But no one — not once — had ever fought back like this.
An exorcist who worked with his fists. After all these decades as ghosts, none of them had ever seen anything like it.
Then, without warning, a sharp crack split the silence — like a bone snapping clean in two.
Lain, the effeminate ghost lying in the middle of their circle, his battered spiritual form flickering and unstable, let out a thin wisp of black smoke. Then, as every ghost in the room watched in stunned horror, his body dissolved completely — unraveling into a curl of green smoke that drifted upward and vanished into nothing.
"Lain? Lain!"
His old lover, who had been cradling him, cried out — the raw grief in his voice cutting through the basement like a knife.
The room erupted into panic.
This wasn't a threat anymore. It was a fact. This new homeowner could actually destroy a ghost — permanently — with his bare hands. No ritual, no tools, no ceremony. Just his fists.
"Jesus Christ—"
They turned frantically to Dr. Arden, the one who had always carried himself as their leader, and bombarded him with desperate pleas. "Dr. Arden, do something! If this guy doesn't leave, he's going to wipe us out — all of us! We won't just cease to haunt — we'll cease to exist!"
Dr. Arden, every eye on him, was quietly terrified inside. But he'd spent too long playing the role of the calm authority to drop it now. He straightened his coat, adjusted his top hat, and stroked his mustache with deliberate composure.
He looked around the circle. Then he puffed out his chest and spoke with the full force of conviction he could muster.
"Alright, listen up. There's only one way we get through this."
He held up a single finger.
"We stick together. That's it. We unite."
He began to pace, his voice gaining momentum. "Think about what we've got in this room. Doctors. Pharmacists. A serial killer or two. A Broadway star. We've got every trick in the book between us — poison, seduction, intimidation. We hit him from every angle, one after another. We don't let up. We don't give him a second to breathe."
He stopped and turned to face them, jaw set.
"And remember this — the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. You ditch that, and this guy doesn't stand a chance."
The words landed like a spark hitting dry kindling. The ghosts straightened up. Fists clenched. Murmurs of agreement rippled through the circle, growing louder, sharper, until the basement was ringing with it.
"Yeah! Let's do this!"
"Kill him!"
"He's dead meat!"
Dr. Arden watched them, the faintest curl of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He was just a man, after all. A man with a few party tricks. Against a room full of ghosts who'd been haunting this house for a century? There was no contest.
But just as the energy in the room hit its fever pitch — just as the chanting was reaching a roar — a sound from outside the basement door made every single one of them freeze.
Footsteps. Quick. Purposeful. Getting closer.
The basement went dead silent. The ghosts, who had been swearing bloody murder just seconds ago, locked up like someone had hit the pause button. Eyes went wide. Heads tilted toward the door.
"H-h-he's coming—"
"What do we do?!"
"Run!"
And just like that, every ghost who had been ready to fight to the end scattered — diving headfirst into the nearest walls, vanishing through floors, disappearing into thin air like startled pigeons.
Dr. Arden, watching them flee, opened his mouth to curse their cowardice — but the sound of the doorknob turning cut him off mid-breath. He shoved aside two ghosts blocking his path and dove into the wall just as fast as the rest of them.
Bang—!
The basement door swung open hard, and Rango walked in, eyes sharp and searching.
But the room was empty. Just scattered debris, the faint smell of dust, and silence.
Not a soul in sight.