Chapter 11: The Creator, The Father

A sickly pale hand clawed across the hood of the car, leaving streaks of dried blood and deep scratches in its wake. A headless wraith dragged itself up from beneath the vehicle, its fractured, translucent body shuddering with every move.

Wayne's face turned as pale as the specter. "Shit—this car was in an accident. The victim's come back for revenge!"

"G-G-G-Ghost…"

In the passenger seat, William's voice trembled as he pointed at the figure, his attempt to summon radiant energy failing before it even began.

Veronica, who had been watching the road with cool detachment, pressed a firm hand on William's shoulder, stopping him from casting. "It's not a vengeful spirit. It's a trap—set by the Deathwalker. If you use magic, he'll sense it. That would ruin our ambush."

She had made up her mind—no matter what, she would capture Fresh Blood Mike tonight and break this damnable curse. The ghosts? Mere illusions, harmless scare tactics to unnerve them.

"So, we just have to drive through them?" William swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the seatbelt.

"They can't touch us. Ignore them. Just keep your eyes on the road."

"I would—" William snapped, turning to glare at her, "if you actually opened your eyes!"

Silence.

Veronica didn't respond. Instead, she turned toward the window, her fingers tightening ever so slightly on the hem of her coat.

And then—thud.

Another ghostly hand slammed against the glass, its skeletal fingers twitching inches from her face. Veronica flinched. Her usually composed demeanor cracked for the briefest second.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, she peeked through narrowed eyes—just a little.

Her breath hitched.

"See?" she said, her voice betraying just the faintest quiver. "It's nothing. They can't hurt us. Just slow down and drive carefully."

Monica, curled up in the backseat, had her eyes shut tight.

William's voice went up an octave. "You too?!"

And then he looked to the driver's seat.

Wayne had his eyes squeezed shut.

And he was still driving.

"YOU'RE DRIVING!"

Wayne, expression neutral, gave a thumbs-up.

"Yeah, I'm going slow. We're fine."

William practically threw himself at the dashboard, frantically rolling up the window. "For the love of the sun—keep your damn eyes OPEN!"

The small blue sedan veered slightly, rocking under the weight of spectral figures clambering over its hood and roof.

A moment later, Wayne sighed, eyes fluttering open. "Fine, fine."

———

Minutes later, the car rolled out of the ghostly mist. Just as Veronica predicted, the wraiths did not follow.

Wayne exhaled heavily, glancing at the rearview mirror. "Well, that was unpleasant."

William slumped back against his seat, wiping sweat off his forehead. He looked at Wayne with newfound wariness. "I can't believe you're actually scared of ghosts."

Wayne scowled. "I'm practical. Ghosts are too advanced for me."

"You are scared," William teased, an impish grin creeping onto his face. "It's okay, buddy. I've got just the thing. Some nice, heartwarming ghost love stories to help you get over it."

Wayne rolled his eyes. "Only if they're not serious. I don't need more nightmare fuel."

Veronica, still shaken, tilted her head slightly. "...I'd like to hear one."

Wayne smirked. "I'll do you one better. I've got a story—scared me senseless as a kid."

William's grin faltered. "Yeah? Let's hear it."

Wayne's voice lowered.

"It was a dark, moonless night. A child whispered to his mother—Mom, there's a boy under my bed."

Silence.

"The mother, concerned, knelt down to check. And sure enough, beneath the bed was another boy—identical to the one above."

Wayne's smile curled slightly.

"And the child under the bed whispered back… Mom, there's a boy in my bed."

William stiffened. Veronica inhaled sharply.

"...And then?" William's voice was almost inaudible.

Wayne took a deep breath.

"The mother... beat the hell out of the both of them."

Silence.

William blinked.

Veronica narrowed her eyes.

Even Monica—who had just moments ago been traumatized—let out a slow, exasperated sigh.

"...You absolute bastard."

———

By the time the blue sedan crossed the stone bridge leading into Cardfono Town, the rain had picked up, the sky thick with heavy clouds.

Beyond the hazy downpour, dim lanterns flickered like ghostly fireflies in the fog. The town was eerily quiet—only the occasional bark of a stray dog broke the silence.

Wayne slowed the car as they passed shuttered storefronts. Only the tavern and the inn showed any signs of life.

At the end of the road, looming over the town, stood a small church. Its wooden cross gleamed wet under the storm, standing as a solemn reminder of the dominant faith that ruled over this land.

The Creator. The Father.

Wayne stared at the structure as they passed.

The Creator's faith had stood the test of time, far longer than the newer pantheons of strange goddesses and their devoted followers. Unlike the scattered cults of magic-wielding believers, the Church of the Creator was the established order—the official faith of the continent.

It made Wayne wonder. How had the world come to this? If the Creator's faith was so all-powerful, why were so many other gods still worshiped? Why hadn't the church simply crushed them?

Were the lesser gods truly divine? Or were they merely… tolerated?

The very notion unsettled him.

A sudden crash of thunder ripped through the sky.

The downpour intensified.

Wayne sighed, stepping out of the car and opening an umbrella.

Veronica hesitated for a moment, then gave a small, approving hum.

Wayne, resigned, walked to the rear passenger door and held the umbrella aloft as she stepped out, Monica cradled in her arms.

They entered the inn, shaking off the rain. Wayne approached the counter and spoke with the innkeeper, securing three rooms.

As he exchanged pleasantries, his gaze flickered briefly toward two women seated by the lounge—simple dresses, low-cut necklines, necklaces gleaming.

Veronica's expression was unreadable.

Wayne's eyes flicked between them.

One. Then the other.

All of them.

Later that night, two women entered Wayne's room.

They lasted precisely three minutes before collapsing, dazed and slack-jawed. Their unfocused eyes and slightly drooling lips told the full story.

Veronica's approach had been quick. A simple question—Where is Fresh Blood Mike?

The answers were disappointing. The infamous Deathwalker had not invited the local ladies to any celebrations. His location remained uncertain.

Wayne frowned, arms crossed. "Great. Dead end."

But the innkeeper was more forthcoming.

"Mike? You'll find him at the old Nielson Estate—just past the oak woods."

"Nielson Estate?" Veronica's eyes narrowed. "A mansion?"

"Once," the innkeeper nodded. "The Nielsons were once wealthy. They named this town. The entire land belonged to them."

Wayne leaned in. "What happened?"

The innkeeper's face darkened.

"One night… everyone went mad."