CHAPTER SEVEN-THE SEVENTH(Part I)
1891 Words
The revelation hit Ex harder than Jefferson's knife ever could.
Not because it hurt.
Because it didn't make sense.
Samuel had been searching for The Seventh.
Not Marcus.
Not Victor.
Not the Veyrons.
The Seventh.
The man standing before them.
The man who somehow existed beneath a hidden archive.
Beneath a lighthouse.
Beneath decades of secrets.
And judging by Samuel's face—
The accusation was true.
The ghost stared at the silver-eyed man.
Unable to deny it.
Unable to explain it.
Unable to run from it.
The Seventh watched patiently.
No arrogance.
No anger.
No triumph.
Just patience.
Like someone waiting for an old friend to remember a forgotten conversation.
Ex looked between them.
"Sam."
No answer.
"Sam."
Still nothing.
The ghost finally looked at him.
And Ex immediately wished he hadn't.
Because Samuel looked guilty.
Not guilty of murder.
Not guilty of betrayal.
Guilty of hiding something.
Something enormous.
Something that had existed long before the alley.
Long before Jefferson.
Long before the Lighthouse Society.
The realization made Ex's stomach tighten.
"What aren't you telling me?"
Samuel opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The Seventh answered instead.
"He doesn't remember enough."
The silver-eyed man stepped away from the shaft.
Every movement felt wrong.
Not supernatural.
Not impossible.
Just... wrong.
Like reality wasn't fully comfortable with him.
Like the room itself wanted him somewhere else.
The sensation crawled under Ex's skin.
The Seventh noticed.
And smiled.
"You can feel it."
Ex immediately hated that smile.
"Feel what?"
"A boundary."
Not helpful.
Not even slightly.
The Seventh seemed amused by his frustration.
Samuel normally would've enjoyed that.
Today he looked sick.
Very sick.
Then another memory surfaced.
A complete memory.
And this time—
He didn't fight it.
Nine Months Earlier
Before the archive.
Before Marcus.
Before the conspiracy.
Before everything.
Samuel sat alone on a bus.
Returning from an underground fight.
A fight he had won.
A fight he should've felt good about.
Instead he felt restless.
The same feeling had followed him for months.
Like someone was watching.
Like something waited just beyond sight.
He remembered staring out the window.
Then seeing a reflection.
Not his own.
A man with silver eyes.
Sitting directly behind him.
Samuel spun around instantly.
Nobody there.
The seat was empty.
The bus continued moving.
Normal.
Ordinary.
Yet the reflection remained.
Watching.
Smiling.
The memory shifted.
Three days later.
A boxing gym.
Empty.
Late evening.
Samuel training alone.
Punching a heavy bag.
The same reflection appeared again.
This time in a mirror.
Silver eyes.
Calm smile.
Watching.
Waiting.
The memory shifted again.
A month later.
An alley.
Rain.
Darkness.
Samuel finally confronted him.
The silver-eyed man standing at the far end.
Real.
Physical.
Present.
"Who are you?"
Samuel demanded.
The man smiled.
Then replied:
"I've been asking myself that for a very long time."
The memory shattered.
The archive returned.
The present returned.
Reality returned.
Samuel staggered.
Ex immediately understood something.
The Seventh hadn't been hiding from Samuel.
The Seventh had been leading him.
Guiding him.
For months.
Perhaps longer.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
The Seventh nodded.
As though hearing the realization.
Which disturbed Ex more than he cared to admit.
Then Samuel finally spoke.
"You were watching me."
The silver-eyed man smiled.
"Yes."
No denial.
No hesitation.
Just honesty.
Which somehow felt worse.
Samuel's fists clenched.
"Why?"
The Seventh looked genuinely surprised.
As though the answer should've been obvious.
Then he quietly replied:
"Because you could see me."
Silence.
The answer landed heavily.
Because suddenly everything connected.
Ghosts.
The Society.
Marcus.
Arthur.
The research.
Everything revolved around one thing.
People who shouldn't exist.
People who could see things others couldn't.
People connected to death.
The Seventh continued.
"For most people..."
A pause.
"...I don't exist."
The room became still.
Samuel frowned.
"What does that mean?"
The silver-eyed man tilted his head.
Thinking.
Searching for words.
Finally:
"Have you ever walked past someone and forgotten their face immediately?"
Nobody answered.
Because everyone had.
The Seventh nodded.
"Imagine that."
A pause.
"Now imagine it happening every second."
The room fell silent.
Because suddenly Arthur's words made sense.
Officially Thomas Blackwell didn't exist.
But what if someone else truly didn't?
Not hidden.
Forgotten.
Constantly forgotten.
The implication was terrifying.
Then The Seventh smiled.
"A long time ago..."
His voice softened.
"...people called me many things."
Another pause.
"Monster."
A pause.
"Spirit."
A pause.
"God."
The final word lingered.
Nobody liked it.
Not one bit.
Then suddenly—
A gunshot echoed from above.
Everyone froze.
Another shot.
Then another.
Screams followed.
Jefferson's men.
Running.
Panicking.
Dying.
The sounds echoed through the lighthouse.
Violence.
Chaos.
Terror.
Yet the Seventh remained completely calm.
As though none of it concerned him.
Then he looked upward.
And sighed.
"They're early."
The statement instantly got everyone's attention.
Samuel frowned.
"Who?"
The Seventh's expression changed.
For the first time—
The smile vanished.
And in its place appeared something else.
Something close to concern.
Real concern.
Then he answered.
"The people who killed Marcus."
The archive became silent.
Because everyone had assumed the answer already.
Victor.
Jefferson.
The Society.
The Seventh slowly shook his head.
"No."
A pause.
"Those people work for them."
The room froze.
Because they had heard that sentence before.
Victor works for somebody.
Everyone answers to somebody.
The chain continued upward.
Always upward.
Then the Seventh looked directly at Samuel.
His silver eyes suddenly serious.
Deadly serious.
And for the first time all night—
The strange man sounded afraid.
"Samuel."
A pause.
"They know you're back."
The ghost swallowed.
Then asked:
"Who?"
The Seventh's answer came immediately.
And it changed the entire story.
"The people who taught humanity how to hide death."
For the second time that night—
Nobody knew what to say.
The people who taught humanity how to hide death.
The sentence lingered in the archive like smoke.
Impossible.
Absurd.
Terrifying.
Ex was the first to break the silence.
"What the hell does that mean?"
The Seventh looked at him.
Not annoyed.
Not amused.
Just tired.
"Exactly what it sounds like."
Not helpful.
Ex immediately hated him a little more.
The silver-eyed man seemed aware of this.
"You want names."
A pause.
"You want faces."
Another pause.
"You want enemies you can punch."
His eyes drifted toward Samuel.
"That runs in the family."
Samuel would've normally laughed.
Tonight he didn't.
Because something about The Seventh's voice bothered him.
Not the words.
The familiarity.
Like they had spoken a thousand times before.
Like this wasn't their first conversation.
Not even close.
The realization made his stomach twist.
"You know me."
The Seventh nodded.
"Yes."
"No."
Samuel corrected.
"You know me."
The emphasis mattered.
Because there was a difference.
Anybody could know of Samuel.
This man knew him.
Knew how he spoke.
Knew how he thought.
Knew how he reacted.
The Seventh looked away.
For the first time since appearing.
And somehow that frightened Samuel more than anything else.
Because it looked like guilt.
Real guilt.
Then the floor trembled again.
Harder this time.
Dust rained from the ceiling.
Somewhere above them—
A terrible scream echoed through the lighthouse.
Then silence.
The kind of silence that follows sudden death.
Nelisha slowly drew her knife.
Instinct.
Not because she believed a knife would solve whatever was happening.
Because doing nothing felt worse.
Far worse.
Evelyn stared toward the ceiling.
"They're getting closer."
The Seventh nodded.
"Yes."
No concern.
No panic.
Just certainty.
Samuel finally lost patience.
"What is happening up there?"
The silver-eyed man looked at him.
Then quietly answered.
"Correction."
A pause.
"Who is happening up there."
The archive became still.
Because somehow—
That sounded much worse.
Then another memory surfaced.
Not Samuel's.
The Seventh's.
Or at least—
A memory connected to him.
The moment appeared inside Samuel's mind without warning.
Without permission.
Without invitation.
A Very Long Time Ago
Fire.
Endless fire.
A city burning beneath a black sky.
People running.
Screaming.
Dying.
And standing among them—
A younger version of The Seventh.
Watching.
Not participating.
Not helping.
Watching.
The city collapsed around him.
Buildings burned.
Armies fought.
Kings died.
Yet he remained.
Untouched.
Unchanged.
The memory shifted.
A different century.
A different war.
A different disaster.
The same man.
Always watching.
Always surviving.
Always remaining.
The memory shattered.
Samuel stumbled.
The archive returned.
Reality returned.
His eyes widened.
"What are you?"
The question escaped before he could stop it.
The Seventh sighed.
A very human sigh.
One filled with centuries of exhaustion.
Then he answered.
"I don't know anymore."
Nobody expected that.
Not arrogance.
Not certainty.
Confusion.
The answer felt genuine.
Which somehow made it worse.
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Every monitor in the archive suddenly reignited.
Not because power returned.
Because something activated them.
All at once.
The screens displayed the same image.
A security camera feed.
Live.
The lighthouse staircase.
A figure ascending.
Slowly.
Methodically.
One step at a time.
Everyone stared.
The person wore black.
No insignia.
No markings.
No identifiable features.
Just black clothing.
Black gloves.
Black mask.
The figure climbed another step.
Then another.
Then stopped.
And looked directly into the camera.
Even though the camera should've been hidden.
The archive went cold.
Because the figure smiled.
Then raised one finger.
And pointed.
Directly at the lens.
Directly at them.
As if he knew.
As if he could see through it.
Samuel looked toward The Seventh.
The strange man's face had changed completely.
Gone was the calm amusement.
Gone was the mystery.
Gone was the patience.
For the first time—
The Seventh looked afraid.
Actually afraid.
"That's impossible."
The whisper barely escaped him.
Ex immediately noticed.
"You know him."
The Seventh didn't answer.
Which was answer enough.
The masked figure resumed climbing.
One step.
Then another.
Steady.
Unhurried.
Like someone walking toward a meeting.
Not a battle.
Not a hunt.
A meeting.
Then the security feed suddenly distorted.
Static exploded across the screen.
The image tore apart.
For a split second—
The mask disappeared.
And a face became visible.
Only for an instant.
Only long enough for Samuel to recognize it.
The ghost froze.
Completely.
Because he knew that face.
Not from life.
Not from the Society.
Not from the archive.
From death.
The darkness after death.
The place between.
The impossible place he'd never fully remembered.
The place where the voice first spoke to him.
Samuel's expression turned to horror.
"No."
The whisper escaped him.
"No."
Ex immediately turned.
"What?"
Samuel looked physically sick.
The kind of sick that comes from realizing something terrible.
Something world-shattering.
Then he whispered:
"That's the man who was there."
Silence.
"The man where?"
Samuel looked toward his brother.
His voice shaking.
"The first place."
A pause.
"The place I woke up before the graveyard."
The room froze.
Because suddenly—
Samuel remembered.
Not everything.
But enough.
Enough to understand one horrifying truth.
He hadn't been alone after death.
Someone had been waiting for him.
Watching him.
Talking to him.
And now—
That same person was climbing toward them.
Step by step.
Getting closer.
Then the Seventh spoke.
Quietly.
Almost to himself.
A name.
Just a name.
One that made even Evelyn pale.
One that made Arthur Vale's earlier fear finally make sense.
One that made the room feel much smaller.
Much darker.
Much more dangerous.
The Seventh stared at the monitor.
Then whispered:
"Orpheus."
- Writer
