Suddenly, a low grunt escaped from Mr. Witson's lips.
Seraphina jolted like a cat touched by holy water. He looked down and saw Mr. Witson's eyebrows twitching ever so slightly, like two caterpillars waking from a coma.
He turned to me, wide-eyed and stammering with hope. "Otto! He's alive!"
"...Until now," I said flatly, arms crossed. "Congratulations. You are officially removed from the murder list."
"There's such a thing?" Seraphina asked, blinking rapidly.
"Maybe. Who knows." I gave a nonchalant shrug.
Seraphina's eyes suddenly lit up as if he had just remembered the answer to a game show question. "The police!"
"Maybe," I nodded. "We'll never know. After all, once we get caught by the police…" I dragged my finger across my neck with exaggerated slowness.
Seraphina gasped, clutching his chest.
"Comprehende?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Seraphina nodded, sniffling like a repentant toddler.
Seraphina looked down at Mr. Witson, then up at me, eyes wide with anxiety. "What do we do now?"
"Do you have anything that can wake up a dead person?"
"If I did, there wouldn't be any dead people left in the world," he snapped, before blinking. "Wait—do you mean like ammonia?"
"Obviously."
Seraphina dove into his inventory with the desperation of someone searching for buried treasure at the bottom of a landfill. "Hmm…"
He rummaged with such intensity it looked like he was digging through a pocket dimension filled exclusively with useless junk. A broken spoon. Half a wig. A jar labeled "Maybe Pickles." At this rate, we'd need to file a missing persons report for the item he was looking for.
"At this pace, he'll wake up on his own—or evolve into a ghost," I muttered.
Then, triumphantly, Seraphina pulled out a small, corked vial containing a crumbly white pill. The moment it was exposed to the air, the odor hit us like a vengeful spirit.
"Ugh. That smells familiar." I grimaced, recoiling.
Seraphina pinched his nose. "Yup. This is the secret recipe made by the Madam. Supposed to wake even the dead."
"Ah… No wonder it smells like a cursed crypt."
Seraphina knelt down and gently placed the pill near Mr. Witson's nose, hands trembling like a novice necromancer attempting forbidden arts.
At first—nothing. Silence. Stillness. Not even a snore.
"Maybe he's really dead," I offered helpfully.
Seraphina whimpered like a puppy on trial.
Then, suddenly, Mr. Witson's fingers twitched.
"Otto! Look! His finger moved!"
"It's like watching a corpse come back to life," I said, somewhere between impressed and concerned.
'With something that could kill a man. How ironic,' I thought.
As if the universe heard and decided to mess with me, the body—no, perhaps corpse—twitched.
It began with a finger. A dry, skeletal curl as though it were recalling the long-forgotten art of movement. Then the hand spasmed, joints cracking like splintering wood. The limbs jerked, grotesque and stiff, as though hoisted by invisible strings. Bones popped. Skin—pale, thin, like old parchment left too long in the sun—shifted against its frame. Veins, dark and inky, pulsed under translucent flesh.
Then the eyes opened.
Not with awareness. Not with recognition.
White. Glazed. Void of humanity.
And then came the breath—ragged, shallow, wrong. It wheezed in like wind through broken shutters, as if the lungs remembered their function but not their purpose.
The corpse looked around.
Not like a man.
Like a predator.
"Z-Zombie?!" we both shrieked in unison.
Before rationality could intervene, Seraphina's fist flew like a divine hammer. It smashed directly into Mr. Witson's face with surprising force.
There was a wet crack. Mr. Witson's body flung backwards and hit the floor with a loud thud.
Silence returned, thick and heavy.
We stared.
"…"
"…"
I slowly turned to Seraphina. "Could you not solve every problem with violence?"
Seraphina looked dazed, as though he, too, was questioning his life choices. "I—I don't know why I did that. After all the supernatural nonsense we've seen, my body just… reacted. Instinct, maybe?"
I gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. "It's okay. I forgive you. But I doubt Mr. Witson will."
We both stared at the motionless body sprawled out like discarded laundry.
"He's not going to come back as a vengeful spirit, is he?" Seraphina whispered, sniffling.
"He doesn't even know who hit him."
"That's worse!"
I took a breath. "Okay. Let's bury him before he makes a comeback. It'll be quick. A peaceful farewell—"
"No! We are not burying anyone!"
We launched into a whisper-shouted debate over the ethics of premature burial, but before we could reach a verdict—
Mr. Witson's body moved again.
And this time, it sat up.
Very, very slowly.
Because we were too busy bickering, we didn't notice the very-much-not-dead man standing right behind us.
A prickle crawled up my neck, and I turned.
There he was—Mr. Witson, standing unsteadily behind Seraphina, arms limp at his sides, eyes blank but somehow focused, like a man sleepwalking through a nightmare.
I pointed casually. "Well, looks like he ain't dead after all."
Before Seraphina could turn, Mr. Witson raised his hands with sudden energy and lunged at him like an overcaffeinated ghoul.
Acting on sheer reflex, I yanked Seraphina towards me by the collar and, without much thought, delivered a swift kick to Mr. Witson's chest.
The man grunted and went flying back with the grace of a scarecrow caught in a gust, collapsing on the floor with a dramatic thud.
Seraphina spun around and gasped. "Why did you kick him?!"
"I thought he was gonna bite you," I said, dusting off my leg.
"Bite?!" Seraphina grabbed my arm and shook, eyes wide with fresh horror. "What do you mean bite?!"
I shrugged. "At this rate, we're going to knock him unconscious again just trying to keep him from biting or dying."
Seraphina whimpered. "So what do we do now?"
"Let's tie him up. Can't go wrong with rope."
To his credit—or paranoia—Seraphina immediately fished a coil of rope from his seemingly bottomless inventory.
Without ceremony, I crouched down and began tying Mr. Witson up like a Christmas ham, limbs bound tightly with a few extra knots for insurance. Seraphina hovered nervously, holding the end of the rope like it might start hissing.
"Well," I said, leaning back to admire the craftsmanship, "at least this time if he wakes up, he won't be able to bite anyone."
Seraphina gulped. "You really need to stop bringing up the biting."
"No promises."
After some time, Mr. Witson finally stirred.
It was subtle at first—a twitch of the fingers, a low, croaky sound from his throat, like a boot scraping mud.
Seraphina clutched my arm. "He's moving again."
"Yes, that's typically what living people do."
"He's tied up, right? Like, securely?"
"If he breaks out of that, I'm giving up and calling him a cryptid."
Mr. Witson's eyes fluttered open. This time, there was a glimmer of awareness in them. Confused, cloudy, but unmistakably human.
He groaned. "Wh… what in the name of sanity…"
Seraphina gasped. "He's talking! He's really alive this time!"
Mr. Witson blinked, sluggishly turning his head toward us. His gaze swept over the ropes cocooning his limbs, then slowly met mine.
"I've… been kidnapped by theater children," he mumbled, horrified.
Seraphina sniffled. "We're not theater children."
"We're worse," I said helpfully. "Amateur detectives with bad impulse control."
Mr. Witson let out a weak, despairing wheeze.
"Sir," I crouched beside him, "you were unconscious. Possibly possessed. Also, your house door was open. We assumed the worst."
"And then you assaulted me," he added with a raspy moan.
"To be fair, he did," I said, nodding toward Seraphina. "And he did it out of fear."
Seraphina wailed, "I thought you were a zombie!"
Mr. Witson gave him the flattest, most unimpressed look a man bound like a sea cucumber could manage.
"Please don't haunt us," Seraphina begged, wringing his hands. "Even if you die later. Which you won't. Hopefully."
"I'm not dead," Mr. Witson croaked. "I'm just… old… and very tired."
"And tied up," I reminded gently.
"Yes. There's also that."
"Old?" Seraphina blinked innocently. "I thought you were just... thirty-ish?"
"Give him a break, Seraphina," I said, lazily waving a hand. "He looks at least eighty."
"Excuse me—eighty?" Mr. Witson looked deeply affronted, like I'd just compared him to a wrinkled turnip.
"I said at least eighty," I clarified with the serene air of someone being perfectly reasonable.
"I'm in my mid-thirties, you overgrown fetuses!" he barked. "And for your information, I've accomplished more before either of you were even twinkles in your parents' eyes. I've published papers, eradicated the village rat plague, and built that antique ghost-detecting kettle in the hallway. The only reason my bones feel like chalk is because I haven't exercised or stepped outside in... a while."
"The one with the cobwebs and the 'Do Not Touch or Curse' sign?" Seraphina asked, brow furrowing.
Mr. Witson hesitated. "That's the one."
"Right," Seraphina said slowly, giving him the kind of look people reserved for malfunctioning toasters and elderly cats. "But bragging about not stepping outside in years isn't really a flex."
I casually picked at my ear. "At least we're rich. Meanwhile, someone's just crawled back from the grave and still isn't rolling in inheritance money."
"You—!" Mr. Witson tried to sit up in protest but was quickly reminded he was trussed like a rotisserie chicken.
"That's beside the point," I said, patting his shoulder. I turned to Seraphina. "We should use this chance while his brain is still functioning and not leaking out his ear."
Then, I knelt beside the irritated man. "Now, if you don't mind, we've got a few questions."
Mr. Witson exhaled sharply, sagging against the ropes. "At least untie my feet. My toes are losing their will to live."
"Erm… about that." I shrugged, ever so slightly. "You're about to lose your will after we tell you the truth."
Mr. Witson gave us a long, deadpan stare. The kind reserved for lunatics and cult recruiters. In his eyes, I could see the calculation: These two broke into my home, tied me up, possibly assaulted me, and are now threatening me with 'the truth.' I'm dealing with actual maniacs.
He sighed, a long, suffering breath from the depths of his non-exercising soul. "Go on, then. Ruin what's left of my sanity."
"Gladly," I smiled.