A few weeks ago, you had decided to visit a prison that had burned down near your city years ago, mainly curious about the strange story of a certain prisoner who lived there and could answer any questions—no matter how weird, but tragically found his death one night during a snowstorm and a fire that, despite the fierceness of nature, didn't go down until it left nothing but the prisons' skeletons, though the bare remnants of what once used to be an Arcane prison were no less imposing.

That was no problem, sure, you didn't really think much when you visited the prison and, as always, paid your respects to the ones that had lost their lives there.

What was a problem, though, were the spectrums that had begun to haunt your house after that one visit.

You were sure it was only two, one that seemed to like playing around with your art supplies, often forgotten on the coffee table of the living room, writing poetry or doing complex calculations for what seemed to be some new kind of language—The Idealist, was his name.

The second one, was much more calm, though no less disturbing, Aleph, he called himself, and though it seemed his presence was somehow more tangible, all he did was catch you off-guard whenever you picked up a book or even so much as laughed at a silly prank from The Idealist, even if, when alone, you could fear an otherworldly coldness wrapping around you like a hug, making your heart twist with Aleph's presence, it was soft... but so heavy.

Again, two ghosts that were somewhat friendly—besides little bruises on your thighs from undead strength while trying to fight off the barrier between human and spectrum just to touch you, nothing wrong.

That is, until one night, when you were coming home late after staying some extra hours in your job, you found a small paper on the table next to your entrance, it read:

"He's here, the doctor, he'll hurt you, lock yourself in your room as soon as you get inside, please."

Was written harshly in the paper, you recognized the handwriting, it was Aleph's, but it seemed rushed, none of that familiar, fancy and almost enviable penmanship.

Ignoring the warning on the paper, you were about to call out for the redhead or even The Idealist, confused, before you noticed it—by the corner of your eyes, down the hall that lead to your room, a shadow that engulfed all light like a black hole, stood there, watching you, pinning you with its mere presence.

You. He snarled, taking a step towards where you stood on the entrance, the mere sound of that voice, rough, demanding submission, caused your knees to buckle for just a moment, before you blinked and, oh no—the presence was now in front of you, so close, you catch sight of him.

... He was so familiar-looking to Aleph, you couldn't help but muster his name, before suddenly choking a little when a black-gloved hand gripped your chin as if the phantom in front of you was real.

Do not mumble that name in my presence. Do you have any idea what you did, you damn fool!? I had everything back when our spirits were still linked to the prison, now we wander your stupid apartment like we're nothing less than spectral pets! His voice echoed inside you like thunder, or a gunshot—too close for comfort it made you wince.

"Merlin. Stop." Another voice quickly bashed in, soft but no less composed—well, as much as he had been when alive; Aleph appeared behind you, pulling you away from the grip of whom you now knew to be Merlin.

Yes, you had heard about him from snippets of secret conversations between Aleph and The Idealist when they thought you weren't listening. Merlin was a cruel man, of course, not like the others were any saints, but Merlin was a particular case.

When he was alive, he had been relentless on his pursuit of transcendentality, even crossing moral limits that many would've thought twice about breaking.

And though you had no idea why Aleph had never warned you directly about Merlin, perhaps out of fear of summoning him or something alike... You were too busy now, trying to survive...