It is after dusk/span>70F(21C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Mariner/span>/span There is a waning crescent moon.

The alley stretches before Arachne and Constance, dimly lit by the flickering bulb above Chez Mariner’s service entrance. The restaurant’s back door stands slightly ajar, releasing the sounds of clattering dishes and muffled kitchen chatter into the evening air. A heavy dumpster sits pushed against the opposite wall, surrounded by scattered takeout containers and wilted lettuce leaves.

As they step deeper into the narrow space, the temperature drops noticeably despite the warm September evening. The smell of burning garlic suddenly overwhelms the usual mix of ocean salt and kitchen grease, so intense it makes the eyes water. From inside the restaurant comes a loud crash of metal hitting tile, followed by angry shouting in what sounds like French.

The flickering bulb above the service door suddenly strobes rapidly three times before going out completely, plunging the alley into deeper shadow. In the brief darkness, something metallic clatters to the ground near the dumpster – the sound of a camera hitting asphalt. When the bulb flickers back to life a moment later, the acrid smell of burnt herbs hangs thick in the air, and frost has begun forming along the edges of the nearby windows despite the mild weather.

Constance shrugs. “Yeah, after I died it like…locked in some fucked shit I was recovering from, it seems like. I don’t know.” she mutters, wandering in the alleyway towards the Chez Mariner. “Ugh, that smells like crap,” she complains. About garlic?! No, about BURNED garlic. “Is that French? I think this might be a fight too strong for me,” is her reply, starting to back off before it goes dark. “Oh, great, spooky ghost shit.”

Arachne wrinkles her nose at the pungent aroma of burning garlic overpowering the alley, suppressing the powerful urge to gag as her eyes water over. At the sound of shouting in angry French, she tilts her head, straining her sensitive hearing to make out the words as she reluctantly draws deeper into the alley, keeping astride someone. Without hesitation, she’s flicking out a dagger, drawing her calloused fingertip across the tip of it, droplets of blood pooling enough to begin drawing sigils into the interior of her wrist, completing a ward like clockwork to protect herself from the malevolent energy pulsing through as the temperature plummets. “It would be nice if it was not a demonic entity every time,” she murmurs low under her breath.

Arachne wrinkles her nose at the pungent aroma of burning garlic overpowering the alley, suppressing the powerful urge to gag as her eyes water over. At the sound of shouting in angry French, she tilts her head, straining her sensitive hearing to make out the words as she reluctantly draws deeper into the alley, keeping astride Constance. Without hesitation, she’s flicking out a dagger, drawing her calloused fingertip across the tip of it, droplets of blood pooling enough to begin drawing sigils into the interior of her wrist, completing a ward like clockwork to protect herself from the malevolent energy pulsing through as the temperature plummets. “It would be nice if it was not a demonic entity every time,” she murmurs low under her breath.

The French shouting from inside grows more distinct as Arachne strains to listen – “Merde! The fryer again! Third time this week!” followed by the sound of something heavy being dragged across tile. A chef in white stumbles out the back door, waving smoke away from his face and muttering about equipment failures.

As Arachne completes her protective ward, the blood on her wrist grows cold against her skin. The metallic object near the dumpster becomes visible in the restored light – a shattered digital camera, its LCD screen spider-webbed with cracks. Frost continues spreading along the restaurant’s windows in unnatural patterns, forming what almost looks like writing before melting away too quickly to read.

Constance’s retreat is halted as the temperature drop intensifies around the dumpster area specifically. The burning garlic smell shifts, becoming more complex – bitter herbs, scorched onions, and underneath it all, something that smells distinctly like old blood. The chef who emerged from the restaurant glances nervously toward the dumpster, then hurries back inside, slamming the door behind him.

A faint outline begins to shimmer near the broken camera – translucent and wavering like heat distortion, but unmistakably human-shaped. The figure appears to be crouched down, as if examining something on the ground where the camera fell.

Constance shrugs. “It’s Bayview, I don’t think there’s actually anything demonic going on by matter of course over here. I’m used to demons in Redstone, obviously, but this is all the way on the other side of town. Why the fuck am I in Bayview anyway?”, she wonders to herself. “Oh yeah, Temple shit.” She inspects the translucent outline of the figure near the camera, crouching down. “Damn, I wish I had like…the forensics guy over here. Probably ‘the mystery of the broken equipment’ or whatever,” she crassly talks shit about what to her has become an everyday thing.

“FAKE… LIES…“

As Constance crouches near the translucent figure, the ghostly outline becomes more defined. A man in chef’s whites materializes more clearly, his uniform stained with dark patches that could be grease or blood. He’s hunched over the broken camera, his translucent fingers passing through it repeatedly as he tries to pick up the pieces.

The spirit doesn’t seem to notice the two women at first, completely absorbed in his futile attempts to gather the shattered equipment. His mouth moves silently, forming words that can’t quite be heard. The temperature around Constance drops another few degrees, and her breath begins to mist in the suddenly frigid air.

From inside Chez Mariner, another crash echoes through the service door, followed by more French cursing. The ghost’s head snaps up at the sound, his face contorting with what looks like rage. For the first time, he seems to register Constance’s presence. His eyes – hollow and filled with an otherworldly light – fix on her with intense focus.

The smell of burning herbs intensifies, and the frost on the windows begins forming more deliberate patterns. This time, before it melts, Arachne can make out what looks like the word “FAKE” spelled out in ice crystals across the restaurant’s back window.

“You would be surprised how much demonic activity manifests outside of Redstone,” Arachne remarks aside to Constance. “Wherever there’s a mortal life in dire straits or in need, there’s a chance of a demonic bargain or failed summoning.” Her brows lift marginally at the French words she manages to make out, arms curling in front of herself to rub lightly at the her chilled skin before she moves through the open door way of Chex Mariner as another crash echoes from inside. Switching with ease to French, she calls in, “What’s all that commotion?” before warding the doorway with salt.

Constance reaches down towards the shattered camera, picking it up and inspecting it for connection points or a memory card or some other way to salvage what had been recorded before it was destroyed, turning it over in her hands. “I bet the old chef murdered the new one and there’s proof in the dumpster or here and that’s why his ghost is pissed,” she comments to Arachne.

“The equipment, it keeps breaking! The fryer, the freezer, even the damn coffee machine. Third health inspector visit this month – someone keeps calling in complaints!” He gestures helplessly at a commercial freezer that’s smoking slightly, its digital display flashing error codes.

The ghost turns back to Constance, his form flickering with agitation. “THEY… STEAL… CULTURE… FAKE… ACADIAN…” Ice crystals begin forming on the camera in her hands, and the temperature around the dumpster drops so low that her breath comes out in thick white puffs. The spirit points one translucent finger toward the restaurant’s dumpster, where several industrial food service boxes are visible among the regular garbage.

Arachne shakes her head at the raging French chef inside. “It sounds like you have quite a bit of bad luck,” she responds in French across the threshold while she discreetly agitates the wound at her fingertips to draw more blood, slowly smearing sigils into the doorway she occupies in an attempt to draw a protective barrier in her wake, her sensitive hearing allows her to catch bits and pieces of the spirit’s words to Constance, but she leaves it in the Templar’s hands in favor of getting to the bottom of the situation inside. “How long has all of this been happening? Clearly you either have bad luck, as I said, or — you’ve pissed someone off. What changed recently?” she queries like she belongs there.

Constance nods, standing up and going over to the dumpster to open up the lid and squint around inside at the spirit’s direction.

“The owner, Monsieur Beaumont, he claims we serve authentic Acadian cuisine passed down through generations. But the recipes…” He shakes his head sadly.

Constance keeps rooting around in the dumpster.

“They are not authentic,” Arachne finishes for him. “Is he sourcing the ingredients from somewhere terrible? Cutting costs for operational overhead?” she presses.

“It started exactly one year ago. September 15th. That’s when the equipment began failing, when the inspectors started coming. Before that, business was good, no problems.” He wipes sweat from his brow despite the supernatural cold seeping through the doorway. “Monsieur Beaumont, he makes us use the cheap ingredients, tells the customers it’s traditional Acadian cooking from his family. But his family is from Quebec, not Acadia!“

The frost on the windows now clearly spells out “MARCUS CHEN – FOOD CRITIC” before melting away. The ghost turns to both women, his form flickering between solid and translucent. “HELP… EXPOSE… TRUTH…“

“Started about a year ago, right after that food critic died in the alley. Marcus something… he was investigating us, taking pictures. Ever since then, nothing works right. The staff, they whisper about seeing him back there.” He gestures nervously toward the alley where Constance is digging through evidence.

The ghost of Marcus becomes more solid as Constance uncovers each piece of fraudulent packaging, his rage feeding on the validation of his suspicions. The temperature plummets further, and frost begins forming on the dumpster’s metal rim where Constance’s hands touch it. Marcus’s voice grows clearer: “THEY… MOCK… HERITAGE… CHARGE… PREMIUM… FOR… LIES…“

The broken camera in Constance’s other hand suddenly flickers to life for a brief moment, its cracked screen displaying blurry photos of the very same packaging she’s now holding.

Inside the dumpster, Constance finds exactly what the ghost was pointing toward – dozens of boxes from “Maritime Food Services,” a mass-production company. The labels read “Frozen Seafood Medley – Restaurant Grade” and “Instant Cajun Seasoning Mix.” Mixed in with regular kitchen waste are empty containers of pre-made sauces labeled as “Authentic Acadian Fricot Base” from a commercial supplier in Louisiana.

The chef inside continues speaking to Arachne in French, his voice growing more distressed. “It started about a year ago, right after that food critic died in the alley. Marcus something… he was investigating us, taking pictures. Ever since then, nothing works right. The staff, they quit because they say the kitchen is cursed.“

The ghost becomes more solid as Constance examines the evidence, his rage feeding off the discovery. “LIES… THEY PROFIT… FROM STOLEN HERITAGE…” His voice is clearer now, though still echoing strangely. The frost spreads further across the windows, and inside the restaurant, another piece of equipment begins sparking and smoking.

The spirit turns to both women, his hollow eyes pleading. “MY CAMERA… MY STORY… THEY MUST… BE EXPOSED…“

The chef inside nods vigorously. “Exactly! Everything comes from Sysco, frozen and processed. The ‘traditional Acadian fricot’ is just canned soup with added cream. We charge forty dollars for what costs three to make, and tourists think they’re experiencing real culture.“

Inside the dumpster, Constance finds exactly what the ghost pointed toward – dozens of industrial food service boxes labeled “Sysco,” “US Foods,” and “Restaurant Depot.” Packaging for frozen seafood medleys, powdered soup bases, and pre-made sauces. Mixed among them are crumpled invoices showing bulk purchases of the cheapest possible ingredients.

The ghost of Marcus becomes more solid as his evidence is discovered, his chef’s whites now clearly visible with dark stains across the front. He points urgently at the camera in Constance’s hands, then at the dumpster contents. “EXPOSE… THEM… FINISH… MY… WORK…” His voice grows stronger, more desperate. The frost on the windows spreads, and inside the restaurant, another piece of equipment begins sparking and smoking.

The temperature in the alley drops to near freezing despite the warm September night. Marcus’s spirit looks directly at both women, his hollow eyes pleading. “ONE… YEAR… TODAY… THEY… KILLED… ME… FOR… THIS…“

Constance takes her phone out of her pocket and starts snapping photos of the boxes in the dumpster, combined with the sign of the restaurant over the door. “Yeah, yeah,” she mutters. “I’ll fuck over this shitty ass business and you can get your ghostly ass out of Earth, how about that.”

Arachne listens to the narrative of the chef with a soft knit of her brows, shifting her weight and reaching to draw out her own phone. “What a terrible predicament you’ve found yourself in, enslaved to lying to your clients about the authenticity of the meal because the owner is a disgraceful cheapskate,” she murmurs in sympathy in the end of it all. “I happen to know a gentleman who is in the business of those particular ingredients who owes me a terrible favor. If I called him, and had him negotiate a steep discount to source proper ingredients for the cuisine, do you believe that would help?”

As Constance’s phone camera clicks, capturing image after image of the fraudulent packaging, Marcus’s ghostly form begins to shimmer with something that looks almost like relief. The broken camera in her other hand flickers more steadily, its cracked screen displaying clearer photos – shots Marcus took of delivery trucks, invoices, and the same packaging she’s now documenting.

“YES… YES… THE TRUTH…” Marcus’s voice grows clearer, less anguished. The oppressive cold in the alley begins to ease slightly, though frost still clings to the windows.

Inside the restaurant, the chef continues speaking to Arachne in increasingly worried tones. “The owner, he threatens to fire anyone who talks. Says the tourists don’t know the difference anyway. But it’s wrong, no? To lie about culture, about heritage?“

Marcus turns toward the restaurant door, his form flickering between rage and hope. “BEAUMONT… MUST… ANSWER… FOR… LIES…” The ghost points at Arachne, then at the chef inside. “MAKE… HIM… CONFESS… COMPLETE… THE… STORY…“

The temperature stabilizes as Marcus seems to gain focus from Constance’s documentation, but his spirit remains tethered, waiting. The frost on the windows now spells out “BEAUMONT – FRAUD” before slowly beginning to melt.

“THANK YOU.“

Inside the restaurant, the sparking equipment suddenly stops malfunctioning. The chef looks around in amazement as the freezer’s error lights go out and normal operation resumes. “Mon Dieu… it’s working again.“

Marcus’s spirit turns to both women, his form becoming more translucent but somehow more peaceful. “MY… STORY… WILL… BE… TOLD…” The overwhelming smell of burning garlic fades, replaced by the normal scents of the alley.

The ghost raises one translucent hand in what might be gratitude before beginning to fade. “PROTECT… THE… CULTURE… HONOR… THE… TRUTH…” His voice grows fainter as his form dissolves into wisps of mist that dissipate in the warm September air.

The alley returns to its normal temperature, and from inside Chez Mariner comes the sound of equipment running smoothly for the first time in a year.