Chapter 3: Bargains with the Damned

Mother and I spent endless nights trying to figure out what to do. I couldn’t just announce to the world that the cabinet was full of ghosts and the Three Johns weren’t human. In the end, she just sighed: "Son, this is our fate. Let’s just drag it out; as long as I don’t die before you take power, they have no chance."

Her words were both a comfort and a curse. I wanted to promise her safety, but all I could offer was time—a precious, dwindling thing in the White House.

I hesitated for a long time, but finally agreed to her plan. Still, I had my own ideas. At night, the Three Johns received a secret order and came to my room. Their monstrous forms had only grown more terrifying, as if something was feeding them.

The room felt colder than ever, shadows pooling in the corners. I gripped the dagger in my sleeve, my heart pounding. It was time to risk everything.

I looked John Shearer in the eye and said, "Spare my mother, and I’ll agree to mutual trade."

My voice sounded steadier than I felt. The words hung in the air, heavy as a judge’s gavel. I braced myself, waiting for their answer.

John Shearer blinked, his huge eyeball spinning, then let out a string of weird, bubbling laughs. His monstrous body gurgled, and the moonlight outside turned a sickly green. Some strange power tried to force me to look up. Suddenly, my father’s dying words rang in my ears: "Never look at the moon."

The urge was overwhelming, stronger than gravity. I clenched my jaw, staring at the floor, sweat beading on my forehead. My father’s warning echoed louder than my heartbeat.

I forced myself to lower my head. John Shearer’s huge eye rolled, like he was weighing something. In the end, the Three Johns caved, agreeing to my terms. As they left, their laughter trailed behind them, weird and triumphant, like they’d just won a bet.

Their laughter echoed down the hall, raising goosebumps on my arms. I knew I’d bought us time, but I wasn’t sure what it would cost.

The next day, all the ghosts in the residence vanished—except Walter Jenkins. At the next meeting, John Shearer announced that a secret medicine from overseas could cure the First Lady. My mother was skeptical, but I told her to take it—it was part of my deal with the Three Johns.

The medicine came in a plain, unlabeled bottle, smelling faintly of salt and old pennies. My mother eyed it with suspicion, but finally trusted me enough to try it. I sat by her side, holding her hand, praying to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in.

After taking the medicine, my mother burned with fever for days, finally vomiting up seven or eight thumb-sized, weird little fish. They sizzled on the floor, then turned to dust and blew away. At last, my mother sat up and looked at me:

Relief hit me so hard I nearly collapsed. For the first time in years, she looked like herself—tough, sharp, unbreakable. The ghosts had lost their grip, at least for now.

"Son, you’re actually pretty sharp. All these years of playing the fool—was that just for show?"

I managed a crooked smile, shrugged, like, "Maybe." Truth is, I wasn’t sure where the act ended and the real me began anymore.

After that, my mother stepped back from politics, staying in her rooms. They threw a big ceremony for me to take power early; from then on, I was on my own against the ghosts. The Three Johns started pushing even harder for new policies. Mutual trade was officially on the agenda, even steel and salt became trade goods. Every time I pushed back, more ghosts showed up in the White House. My mother and I felt more like prisoners than leaders.

The ceremony was all show—flags, speeches, the Marine Band playing "Hail to the Chief"—but I could feel the ghosts’ eyes on me from every corner. Power, I realized, was just another kind of cage.

Meanwhile, I found a notebook my father left behind, and some of it chilled me to the bone. The red moon in the sky seemed like some mysterious god, different from the one great-grandfather faced. The red moon didn’t seek worship or attack humans, but those who saw it eventually gained strange powers, turning into something not quite human, not quite ghost.

I read the notebook by the light of a single lamp, my hands shaking as I flipped through the pages. My father’s handwriting got more frantic with every entry, like he was racing against time—or something worse.

My father was convinced that before he died, there weren’t many ghosts in the White House. The only ghost was my uncle, whom my father executed against all advice. From then on, he bore the guilt of killing his own brother. Infected ghosts always served a certain god; without orders, they wouldn’t hurt anyone.

The story gave me chills. I realized then that the line between loyalty and betrayal, family and enemy, was thinner than I’d ever imagined. The Carter family was haunted in more ways than one.

My father found the red moon’s name, but only wrote that it was one of the distant outer gods. The name was taboo; he warned never to write or speak it aloud, or the outer god would be summoned and you’d become an unspeakable horror.

I traced the nameless symbol with my finger, a cold shiver running up my spine. Some secrets, I realized, were better left buried.

The bronze gate great-grandfather mentioned was in the place the northern tribes called the ancestral land. My father warned me to be extra careful with them. He had a feeling the tribes were about to change in ways no one could control.

That warning echoed in my mind every time I met with the Three Johns or read another border report. It was like waiting for a tornado—something terrible on the horizon, coming for us all.

A few months later, the general in charge of mutual trade was killed, his head sent to the border city. The northern envoys arrived, demanding even better terms. I caught a glimpse of a ghostly shadow on the envoy—different from the Three Johns. He still looked human, but his body was twisted, his features rearranged. He looked more human than the Three Johns, but somehow even more dangerous.

The sight of him made my skin crawl. There was a cold, calculating look in his eyes—almost worse than the monsters I’d gotten used to. That’s when I realized the enemy was changing, getting smarter.

The northern envoy demanded America hand over frontier cities for trade, and provide steel and salt. The Three Johns also submitted a report, hoping we’d open the border and make peace.

The requests piled up on my desk, each more outrageous than the last. I felt boxed in, surrounded by enemies I couldn’t even name.

That night, there were three times as many ghosts in the White House as before. Walter Jenkins always lingered outside my bedroom, watching my every move, not even bothering to hide it. When I felt most hopeless, the sky darkened, and the blood-red moon was covered. A rare lunar eclipse appeared, and all the ghosts in the White House changed shape, looking confused. Their monstrous forms slowly faded, replaced by almost-human faces.

The eclipse cast a creepy red glow over the city, making the monuments look haunted. For a second, it felt like the world had flipped upside down. I wondered if this was my shot at breaking free.