A/N: The conclusion of this short story...when I thought of this part, I felt my eyes get wet...that takes a lot. Thank you for reading this and hope by the time Halloween rolls along, you have a new scary story to tell others! This story is actually based on (pardon the redundancy), a tale a friend told me in a sleepover. Spot the BioShock cameo! Reviews are welcome! Characters (C) USA
The next day, Gus arrived at Psych like he always did to meet with his best friend for breakfast. "Good morning Shawn!" he greeted, just like the day before, until he noticed Shawn's bandaged hand as he served up the bowls. "Dude, what the hell happened to your hand?" The fake psychic looked at his wound and shrugged. "Yeah, about my hand…yesterday, I did something incredibly stupid," he replied in a markedly soft tone of voice.
Gus scoffed at the notion of the younger Spencer making a fool out of himself. "What'd you do, Shawn? Piss off the SBPD by playing a prank on them? No, wait; you humiliated Lassiter in a case again, right?" the pharmaceutical representative suggested out loud. "I went back to the Tennebaum Orphanage." That one statement made Gus shake as if the room was freezing causing him to drop his spoon into the bowl. He had buried most of that experience when he himself had left his 'sacrifice' all those years ago.
"Shawn, what the hell were you thinking?! Don't answer that!" Shawn's face had a sad smile as he lifted the filthy yet still vibrant Eagle Scout badge ribbon. Burton was a grown man but when he saw that cherished item he had given up in order to survive, his eyes quivered as they welled up. His fingertips still remembered the sensation of yellow cotton, now stained with blood from Shawn's gash, and clothes badges, even after all that time.
The young man then patted his best friend on the back and let him cry it off as he exited Psych with a brown plastic bag. He hopped on his motorcycle, put on his helmet and drove off to the Santa Barbara Police Department, hoping to close the last open door to the sordid events…
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Carlton Lassiter was holed up in the Interrogation room just as O'Hara dragged the suspect away when Shawn promptly arrived. "Strange, the Chief already told Guster your assistance wasn't needed in this case," the Head Detective snapped, as usual, while Spencer made his way into the small space. "Actually, I'm here on another case, Lassafrass; one you are very intimate with…" Shawn started off as he slowly unwrapped the plastic bag to reveal Mr. Boo.
Lassiter's blue eyes widened and in his mind, Shawn saw an 8 year old boy reach out for his lost toy. "Spencer…how did you…why?" the older man could barely articulate a coherent sentence as he carefully held the dusty old teddy bear. "I wanted to be right so badly; and don't get me wrong I still am 99.8% of the time. But what I saw there was fucked up, and while I suppressed it to the point that I forgot, you didn't," Shawn said while putting a hand on Mr. Boo. Without considering that others may have been watching, Lassiter thanked Spencer with and embrace and a peck on the forehead. "Don't ever do something so dangerous and idiotic again; Wild Dog would've killed you on the spot."
"Trust me, it'll be a while before I can see the The Blair Witch Project without going through some type of post-traumatic stress reaction," Shawn assured with a light grin. As the two left, Lassiter still had one doubt about Spencer's story, specifically with the healing wound on his left hand. "If Mr. Boo is here…then what did you leave as a sacrifice?" The fake psychic rolled his eyes and sped up his pace while remarking, "About Hidden Gun #3…" "You didn't." As Carlton Lassiter chased Shawn Spencer out of the interrogation room, they both laid to rest their experiences at the Tennebaum Orphanage, as well as the disappearance case that had enticed Shawn to go back, to rest.
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Back at the orphanage, the blood the fake psychic had literally spilled on Gus's name and on the police-issue Glock had finally dried up in its entirety, cementing his tribute. The halls remained quiet save for a giggle or two as the putrid playground hummed with the breeze. The walls were still lined with children's drawings of fairytales, superheroes and other fantasies as Wild Dog's latest victim was dragged along the floor towards the bedrooms. The recurring shadows on their doodles provided an epitaph for themselves; a warning for all who he lured to their deaths…