Chapter 4834: The Little Ghost in Charge (Thirty-Two)

By evening, Frank returned, reeking of thick blood. Even Coulson could barely stomach it. He said, "How many living people are left in Hampton now? Otherwise, maybe we should just let S. H. I. E. L. D. come in."

Frank opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, and said, "Get me a towel first. There's blood on my shoes."

A towel flew straight out of the bathroom and smacked onto his face. Strange, filling out medical records at the bar without looking up, said, "Get out. Come back in after you've wiped yourself clean."

Frank had a bad temper and generally wouldn't tolerate such disrespect. But as it happened, when he first arrived he had seen Strange filling out records and knew he was a doctor. And Frank respected doctors.

To be precise, he held a simple belief: he respected anyone who achieved high standing in a traditional profession — whether lawyer, doctor, or teacher — and his tolerance for them was relatively higher.

Moreover, he got along well with Shiler, and he didn't want to turn Shiler's new home into a crime scene with all that blood on him. So he went outside, intending to clean himself up before coming back in. But just then, Greed came in carrying half a pot of red vegetable soup, saw Frank standing at the door, and asked with some puzzlement, "Frank, why aren't you coming in?"

"I got some blood on me," Frank said while wiping, "Wait a moment, I'll be clean right away."

"Just wipe it out there, it's so cold. Hurry up and come in," Greed called to him, "This house doesn't mind that little bit of blood on you."

Still, Frank wiped as much as he could, at least making sure he wouldn't leave bloody footprints. He walked over, glanced into the pot, raised an eyebrow, and said, "What's this? Why does it look so much like..."

Frank's expression twitched, as if associating it with something unpleasant. Greed rolled his eyes and said, "Red vegetable soup. I guarantee there are no blood product ingredients whatsoever."

Only then did Frank breathe a sigh of relief. He was a bit violent, but not a pervert. In that moment, he realized he still had some bottom lines.

Greed ladled him a large bowl. After a sip, Frank frowned and said, "Ugh, a bit sour."

"Add some sugar yourself. How did Hampton go?"

"Quite a few more died," Frank said, "I only killed two. The other four suffered retaliation from ghosts."

He paused, then said, "I've already organized them. Had them stabilize their mental states first by reciting scriptures and praying. The ones who died were all drinking and doing drugs — purely seeking their own death."

"When people collapse, they always want to find something to numb themselves. But at a time like this, daring to take hallucinogens — they indeed died without injustice."

"What about the bodies?" Coulson turned back and asked.

"All sent to the police station," Frank said, "But the station's situation isn't optimistic either. Augustus died there. Most police are trembling in fear, and some even said they'd come find this place. I stopped them."

Greed just busied himself serving the soup and didn't speak. Frank wasn't a talkative person either. Especially since he wasn't a genetically modified human — he needed rest too. After eating a bit, he went upstairs to shower and sleep.

"Do you think the police will make a move?" Steve asked.

"We can wait tonight," Greed said, "I guess they'll send the bodies over. Because sending bodies to us is like making them disappear, no different from before. They'll think sending them to us is better."

"Good lord," Natasha exclaimed, "We're not Dracula. What if the cellar gets piled full?"

"No need to worry about that." Greed shook his head.

Thick red vegetable soup with bread, and each person pan-fried a steak. Everyone ate their fill. They should have sat by the fireplace chatting to digest, but Greed had them help write housewarming invitations. So they all gathered around the dining table writing.

"I say, is it really necessary to make it this grand?" Stark frowned, "Anyway, no feast is a good feast. Better to just notify them verbally and be done with it."

"From our standpoint, nothing good will happen. But don't forget, we're just homebuyers who know nothing and stumbled in here, completely unaware of the abnormalities here, and we're holding a banquet happily and grandly. That naturally requires grandeur to show we're completely unbothered by supernatural phenomena — only then will they know we seek nothing from them."

"My handwriting looks like dog scratchings, I'm not writing," Natasha said, "I'll fold envelopes instead... What? There's even a wax seal? Did I time-travel back to Tsarist Russia?"

Greed took his own written invitation, put it in an envelope, and sealed it with wax. Bucky glanced at it and said, "I doubt they'll even dare accept these letters. They look too much like a 17th-century ghost sent them across time."

Natasha admired her own handiwork too, shook her head, and said, "Nothing looks more like a ghost's trap than this. It looks exactly like gathering everyone into one house to wipe them out in one fell swoop."

"In fact, that is indeed the case." Strange folded an envelope, "I'm skeptical how many people will walk out of here alive."

"This precisely shows our respect for them," Greed emphasized, "You don't understand. They eat this up. And the more fearful the time, the more they like this useless dignity. It makes them feel they still hold all the power and are still respected. For face, they'll come."

Natasha thought for a moment — it really did seem to be that logic. The more insecure people are, the more they need external things to remind them they're still superior beings.

If at this time we notified them in a perfunctory, negligent way, they'd feel that once something happened, no one would take them seriously. But conversely, if we're exceptionally formal, even if it's just to find external anchors for their identity, they'll come.

"How do you plan to scare them?" Dr. Banner was more interested in this, "I'll say it first — I don't like bloody scenes. If there's any big spectacle, you tell me, so I can leave early and avoid triggering the Hulk."

"That is indeed a problem," Coulson looked at Greed, "Although the Hulk has been quiet lately, there's no guarantee he won't suddenly come out. You'd better not pull any sudden ambushes."

"How about this," Greed thought a moment and said, "I can guarantee the first corpse will be completely non-bloody. After that, you go back to your room, Doctor."

Dr. Banner nodded. He clearly had no interest in such a banquet; with this time he'd rather hold an online group meeting with students — communications were restored anyway.

East Hampton's population wasn't large. Within the supernatural blockade range, there were actually only a few dozen households — just that the big families had many people, various main and branch lines, all living in one large manor.

The custom on the American side is to send invitations by nuclear family unit. That is, neither one per person nor one per big family, but by the unit of a married couple and their children.

For example, this generation of the family has three sons, each married and established. Even though they share the same surname and all live in the same manor, three invitations must be sent. Add envelopes and wax seals, and these few people were busy until the middle of the night before barely finishing.

When they tidied up and prepared to go upstairs to sleep, Greed went out to look. Sure enough, a huge pile of bodies was stacked in the backyard. Needless to say, the police delivered them again.

"You all go sleep," Greed said to them, "I can move them alone."

Steve wanted to help, but was dragged away by Stark. Once upstairs, Stark lowered his voice and said, "That freak is up to something in the cellar. We'd best not go over."

"What's he doing?" Steve asked with some confusion.

Not that Steve lacked aggression, but his impression of Pride wasn't good either. Because the man exuded too much Gotham temperament — Steve had a poor impression of everyone from Gotham. Not a single normal one among them; all like walking time bombs.

"Playing with corpses," Stark lowered his voice, "What else could he be doing?"

"You don't want to stop him?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet? Only a madman can deal with these Hampton people." Stark shook his head, "They won't shed a tear until they see the coffin. Whoever sees Gotham sheds tears."

Next morning, the bodies in the backyard were gone. No need to guess — they'd all been moved to the cellar. And Pride hadn't appeared. Steve didn't know how one could play with corpses all night, but he'd learned not to dig deeper.

The snow finally stopped. They could finally go out and buy things to prepare for the banquet. Food ingredients weren't lacking, but the banquet also needed ceremonial items — red carpet, tablecloths, cutlery, and such.

The weather was a bit cold now, outdoor segments were basically gone, so the interior needed even more meticulous arrangement. They split up to go shopping.

Although they couldn't leave Hampton, Hampton naturally had malls. During the blackout, the vast majority of ordinary staff left. And now with the blockade, they couldn't get in. The mall was nearly empty.

But there were still a few employees who lived locally. They helped the group check out. Steve noticed these people clearly knew something too, just weren't troubled by supernatural phenomena. This showed they knew part of the truth but hadn't done anything guilty.

Once things were bought, they could set up. They started moving tables, laying red carpet and tablecloths, placing candelabras, and assembling the champagne tower.

Assigning this task to Natasha was purely putting the fox in charge of the henhouse. But unfortunately, only she understood the champagne tower's structure best here — she could even pull four glasses from a layer of eight without toppling the tower — so it had to be given to her.

Natasha didn't disappoint — she got dead drunk. To the point that when the banquet started the next day, her hangover hadn't cleared. Bucky had to fish her out of bed and make her hurry up, dress, and attend the banquet.

The hungover Natasha was irritable. She slapped Bucky aside with one hand, put on her evening gown, casually ruffled her hair, didn't do makeup, just swiped on some lipstick, and stumbled down the stairs in high heels. Bucky followed helplessly behind.

The still-drowsy Natasha wanted another drink to perk up. She forced her eyes wide open, saw the champagne tower standing in the center of the banquet hall, wiped her face, and walked toward it.

Arriving before the champagne tower, Natasha was still in a trance. Just as she reached out, a black shadow fell from the atrium.

"Bang!"

"Splash!"

The beautiful drunkard lady was drenched like a drowned rat. Natasha squeezed her eyes shut, clenched her fists, and with all her willpower suppressed the impulse to draw her gun.