The Bully Chapter 6 Revereor

Chapter 6:  Revereor

Back in the hall, Joe sat at his table, a smug look on his face—he was winning, and soon he’d have it all. The room sparkled with laughter and music, an ordinary reunion—or so it seemed. Glasses clinked, bodies swayed. But every so often, the music skipped, the dancers froze, all eyes darting to the empty spot where Joe belonged. The beat resumed, and celebration swept through the room again.

The MC tapped Joe’s shoulder, inviting him to speak once more. Still high from the applause of his first speech, Joe wanted more.“This must be it!” he thought.

Euphoric, he strode onto the stage, face aglow with triumph. The crowd erupted—hands pounded tables, voices bellowed his name. For fifteen minutes, he basked in roaring adulation, drunk on the illusion of power.

He raised his arms. “Thank you!” someone yelled, and applause surged again.

Joe launched into a speech about himself—his triumphs, why he deserved envy—repeating the same rhetoric, only louder. Faces nodded in agreement, sheep admiring their shepherd. But as his boasts grew, something shifted. Smiles curdled to scorn; grins snapped into sneers.

A ripple of discontent swept the room.“What else?” someone called.“Speak up!” another demanded.

Joe pressed on, voice rising, trying to drown their mutters. Private conversations bubbled. Then, under some silent cue, people stood and advanced. Their smiles twisted into sneers.

Blinded by self-importance, Joe didn’t notice the crowd freezing. Their bodies shimmered, splitting into ghostly forms. To him, it felt transcendent. The bartender must have made this a spiritual experience. He was sure he’d reached another level—the Gandhi of his world.

The ghostly figures floated into Joe, each one sending a wave of elation through him. Egotistical ecstasy. When the last was entered, he collapsed, spent.

He staggered to his feet and apologized for the fall. The crowd cheered again, their smiles now too wide, too fixed—almost inhuman. He clapped for them and dismissed the party, then slunk offstage, exhausted.

Curiosity pulled him back for one last look. The room had changed. Guests turned their backs and filed out in silence, those grotesque smiles still plastered on their faces.

Only Fred remained, standing in the center, watching.

“We made a terrible mistake,” Fred said.“Whatever he did, it was too much. People are dead.”

Joe frowned. “I don’t understand. They were all here. They just left.”

Fred’s voice was flat. “Dead, ghost, spirits.”

Joe scoffed. He always felt superior to Fred and eagerly dismissed his comments.“You’re lying. You’re jealous. I never should’ve gotten you involved,” Joe snapped.“You’re a moron,” he added, laughing.

As Joe turned to leave, Fred replied, “Moron? Me?”Joe barked, “I’m done with you, man!”

But Fred wasn’t finished. He smiled, separated from his body, and his spirit entered Joe. Instead of fear, Joe felt ecstasy—a rush that left him dizzy. When he steadied, Fred was at the door. Before leaving, he turned back.

“I have a message for you from the bartender,” Fred said.

Joe’s eyes narrowed. He thought the bartender only spoke to him about the task.“Message? Why would he talk to you?” Joe scoffed.

“He made the deal with me. You don’t count. You’re just another person in the group,” Joe added.

Fred’s expression didn’t change.

“You thought you were getting revenge for being bullied. But you became the bully—and worse. You wanted devotion, worship. You wanted them to worship you. That kind of worship goes beyond revenge. Your vengeance meant controlling their souls. You wanted that, and you got it,” Fred said.

Joe was stunned—not by what Fred said, but by the realization that someone finally understood what he wanted. He was more rattled by being exposed than by Fred knowing the truth. He tried to cover, insisting, “I just wanted their respect, that’s all.”

Fred shook his head. “Nope. You got what you wanted.” He walked away, like the rest.

From the side of the stage, the warlock appeared. “You got what you wanted,” he echoed. “You confirmed three times in your hotel room and once in the void. You chose this, not for revenge, but for something deeper.”

The warlock’s eyes narrowed. “You overcame your childhood bullying. Your problem now is your character flaw—narcissism. You crave reverence, control. That’s your weapon, and your danger. Look how you reacted to Fred: it was about losing control, not being discovered. You’d do anything for that feeling—even make a deal with me.”

He smirked. “You’re not unique. Politicians, cult leaders—many are worse. But people die, Joe. Followers lose themselves, become dead inside. Wars, cults, denial of care—it’s all the same. It's just a matter of time in these cases.”

The warlock continued, “You wanted results now. I just sped it up. You didn’t give them a chance to change their minds. Now, they’re yours—forever.”

Joe tried to protest. “You said you liked correcting wrongs—like bullying.”

“That’s the irony,” the warlock replied. “You became the wrong. You took souls. My satisfaction is holding you responsible for them.”

Joe didn’t understand—how empty he truly was. Sirens wailed. Police rushed in, telling him there’d been a mass murder-suicide and asking him to help identify the bodies. As he moved from room to room, the truth hit: Fred was right. If they were dead here, who was at the party?

He remembered Fred’s words: they were ghosts—their souls. But in Joe’s mind, this wasn’t a tragedy. He rationalized that their desire to follow him was so strong that even death couldn’t stop them. It was what they needed. He pretended to be devastated, but was secretly ecstatic. That is, until he saw Fred’s dead body. Real fear crept in for the first time. Fred’s warning echoed. Now, all those souls were inside him—and they were angry.

Back in his room, Joe waited for the police, but no one came. He tried to distract himself, but the noise in his head grew—a chorus of whispers, relentless and haunting. Nothing silenced it for long. Desperate, he went to the bar, hoping the Warlock would be there. He felt some relief when he saw him there.

“You look distressed,” the warlock said, amused.

“What’s happening to me? What’s the noise?” Joe asked, clutching his ears.

“That won’t help,” said the warlock. “You think feeling guilty is punishment enough? This isn’t about regret—it’s about control. You didn’t just want worship; you took away their free will.”

Joe protested, “I’m not the first. Others do worse for power.”

The warlock nodded. “True, but they let people make their own choices—even if it takes time. Their victims can break free. But you forced obedience. Now, you own their souls. Forever.”

The noise in Joe’s head became sharper: relentless, negative comments. The fear and stress were familiar—the voice of his own childhood tormentors.

“Recognize it?” the warlock asked, fading away.

Joe stumbled back to his room, changed forever. The haunting voices inside him promised he’d never escape the consequences of what he’d become.