𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄.

               ❝ don’t tell your father i told you this , ❞ she says , turning and glancing away from the blueprint momentarily to look at her middle child. ❝ but i think you got all your rhythm from me. i used to dance ,  in school. it helped me a lot. ❞ an activity that involved not touching people ,  that she had to concentrate on: it did wonders. maybe it’s something theo would want to do in the future. olivia knows she will wholeheartedly support her … even if it means being around entitled parents who think their children are the next best thing. ❝ what’s that song i keep hearing you listen to? it’s catchy. almost makes me want to dance myself. ❞ when was the last time she and the kids just heard a good song together and danced to it? she can’t even remember.

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐀 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 ( @detouch​ ).

“Dad dances like someone stepped on his toes.”   It’s true. It’s the regular and well-documented dad-dancing that shifts him from the heel of one foot to the other with a flailing of limbs that Theo’s pretty sure he doesn’t know what to do with... that’s as flashy as he gets. She’s a little standoffish -- has the hems of her sweater sleeves pulled hard over her hands, and she blinks a couple times when her mom asks about the music. (She always thinks she’s alone when she dances -- the makeshift dance studio feels pretty empty and there’s a TV with a VCR she can rewind the same video through. She hasn’t quite figured out all the moves, but she likes watching it over and over until some of it sticks.)

Guess what! She didn’t find a bathroom. It’s not a bathroom. Oh my god it’s not a bathroom. She feels around for a second with her shaking, trembling, shivering hands, grasping. Wool, wool, wool, cashmere, fabric— a coat closet. She’s found a funeral home coat closet. And the smell of funeral home mothballs and…. 

“ah!” 

It’s a startled sound because there’s this light thunk, but since she’s in hyperpanic, what can’t she hear? She accidentally takes down— a jacket that rips off and she falls with it, and she’s on her knees and realizing she’s crying but trying not to make a sense. There’s hands over her mouth until—

Theo? 

Dani.

“i’ll be right— out.” It’s a coat closet, Danielle. It’s a coat closet. She knows it’s not a bathroom. This is her sister’s house. She knows you just walked into a coat closet and hoped blindly that this was a bathroom but it’s not a bathroom god dani she’s gonna think you’re so stupid. God dani— 

“shit.” Comes clumsily out of her mouth, like she can hide somehow. She isn’t. Theo knows she’s here and it’s clear she’s freaking out, but when isn’t she? (Uh, maybe when she ran through a mansion filled with horrifying scary movie monsters but as people.) And she wants to open the door again and… mitigate this total humiliation, but—

She’s knocked down, like, half the coats and she’s just nested in them, clinging and clutching because at least, conveniently, this is grounding. 

There’s a clatter that sounds like Kevin’s shoes being kicked from one side of the closet to the other, and that’s fine because Theo’s been telling him to get rid of that specific pair of Nikes that scream mid-life crisis for the past three years. There’s another that sounds like a coat going down, the scrape of the hanger, the muffled thwump of shit falling on top of shit and -- okay. It’s been a long night. Fuck, it’s been a long fucking year. 

(That house will never leave them, and it’s pretty evident after the night they’ve had. It fucking feasts on them, pulls them apart, rib by rib, bone by bone, until there’s nothing but a noose and a greying corpse to make of them. Mom was first. Then Nell. It tried to take Luke, then Steve, then Shirley and Theo, then it went for someone totally fucking innocent. And honestly? They’re lucky to be alive. They’re lucky to -- not be stuck in the goddamn fucking red room. Jesus, there’s a lot to unpack there.)

           “Can I come in?”   It’s cautious. Theo has a pretty good idea of what’s going on -- the first night they met, it was something similar, but it was crouching behind a plant pot just off the porch and she was this close to being convinced that Shirley’s porch light was about to come on and she was going to stare them both down until they shifted it inside or Dani started breathing long enough to make it back to her car. Nice enough. Big pile of emotional issues to deal with. It’s a touch thing.

She tentatively closes a gloved hand around the doorknob and twists it, slowly, carefully, sure to keep everything level and calm because that’s a fucking coat closet and she’s cowered in the corner like there’s a whole spate of monsters sitting outside that door. Okay. Monster in the closet. Monster under the bed. She’s dealt with that kind of situation in kids a fraction of her age with pigtails and scuffed knees -- she can handle this.

                   So she does. She crouches, keeping a little space between the two of them, and eventually eases back on her heels and sits down opposite.

She’s used to being in control. Prefers it. She heard the car pull up and rushed to grab her shoes, but there’s something about the walls in Shirley’s guest house -- they’re selectively thin. (She says selective, because she’s pretty sure Shirley would’ve said something about the noise. More so than just calling it the pussy parade.) Oh fuck, she hears the distinct shrill tone of her sister. Something about a girl who comes back that feels kind of alien. Oh fuck, she’s talking to Shirley.

(Theo darts out, hopping into her shoes and slinging her jacket over her shoulder. This feels like a bomb about to go off, and yeah... she wants to avoid that. So she gives her sister a look, and -- oh, good. She can take a hint. Shirley wanders back to the main house, leaving Theo with her keys in one hand and an unlaced boot on her foot.)

It wasn’t a very fun conversation. She listened to the woman opposite her as patiently as she could, but the more she listened, the more her smile faded. All she could think was that Steve’s sister wanted the house for herself, because why else would she be there? Boy was she glad she didn’t have any siblings to contend with. Money. That always ended up being the source of familial fracture, didn’t it? Who got what from their parents once they died? I knew there was a catch, she thought. Nobody sells a house that beautiful, and that size, so cheaply –

The seconds ticked by loudly as she considered, in silence, what to say. Now she wished she’d never picked up the phone and cancelled on her friend. She could be at the bar by now, drinking, playing pool and winning, maybe hitting on the barmaid. Instead, she found herself in the middle of a family feud she knew nothing about, nor wanted to, and all because she’d bought somebody’s old family home. Zelda was sympathetic, at least. She guessed she would find it difficult to let go of her mom’s house, too, if it ended up being the only thing she had left of her. 

But the sale had been finalised a while ago. Zelda had been the owner of Hill House for a good few weeks by now, and had spent even more money on all of the tools and materials she knew she would need to fix the place up. She wasn’t about to let it go.

Zelda’s forehead creased, fingers lacing together as she leant her forearms on her desk, clearing her throat of its awkwardness.   “I uh –”   Her lips pursed.   “What do you want, exactly? It was a totally legal purchase. I had my lawyers check it all out. Look, I – I’m sorry, but the house is mine now. Fully. I don’t… really know what else to say to you. So… I guess if all you’re trying to do is get me to hand it back over, then we don’t have much more to talk about. Anything, actually. We don’t have anything more to talk about.”

To stress that continuing the conversation was pointless, she stood up and walked towards the door. When her hand touched the handle, she looked at Theodora again. Because she felt guilty.   “I am sorry. You can come see it or something, once I’ve finished with the renovations, if you really miss it. Or, well. I don’t know. I don’t know what to tell you.”

Theo feels her jaw set. Of fucking course she sounds like a jealous sibling pushed out of a windfall of cash. And honestly, fifteen grand had just about finished covering her PhD and the piece of shit book that would, theoretically, make all of them rich if they’d stuck around longer than the eight percent royalty cheque Steve decided to write out, but holy fuck. And yeah, that kind of stings, because if it had just been about money, Theo can learn a thing or two from Luke. Stealing. Cheating. Lying. There are easier ways of getting rich than fucking with that house.

“You should really read Steve’s book. It’s a piece of shit, but you’d at least understand it better. I can assure you, I don’t want a cent from that house. If I’m totally honest, I’d burn it to the ground before letting someone else set foot in there.”   And Steve’s a bastard for letting it go. He’s gone from a struggling writer to something of a sensation and there’s no fucking reason to sell that godforsaken house. (She remembers that night better than he does. He’s black gaps and creaking floorboards. Theo’s watching it through her dad’s fucking eyes and sensing corpses left right and centre. Fuck you, Steve.)

@detouch​ sent: “i’m just kind of a germophobe.”

        Mary’s hovering hand retracts. “I quite understand.”

        It feels like rejection, of a kind, but then, she can imagine how terrible it is to be someone leery of… Contamination, is that it? And to have someone hovering over you, fussing and patting and fluffing like an old lady over her bichon frise. She smooths down her sweater instead and moves a step away from Theo, giving her space.

        “Thank you for being… Forthright with me, Dr. Crain.” She means it. “Let me see. I was going to ask if you knew where there might be a… Hardware store, I suppose, in this area? I don’t know it very well.” She sighs. “I have–a bit of a project I’m working on. I’m looking for handles. Drawer handles.”

           “Sounds like quite the project.”   Theo keeps her hands to herself, and tucks them back into her pockets. It’s a comfort thing, really, and there’s a cold that settles itself on her face that Theo hasn’t been able to shake over the past few years. Being a germophobe is infinitely easier than explaining something she’s been trying to get to grips with for a solid thirty years. It breaks any semblance of familiarity, and Doctor Crain moves the next pawn onto the chessboard. She figures there’s a joke in there that’s held behind her teeth. It’s a what, I’m a lesbian so I know everything about hardware and DIY? that revels in a specific kind of levity that Theo’s never awarded herself, so she watches instead.

                 she  sits  before  her,  cross-legged  in  a  chair  opposite.  she  is,  no  doubt,  as  theo  remembers  her.  before  that  night.  when  the  softness  of  her  smile  wasn’t  tainted  by  the  corruption  of  hill  house.  when  she  was  still  just  her  mom,  and  nothing  had  changed.  but  everything  had,  and  she  knew  that.  she  knew  what  theo  knew.  liv  watched  her,  quiet  :  her  head  tilts  as  her  eyes  dropped  from  her  daughter’s  profile  to  the  bottle  and  back.     “     people  talk,  my  love.     “     the  gentle  tone  of  her  voice  has  a  slight  inflection,  implying  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders  that  she  does  not  allow.

                                           “     it’s  inevitable.  you  can’t  stop  it.     “     hands  previously  resting  on  her  knees  rise  to  gather  her  hair,  bunched  messily  as  she  moves  it  all  to  drape  over  one  shoulder,  and  she  quirks  a  brow  pointedly.     “     and  you  can’t  avoid  it  either.     “     unnaturally  green  eyes  fixate  upon  the  features  of  her  daughter,  older  now  than  the  last  time  liv  had  seen  her.     “     - - -  hello,     “     she  greets  in  turn,  polite  even  in  death,  and  no  less  concerned.  question  forms  in  the  knit  of  her  brow  as  she  leans  forward  slightly,  eyes  searching.     “     theo  …  why  am  i  here  ?      “

                               People talk. Somehow Theo figures that that isn’t the only reason why mom’s sat opposite her -- imparting advice is one thing, but people talk is another. (She feels like people have been talking all her life. The Crain Kids was nomenclature for the freaks with the dead mom in high school -- Hugh never helped them in that respect. Telling the fucking media that a haunted house killed their mom, then refusing to help clear shit up when it whipped up a frenzy. Alongside Nellie and Luke’s ghost stories, and Steve’s literary butcher’s job... so yeah. People talk.)

              “What, we can’t just hang out?”    For all her sage wisdom, sometimes Theo still has to keep the figment of her own fucking imagination at arm’s length. She takes a sip as she mulls it over -- what does that say about her?

“Rough week at work.”   It leaves pursed lips and Theo picks at the corner of the bottle label. She doesn’t make a habit of this -- something about mom showing up and Theo bearing new wounds feels a little sacrilegious, but hey. She’d prefer to live her actual life.

              “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”    There’s a fresh slug of beer that swills around the back of her mouth when she talks, and Theo crosses one leg over the other. She’s alone, thank fuck, because she’s sure it looks like she’s talking to the wall, or the ceiling, or hey, maybe even the bottom of the bottle. But no, there she is. Clear as day. (Theo wouldn’t believe herself if it was anyone else. If Nellie’d come to her and told her she was talking to mom, Theo’d ask her about her medication. And then she’d probably hear it from Shirl about minding her own fucking business -- to which she’d reply that honestly? It probably is her fucking business, Shirl.)