#a c.onjuring-esque

@allroundlostcause

It’s not exactly unheard of, to bring their work home with them. Some spirits, especially the nasty ones, can be like wads of fresh-chewed gum on the sidewalk. They stick on, wedging themselves in all the creases where they’re hard to see and harder to dislodge, and Manny doesn’t always know until he and Ric are curled up in bed at night and the lights start to flicker. 

Oh, they have precautions. They cleanse the house on the regular, and Manny’s picked up such a wide array of protection charms over the years that he could probably sell the things wholesale and still have plenty for Alaric’s little bungalow. 

But the system isn’t perfect. Protection wards are prophylactic     they do their best to keep the evil out. But the rare entity that manages to slip through? To outsmart or overpower the safeguards Manny has so painstakingly woven into their sanctuary? 

Those are the really horrible ones. 

It starts, this time, as a dream. At least, it felt like a dream. Wandering through the darkened halls of their house, fog drifting pale and milky across the tops of his feet. There’s something there. He can feel it, hear it like rats scampering in the walls. It whispers without words, in tongues of hunger and malice. And as he walks, he gets this … sense, that something is there. Behind him. Something walking in his footsteps, masquerading as his shadow. 

He stops. The library isn’t the library he remembers. The books have no titles; the paintings have no faces. And suddenly, he knows. A dream, not a dream    it doesn’t really matter. Because in every way that matters, this is real. The cold prickle on the back of his neck, like huffs of icy breath across his spine, are real. His fingers curl to fists at his sides, and he forces himself to breathe. In. Out. Real doesn’t mean powerful.

This is my home. He hears his voice, but he doesn’t speak. It echoes in the endless, encroaching dark, and the chill sharpens at his back. Closer. Closer. Pressed against his spine, sharing his breath. You’re not welcome here.

The cold doesn’t abate. The whispers grow louder, clearer, hissing secrets in Manny’s ear    terrible, unnatural secrets. Not meant for the living. 

I said      He turns, and there she is. He can feel the fabric of her veil against his face, like cobwebs and black rain. He can’t see her features, but he hears her breath, rattling and rasped. Bated seconds pass with the slow, distorted ticks of the cuckoo clock, until      

Her wail is shattered glass. A shrieking kettle. It’s tragedy and cruelty and malice and rage, and Manny stumbles back as she surges toward him, veil sucked back into a gaping, endless maw. 

He hits the ground, and the light flickers suddenly on. No smoke. No whispers. There are titles on the books and faces in the paintings, and the cuckoo clock ticks steadily as Alaric drops his hand from the lightswitch in the doorway. 

“You weren’t in bed,” Alaric says, hoarsely. His eyes are wide, despite the late hour. Worried. He’s worried, and Manny doesn’t have it in him yet to tell him not to be. HIs heart is in his throat, thudding a hummingbird beat behind his tongue as he scans the room for any signs of her. 

“I    ” he starts to say, but his voice breaks. Alaric’s there in an instant, kneeling down beside him and pulling him into a hug. Manny didn’t know he was shaking until Alaric’s there to hold him steady, warm hand rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Manny wishes he could say this is the first night it’s happened. Wishes he could say he doesn’t know what’s going on.

But when he opens his mouth again, all he manages to say is, “It was her.”