Creepy house. Of course it’s a creepy fucking house. No job offer for this amount of money is ever gonna be a fucking two-bed apartment in the middle of the city, is it? That’d be too simple. It’s one of those stupid stately homes in the middle of nowhere with a long, winding road that heads only to the front door and nowhere else. Hill House was nothing in comparison though -- unkempt and frayed at the edges, or... totally fucked with a history to suit.

Where Hill House fell short, this place slammed everything on the head with a ten-tonne weight. (God, she needs a fucking drink every time she comes, and each time, she keeps her gloves pulled up to her wrists and tucked under the hems of her sleeves. Fuck this place.)

Two hours. It’s two hours before she drags herself away from those kids and hunts for anything even vaguely alcoholic to press down the reminder of creaking floorboards and shadows where there shouldn’t be shadows. And this... probably isn’t the healthiest coping mechanism (trust her, she should know) but Theo roots through the cupboards in the kitchen until she finds what she’s looking for. Bingo. Vodka. 

         “Jesus fuck!”   It was a very subtle cough-and-you’ll-miss-it (is that even an expression?) scuff of shoe, or drag of chair against the stone floor that snaps Theo’s head around.

             “Unless you're hiding a bottle of whiskey in that jacket, I’m not interested.”

This is what she knows: ghosts don’t exist. Nell leaves voicemail after voicemail stating the opposite, and maybe she’s a little more sympathetic to the cause than she’d like to be, but ghosts don’t exist. Kids construct to make sense of things. To validate what they don’t understand -- make some shit up and let an overactive, growing spate of nerve endings do the rest. Ghosts don’t exist. But then Penny... is Penny. What the fuck is Penny.

He talks a lot and at some points he reminds her of herself. Other points, he reminds her of Nell. Astral projecting and whatever other fucking bull that comes outta his mouth. Each to their own, but there’s something about having a root around someone’s brain outside of a soft-play therapy area with lego bricks and dolls that doesn’t sit right with her. 

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.)

        this house seems to have caught its breath. with the kids asleep --- and hopefully safe in their beds, though flora seems to wander more and more --- and everyone else gone, to home or to bed or to whatever corner of this big, old manor they hide in, it seems paused between one groan and the next. dani doesn’t know what to make of it, sometimes. but it’s still...better. someone else’s ghosts, and not her own; yeah, she can handle that. and, predictable as ever, she’s gotten attached.

        ill-advised as it might be, dani waits for the kettle to boil and tries to remember miles’ advice about tea bags and stewing. who knew that being american wasn’t enough to scare these brits off, but her hot beverage skills might be. how hard can it be, huh? at least no one’s---