Oh, Theyâre So Weird (â-â)
âYou recently got laid off of your job. Thankfully, you found an ad on Craigslist that paid quite a bit for you to just housesit! đŠâ
Contains: Nightmare, Curt and Rod, Betty, Keith, Lady Memoria, Artt, Johnny Splash
One moment you were wrapped in the warmth of your bed, the quiet hush of the house cradling you like a lullaby. The next, you were falling: slowly, gently, through a thick fog of velvet shadows and distant stars.
The sound echoed in the dark, heavy and deliberate, like thunder walking on silk. You turned, and the fog parted.
She emerged slowly, like a statue sculpted from moonlight and shadow.
Tall. Towering. Her figure was equine, but not just horse. The head of a snake made her not quite a unicorn. The head of a lion made her not quite a snake either. A mane like drifting ink. Hooves that left no mark on the dreamspace. Her many eyes glowed violet, rimmed with frost, and when she spoke, it was with a voice that echoed both within you and outside of you.
âYou came to the house,â she said, circling you slowly.
âIt let you in. Which means youâre lonely.â
âAll the others were, too.â
You took a step back, breath catching in your throat. You tried to speak, but your voice stuck somewhere between confusion and cold fear.
She stopped. Tilted her head.
âYou donât remember me, do you?â
âThatâs okay. People forget the bad dreams⌠until they wake up crying.â
Her eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped, soft and heavy:
âDo you remember what itâs like to be left behind?â
âTo be waiting by the phone for someone who never calls?â
âTo tell people youâre fine just so you wonât scare them away?â
âTo wonder if you were ever wanted at all?â
Each word hit like a nail through your ribs. You stepped back: once, twice, until your legs refused to move. Something tight and old rose in your chest. That familiar ache. That raw little voice you didnât talk about anymore.
âThat emptiness in your chest is shaped like someone you needed,â she whispered.
âAnd they never came back.â
Tears burned at the corners of your eyes.
Nightmare pulled away, her expression unreadable, but her glowing eyes softened. The fog around her shimmered, and her body shifted ever so slightly. Still powerful. Still haunting. But⌠smaller, somehow. Less imposing.
âSorry,â she murmured. âThat part always works too well.â
âBut I needed you to feel it first.â
âNow⌠do you understand what Iâm telling you?â
You stood there, breath shallow, the pain still raw, but clear now. Not a wound, but a warning. Not just from her, but about her.
You nodded slowly, voice hoarse. âYouâre not here to hurt me⌠youâre here to remind me that even comfort has shadows. That even kindness has to be earned. That⌠not everything in this house is soft and warm.â
It was loud. Gleeful. A full-bodied sound that echoed through the dream like silver bells and thunder. She tossed her head back, dark mane rippling with sparkles of starlight.
âHah! Youâre sharper than the last one,â she chuckled, hiding her face with a flick of her long mane.
She turned, her form already fading into the fog.
âRemember what I said, dreamer. Shadows follow even the warmest light.â
And with that, she vanished, leaving behind the faint scent of lavender, smoke⌠and something almost sweet.
You sat bolt upright, chest heaving.
The dream clung to your skin like smoke: dense, heavy, and too real. You could still feel the echo of her words ringing inside your ribs.
âThat emptiness in your chest is shaped like someone you needed⌠and they never came back.â
You rubbed your arms. Cold. You hadnât been cold all week. But now?
It felt like her shadow had followed you through the veil of sleep.
You looked around, heart still racing. The curtains were drawn again, but gently this time. Like they were being⌠cautious.
Even Curt and Rod, usually the sassiest voices in the room, were still.
Rod murmured softly, almost to himself,
âWe mayâve underestimated that one.â
âNightmare doesnât do subtle.â
They shifted quietly, slowly easing the curtains open: just enough to let a thin beam of sunlight spill across the bed. It stretched across your lap, warm and golden. Like a hand reaching out.
At the same time, the mattress beneath you shifted, not alarmingly, but gently. Like it was molding around you. Embracing you. The blanket tucked closer around your shoulders, soft and safe.
The feeling seeped into your spine like warmth in winter.
ââŚThanks,â you whispered, pressing a hand to the bed.
Betty: quiet, patient Betty, murmured in her own way. Not with words, but with comfort. With care. With the deep, familiar kind of touch that didnât ask questions. She knew what a nightmare felt like. She carried them for others all the time.
This wasnât the first time someone had woken up crying on her back.
And it wouldnât be the last.
You sat there for a long moment, grounding yourself. The bed. The light. The room. It was real. You were safe.
Your phone buzzed from the nightstand. You reached for it with slightly shaky fingers.
> Morning! Hope the house is treating you well. Would you mind cleaning the attic today? I know itâs a weird request, but Iâll pay an extra \$500.
> Please be respectful to the memories up there. Thereâs a lot of old things we care about. Some might⌠feel it.
You stared at the message, then down at your lap.
The sunlight was still warm across your legs.
ââŚMemories,â you murmured.
You thought about the broken hanger. About the random snacks. About the toast. About the strange, perfect coffee art. About how this house, odd as it was, had taken care of you.
You typed out a quick response:
> Sure. Iâll be careful.
You set the phone down and exhaled again, letting the warmth of the bed hold you just a little longer.
Nightmare may have rattled your bones, but the house, in its strange, loving way, was already stitching you back together.
The hallway stretched quiet and calm as you sipped the last of your coffee and approached the attic door. It was taller than you expected, old oak with a worn brass knob and hinges that looked like they hadnât been oiled in years.
You reached for the handle.
You jiggled it again, lightly rattling the knob. Nothing. You gave the door an annoyed squint and pulled your phone from your pocket.
> Hey, the atticâs locked. Is there a key somewhere?
You barely had time to turn around before your phone buzzed again.
> Whoops. Yep! Thatâs on me. Check the basementâKeithâs in there somewhere. Heâs hard to miss, looks fancy. Let me know if you find him!
You blinked, shrugged, and turned toward the basement stairs.
The basement was cool and dim, the air tinged with sawdust and the faint scent of oil. The light bulb overhead buzzed, flickering once before staying on. You made your way past tall shelves filled with tools and jars of screws until you reached the old wooden workbench tucked against the back wall.
A skeleton key, shining met with curling engravings. It sat on a worn patch of broken floor, resting with a kind of abandon that felt mean. Like someone just threw it down there with no regards as to where it went.
It was heavier than you expected, warm against your palm. Old, but solid.
ââŚHuh,â you muttered.
You didnât know why, but you felt⌠grateful. Like this key had been waiting for you. Like it wanted to be useful again.
Unseen, in the quiet world of the houseâs true heart, Keith practically glowed.
âFinally!â he thought. âSomeone gentle. Someone respectful. And they even used two hands⌠What a damn delight.â
Back upstairs, the attic door waited.
You slid the key into the lock, smooth as butter. The mechanism gave a soft click, and the door creaked open a few inches.
Sunlight flooded your face.
You blinked, squinting as warmth poured through the tall attic window, slicing through the dust like a spotlight. You pulled the door open further and turned to the table outside the bedroom, setting the key down gently.
"Thanks," you murmured, without even thinking.
Keith practically melted.
âBe still, my little notches⌠they said thank youâŚâ
The attic air hit you as soon as you stepped in: stuffy and dry, thick with the smell of dust, old cardboard, and the faintest trace of something nostalgic. The kind of smell that reminded you of your childhood home, or your grandmaâs closet, or a thrift store aisle where everything has a story.
The room was filled with quiet things.
Cardboard boxes stacked in rows. Some were labeled: Books, Seasonal, Old photos, Jamieâs stuff. One had no label at all, just a thick layer of dust on top.
There was a small fake plant near the door, slightly wilted despite being plastic. A canvas painting leaned against the wall. You caught yourself staring at it for a moment, like it was waiting for you to remember something you didnât know you'd forgotten.
Not old. Not dusty. Sleek. Black metal. Chrome handle. Digital keypad. Easily the most expensive-looking thing in the entire attic.
They really trusted you around that?
No lockbox. No warning. No instructions not to touch it.
Just sitting there, like it had nothing to hide.
You didnât go near it yet. Just⌠noted it.
But then again, this whole house had been strange since the moment you walked in.
Still, you had a job to do. You rolled up your sleeves and stepped deeper into the attic, ready to begin.
Behind you, the attic door creaked shut with a soft thud, and the light from the window shifted just slightly, as if adjusting for your presence.
And somewhere on the table outside the door, Keith sat proudly. Resting. Waiting.
You exhaled, hands on your hips, surveying the attic one last time.
Everything was back in its place: no, better than before.
Boxes were neatly restacked. Dust gently brushed away. Even the fake plant looked like it stood taller now, its leaves wiped clean and repositioned with care. The safe still sat untouched, undisturbed, respected.
But more than that⌠youâd hung the painting.
The lake scene, soft sunrise, still water, the kind of quiet beauty that felt like a memory whispered through glass. It now hung on the open attic wall where light struck it just right, like it belonged there all along.
You wiped the sweat from your brow and sighed through a tired smile.
Thatâs when it hit you.
A swell of deep, weighty gratitude pressed softly against your chest. Like someone had placed both hands over your heart and simply held you there for a second.
Unseen in the houseâs quiet, unseen realm, Lady Memoria stirred.
She had watched you handle everything gently: lift boxes with care, dust old corners without judgment, return photographs to their places without reading the names aloud.
âThey remembered,â she thought, eyes shimmering.
âEven though the memories arenât theirsâthey still remembered.â
âThatâs all I ever wanted.â
And near the freshly hung painting, Artt felt warmth bloom in his canvas. Not just because he was on display, but because someone had looked at him like he mattered. Not like an old decoration. Not like forgotten wall filler.
But like a story worth seeing.
âIâm here,â he thought. âIâm finally⌠here.â
Back in the hallway, you rolled your shoulders and trudged to your room, legs sore and heart full. You gathered your clean clothes and padded toward the bathroom, feet practically dragging.
The second the shower turned on, you felt your bones melt.
Steam wrapped around you like a sigh of relief. The tile warmed under your feet. The water pressure was perfect: firm, not aggressive, and hot enough to untangle every knot in your shoulders. It hit all the right places, cascading down your back in waves.
You let your forehead rest against the cool tile for a moment, water running over you like it understood.
"...Okay," you whispered. "This? Worth it."
And beneath the stream, though you couldnât hear him, Johnny Splash preened with pride.
âThatâs right,â he thought, puffing up with bubbly confidence.
âNobody showers like I give showers.â
âExcellence. Every. Time.â
He adjusted the temperature half a degree warmer without you noticing, because he knew you liked it just a little toastier near the end.
He was the MVP of water pressure. The unsung hero of long, tiring days.
You stayed under the stream longer than you meant to, breathing deep, letting everything fall away.
The attic. The dream. The safe.
Just steam, water, and quiet joy.
The steam still clung to your skin as you stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung lazily over your shoulders, hair damp and cheeks flushed. You hadnât even bothered with a full outfit: just a loose shirt and something soft to sleep in. The warmth from the shower was still in your bones.
You yawned as you padded down the hall, phone in one hand, rubbing your eye with the other.
That attic had taken forever. You hadnât even realized how much time passed while you were up there. All the memories. All the dust. That painting. That safe.
You collapsed onto your bed with a tired groan, body sinking instantly into the perfect hold of Bettyâs embrace. She adjusted around you without a word, like sheâd been waiting: pillows shifting, blanket settling across your legs, mattress rising to meet your spine.
You grabbed your phone, snapped a quick picture of the attic from earlier: neat, glowing, peaceful, and sent it to the homeowner with a simple:
> All cleaned. Hope it looks okay :)
You didn't expect a fast reply. But the DING came almost instantly.
> Itâs perfect. You handled it better than I hoped.
> Sending the extra $500 now. Thank you for being kind to the place.
> Payment received - $500.
You blinked at the screen, lips twitching up into a tired smile.
You set the phone on your nightstand and flopped fully under the covers, the day finally catching up to you. The weight of the attic. The heat of the shower. The strange pressure of the dream you were still trying to forget.
Even Curt and Rod stayed quiet tonight.
Just soft moonlight, and a curtain drawn halfway closed like it knew you needed less light this time.
The bed curled into your frame like a second skin, and your eyes slipped shut before you could even say goodnight.
But the house heard your silence.
And replied for you anyway.
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