#prolonglaughter

‘tasteful’ isn’t a word elena is sure could be used to accurately describe the rager going on inside those doors, but luna’s sincerity is like honey oozing down her throat, leaving the laugh that follows smooth and filled with a surprising warmth. 

it’s an impressive feat - most of elena’s laughs are rather hollow these days, as much effort as she puts into warming up her vocal cords before she leaves her room for the day, practicing for perfect pitch (the girl who lost her parents has only one line, with just a few variations: i’m fine, thank you, she tells the mirror before turns toward the door, lingering for a moment more to steel herself for a day of convincing the world she means it). they never quite reach her eyes, and the only relief elena can find is that no one ever seems to notice. 

this one does, however, and she’s not quite sure how to handle that; it should be a victory, surely, but it frightens her to think what comes after victory, that it might be an isolated event. it’s that thought that prompts another sip of her beer, makes it almost tempting to head back inside - old elena would have loved it in there, soaked up all of the attention and bluster and noise, and maybe it would come back to her like muscle memory, like riding a bike, like driving a car. 

driving a car. she laughs again at the sick irony of that, but the bitterness has crept again, roughened up what the other girl’s earnestness had gentled to butter. 

She's felt as though her house has always been haunted, but there is something about the serene look in Luna's eyes that makes spencer wonder whether she's all there. More, it almost ( emphasis on the almost ) makes her believe luna can see something spencer doesn't.

For all her poetry and prose when describing the way her house makes her feel, she's always been better with equations that give a direct answer. She can write an analytical paper or complete complex calculus equations but when asked about anything spiritual, her answer was simple: i believe what i can prove.

Then alison died and there was proof, yet she kept thinking she saw her around town and was definitely visited by her. She didn't know then it truly was ali, but it was enough to start planting doubt about what spencer truly knew. There were gaps in her memory from that night, pieces she kept chasing after but it felt more like she was on a treadmill as they got further away. She could never connect those pieces until ali was sitting across from her telling Spencer that she didn't do this.

All the agonizing was for naught, but it's that thought she has now when luna talks about her house being haunted. Alison's isn't the only ghost she believes takes residence in her home. No, she could list the name of each of her best friends but maybe, most of all, herself. Pictures and trophies of the girl she was supposed to be even if it left her miserable litter her room even now. Reminders of a girl long gone, but she feels more at ease now than she ever did then.

But still the ghosts linger: looking around the living room and seeing where ali used to lounge, where hanna sat at the counter, where she and Aria would discuss the latest classics, or where emily would sit watching them all but maybe watching ali the most.

Then there's her parents, ian, melissa, mona, the dilaurentis', bethany, shauna, wren, toby, the list keep going and the ghosts keep piling up until she's sure she can no longer breathe. "There's a lot of history here." Not much of it is good. A piece of her died in this house every day she lived there.