Work Text:
your life has been haunted for a long time. haunted by role models who only seem to disappoint you, haunted by death after death, haunted by the scars that litter your body that ache and ache .
and now, your house is haunted.
the ghost had knocked on the door. you went to answer it, and a dual-colored sheet jumped out at you, shouting a playful “boo!”
honestly, a seven-foot sheet covered in green and red blood should have scared you more, but you simply take a deep breath in. he’s a surprise, but when has your life ever been easy. and maybe a man who has killed you and hates you told you your husband was dead and now that dead husband is letting himself into your house. why not. ghostbur was a thing, but this boo is nothing like ghostbur.
he makes a beeline for the ladder at the back of the house and crawls it like he did a hundred other times. there’s humming and you hear thing being moved around above you. looking for your son. you collapse into a chair on the ground floor and cover your face. when you peek through your eyes, the ghost is in front of you.
“where’s michael?” he asks.
your speechless and cover your face again. “michael’s gone.”
“what do you-? i don’t understand.”
“someone took him.” how did you not notice, you ask yourself.
“how did you not notice?” the ghost reverberates your own thoughts.
you let out a dry laugh. “how did you not?” you ask accusatory.
the ghost takes a step back and straightens to his full height. “that’s fair,” he tilts his head. “i’m sorry.”
you scoff.
“where is he?”
“i don’t know. me and techno are gonna find him.”
your house is haunted. the ghost is not like the man you fell in love with. ranboo was nervous, but kind. the ghost- wow, you can’t even say his name, not even in your head- he has a newfound confidence, even in his steps, but he’s so apathetic. you almost wish he was like ghostbur. he would have been closer to the real the alive ranboo, then.
when you hear him rummaging around in the kitchen, you sometimes forget it’s not ranboo. and then you remember your husband is dead and has been replaced with a facsimile that hates his old self. it’s almost funny, the self-hatred, until you remember how much you miss the old ranboo. you miss him coming into the burger shop on his lunch breaks, you miss how soft he was with your son, you miss making fun of him only for him to laugh and call you short. you miss your husband and you miss your son and now your house is haunted.