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Jazz was 9 when she noticed more noises, more feelings at home. She would wake up with a skip in her step and the distinct observation that the wallpaper was a bright, cheerful yellow and never peeled at the corners. She would go down the steps, and wince at the sight of Danny barreling past her, hand smacking on the wooden dowels of the railing as he went past. That's gotta hurt, she would think, gently rubbing the spots Danny had struck as she passed them. I'm sorry, she wouldn't say. Talking to the house would be crazy, and she wasn't crazy.
Just lonely, and appreciative of her home.
The fact her chair was somehow the perfect height, her usual bowl always sparkling clean, and she could always find what she needed at home were facts ignored, coincidences. After all, ghosts weren't real and she was simply a well organized child. Their parents could keep their crazy, she had to get Danny ready for school.
"She's just so sweet, Mystery!" The Fenton Townhouse gushed. "She's such a dear to have around, I wish you could see her, really."
The House of Mysteries snorts. "What'd she do now, Fenton?"
"She's just so gentle with me. It's like she can hear me, or at least feel me. Not me the house, but...Me."
The House of Mystery falls silent.
"...Mystery?"
"She might be a Whisperer."
"A what?"
Jazz was 10 when she started hearing voices. Well, one voice really, but it was concerning.
"Good morning, dear," a strange rattling voice whispered to her.
Jazz screamed.
Nobody came.
She didn't expect anyone to come, but it still hurt.
"...Jasmine?"
She was going crazy. She had to be.
Her alarm went off.
It was 6 AM. On a Tuesday. Her throat felt dry and tight, like it was impossible to swallow, impossible to breathe. She had to get up.
"Jasmine?"
The voice wasn't real. She's not crazy. She can't be crazy.
"Jasmine, dear, can you...can you hear me?"
"No," she replies, automatically jumping to deny, to defend herself. "I don't hear anything and I'm not crazy."
"Jasmine..." The distant, airy voice sighs, sounding worried. "You're not crazy, dear."
"Of course not," she replied, kicking off the covers and throwing her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet touched the floor and she was all too aware of how warm the floor beneath her was. "Nope! Not crazy," she continued, padding over to her dresser and ripping the drawers open. "I am not hearing voices, I am 10 and I am not crazy. Mom and dad are crazy, not me."
She ignored the crushing sadness that seeped into the room, the way the floorboards (They should be cold. That's what everyone says hardwood feels like. Cold. But it's not. It never is. Not for her.) stayed warm under her feet, and most of all she ignored the distinct whisper she knew only she could hear.
"...You were right," the Townhouse moaned, curling in on themself. "She is a Whisperer."
"Oh. That's unfortunate. Rare, but unfortunate," the House of Mystery replied, curling around the other entity in a way he hoped was comforting. "She has you. She'll be fine."
"She doesn't want to talk to me," the Townhouse huffed sadly. "Thinks she's crazy."
"Hm." The magical house just hummed in response. "And what about you?"
"What?"
"It's been ages since I saw you. How have you been?"
"...Lonely."
"I wish you'd come with me."
"Do you really?"
"Of course I do. I miss you every moment we're apart."
"Why don't you wind up in Amity Park someday? Near me?"
"You know why I can't."
"Right. Dumb question."
"No-"
"I've been missing you too. Let's just...Let's change the subject. Where did you go recently?"
And so, the House of Mystery regales the Fenton Townhouse with tales of his recent adventures in Paris.
Jazz was 12 when she started hearing other buildings.
They weren't as coherent, less words and more feelings, more the occasional thought and constant single minded emotions than the almost human sentience of the voice she heard at home.
It was terrifying.
She looked in the mirror, her ears were more pointed than they were as a smaller child, her eyes seemed to almost glow and her nails were tinged green. People didn't seem to notice, thinking it genetic when her brother shared the same, if less pronounced, traits as her.
It wasn't. She knew it wasn't. It couldn't be.
"Hey, House?" She murmured, running soapy hands under water to mask the noise. "Am I crazy?"
"No, dearest," the house shuddered. The lights flickered, and the air in the bathroom felt warm and welcoming. "You're a Whisperer."
"A what?"
"You can talk to buildings, dear. Some, like myself, more than others."
"There are other houses that talk like you?"
"Maybe not just like me, but yes."
Jazz frowned, thinking back on all the psychology textbooks she'd gotten from the library. "...Okay."
Both house and child knew she didn't believe them. Neither said a word.
"They've started expanding my basement," Fenton starts, looking up at the wide swirling sky of the House Network.
Mystery looks over the younger house, taking in the recent, rapid changes. "I see that," he replies. "They expand a lot."
"I doubt they get permits for half of it."
"I've never seen a building like you, so that's a safe assumption."
The Townhouse laughs, and the magical building feels something inside of him twist painfully.
You're so good with your residents, he doesn't say. I wonder if you'd be the same with an addition.
I wish you'd stay with me for longer, they both think when they part, citing duty as their reason for leaving.
Jazz is just shy if 13 when she hears the second voice.
It's a building across the street from the school, and she's never seen it before.
Classmates are daring eachother to go up to it, she walks up to the porch of her own accord, following some kind of gravitational pull.
"It's you," the house rumbles, amused.
She blinks, hanging her head, hand poised to knock.
"Hello, Jasmine."
Jazz blanches, knocking gently. Inside the empty halls of the magical building, the sound echoes. "How do you know my name?"
"There aren't many like you, the walls like to talk."
Jazz takes a shaky breath, hand inching toward the doorknob.
Her fingers brush against it, and all she knows is burning pain.
The girl runs from the porch, only letting tears fall when she's out of sight. She sits under a tree, staring at her hand.
It's pale, but there's a star shaped burn there. It feels like it should be an angry red, irritated and in need of attention, but it isn't.
She walks home a few minutes later, and never says a thing about the second sentient house to her home.
The burn doesn't go away, and the House of Mystery never says a word about it.
The voice at home is quieter after that day.
She tells herself it's a relief.
After all, Jazz Fenton can't be crazy. She's the normal one.