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Arthur didn’t believe in ghosts. Sadly, his best friend did. And even sadder, he decided to go hunt them, drag Arthur along, and hook cameras up to them both.
There were worse ways to make money, Arthur supposed.
Although, standing in front of an imposing yellow building past nightfall certainly didn’t make it into the ten best decisions he’d made in his life. It was well over a century old, striking a solid, sharp figure across the night sky. The overgrown grass brushed against his fingers as he balanced his backpack on his knees, rummaging through it by touch, as he couldn’t see shit in the dark.
“Thought you said this was an art school?”
“Used to be!” Parker confirmed, trudging ahead. For a guy deathly scared of ghosts, he certainly rushed to meet them.
“Shut down in 1895!” he added, trying to get a good, sweeping shot of the entrance.
“Weren’t asylums normally painted yellow back in the day?” Arthur struggled with his own equipment. The stupid cave headlights Parker had insisted they get never sat right on his head.
“Yeah. The asylum got shut down and turned into an art school. Then shut down permanently. I told you this in the car !” frankly, he’d been preoccupied wondering if there was a decent bar somewhere near their hostel. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was just that he thought every single place they went to was as haunted as a litter box.
“We gonna be aiming for the mad artist angle tonight then?”
“We never aim for an angle! You just make half your footage unusable so I gotta pad out the runtime.” Parker huffed, setting the camera as still on his shoulder as he could. Arthur bit back a retort, and followed his friend inside.
The inside was just as cheerful. An empty lobby full of cracked tiles greeted them, sunk in shadows and drenched in dust. Arthur slowly turned his head, trying to get a good look at the building as light from his headlamp spilled into it. There was graffiti on the walls, circles and squiggles of all types. One of the windows on the twisting stairwell above them had broken, and shards now glistened as he turned. Left. Right. Left. Like dancing flames in a fireplace.
Overall, a pretty standard haunted place. Surprising it wasn’t played up more, all things considered. He turned to say as much to Parker, but his friend was pale, glancing at the door. His lips were set in a tight line, hands balled into fists. Arthur knew exactly what was going on.
“We gonna kick some ghost’s ass?” yes, Parker believed in ghosts. They scared him. The idea that something could be out there, harming him, but that he can’t punch it back, that he can’t do shit - that was what truly terrified him. Arthur, on the other hand, figured if they were real, he’d have been haunted ten times over already.
“I hate this place.” Parker muttered, eyes snapping to Arthur.
“You hate every place we go. You’re an awful travel coordinator.” he tried to bring some lightness to the situation. They hadn’t even entered, and Parker already wanted out. But instead of teasing back, saying something about how they should open a travel agency, Parker shook his head.
“There’s something evil here. Something…” he trailed off, glancing towards the door again.
“Malevolent?” Arthur picked the most dramatic word he could think of, exaggerating it with his accent. He looped an arm around Parker’s, and tugged him along.
“Can’t be more evil than your attempts at making spaghetti. If I ever die, it was food poisoning, and Parker did it.” he said directly to the camera.
“The school had a few departments. Acting, music, painting, sculpture, and writing. Every single one is haunted.” Parker added a bit of dramatic flair, coming back to himself as they stood at the bottom of the staircase.
“Each room has reported activity, although the basement theatre is the most active.”
“The basement theatre? Was there also maybe a masked prick extorting them?” Arthur interrupted, but Parker ignored him.
“One of the music rooms upstairs is also a hotspot. So I figured we might try to get a nice activity sandwich.” he stepped on the stairs, worn stone slippery from years of use.
“Oh. I actually think I forgot to bring ours.”
“What, hotspots?” Parker’s voice turned worried. Being stranded somewhere with no internet in the middle of the night didn’t sound great.
“No, sandwiches.” Arthur listened to the sigh of annoyance with a smile.
“You’re right. When you die, I’ll have killed you.” his friend muttered with no real malice, and Arthur chose to remind him who had the taller frame by jumping over two stairs at once until they made it to the floor above.
It looked as dead as the ground floor. Rotten wood swayed under their feet, and a sickly sweet smell permeated the air. There was a pile of what Arthur assumed to be bird droppings in the corner, and he pointedly stepped away from it. Shadows clung to the doorframes like webbing, and he couldn’t help but note that at least some had been partially torn off.
“So! This floor is where the musicians and writers were. Since they didn’t have to carry around much, they got put up here, and sculptors and painters got the ground floor.” Parker stepped forward, indicating Arthur towards the room at the very end of the hall.
“When a play performance went awry, they were all stuck up here.”
“With a functioning set of stairs.” Arthur dryly noted, trying not to tense too much at the idea of being stuck up there at the piano with a catastrophe going on a mere floor below. Trying not to wonder if he’d even had noticed it. Or evacuated.
“Yeah, well, the issue was, things were going down literally . Their exit had been blocked off. The school got shut down, yadda yadda, and now we’re left with at least one restless spirit right up here.” Parker waved his camera at the door before them. Arthur glanced at it half-curiously, then froze.
“Seems their exit had literally been blocked off.” All along the doorframe, remains of planks and nails, broken, splintered, rusting, dotted it like pockmarks.
“That’s the thing - those had been added later .” Parker ominously said. Arthur decided not to let him know some seemed like they’d been torn down from the inside.
It was a room of a confusing layout, to say the least. Walls didn’t quite match up, sometimes sticking out for a few inches before abruptly returning to their normal width, sometimes corners meeting at odd spots that didn’t match the ceiling.
“Love the architecture! What’s this style called, acid bricklaying?” Arthur quipped, taking a better look. For one, no needles or broken glass on the carpeted floor, which made it a five star hotel in comparison to some of the other places they’d been. The light spilling through tattered, pale curtains revealed some dubious stains, and Arthur cringed remembering the bird droppings in the hallway. He was burning these shoes the first chance he got.
“It used to be an asylum. They had to break the walls between the rooms to make space for all those instruments.” Parker vaguely gestured at the cramped piles of haunting shapes, clad in golden protective cloths, but Arthur refused to lift his gaze from the carpet to look at them. There were nonsensical black lines woven into it, overlapping and breaking in odd patterns. The combination of odd light and the fade of time gave the sensation of a worm crawling over his eyeballs when he tried to focus on the pattern.
“There’s a spooky haunted painting here. In case you want to look at something other than the floor.” that caught his attention, Parker’s voice cutting through the fuzz in his head. He followed his friend’s gaze to a glittering frame dead centre of the room. Even from a distance, he could tell the abstract style was way too modern for when the school shut down. Fucking fantastic. They’d come all that way for a scam. Behind him, Parker was launching into an explanation:
"The ghost in this room was never identified. They nicknamed him John Doe." Parker paused for a dramatic beat to be added in post. Arthur glanced at the canvas. It was a big, messy thing, made in harsh strokes of yellow and white against a black oil backdrop, framed in gold.
"Visitors have often claimed they felt someone watching them in the room. Some have even said that they saw their own faces in the painting."
"You sure that wasn't a mirror?" Arthur deadpanned, approaching closer. The lines on the painting intersected, and some looked as though they'd been smeared. It oddly worked to give the painting depth, and an appropriate level of creepiness in the low light.
"Actually, I can see some resemblance between this and your hair in the morning!" he mockingly exclaimed.
"Some people say the ghost actually resides within the painting."
"Does he pay rent?" Parker laughed at that. It was why Arthur was there, afterall. Prove it's all a bunch of bullshit, sure. But also help his friend who saw every shadow as some spectre or another, and heard every creak as some horror crawling out of the dark to grab him.
"Well, apparently he's also a music lover." Arthur sucked in a breath. There were several instruments in the room, including an ominously familiar shape in the corner, covered by a shimmering cloth. But Parker simply produced a cheap, plastic recorder from his pocket.
"Here you go, virtuoso!" Arthur took it, before turning to the painting.
"Hey, if you hate what it sounds like, throw something at my friend here!"
"Wait- hold on, he's the one producing the noise!"
"And if you really hate it, throw him down the stairs!"
"Do not." Parker nervously added, as Arthur began producing a truly horrible rendition of Mary Had A Little Lamb. Parker winced at it, saying something to the camera Arthur couldn't hear from the grating in his ear drums.
"Well, there goes your Broadway career!" Parker chuckled.
"There goes my hearing." Arthur muttered, hairs still on end from the plastic toy's screeching. There was a feeling at the back of his neck, like his clothing tags were stuck to his skin. He rubbed it with his hand. His shirt must have gotten pressed oddly during the car ride.
They hadn’t gotten a whole lot more out of the painting room, but they didn’t need it. Arthur’s “headphone users warning” recorder skills were content enough. He chuckled as Parker still pointed the camera at him as they were going downstairs, as though that’d help them catch anything.
“So like, did the other ghosts have IDs on them?”
“What?” Parker smiled, despite the clear confusion on his face. A cold gust of wind came through the broken window, and both men pulled their jackets closer.
“Well, you said all the other ghosts had been identified. So did they have IDs? Do they pay rent, is it like, a landlord thing, or-” Parker’s elbow slammed into Arthur as he slipped on the old stairs, cutting off his words and air. Rough plastic scraped his knuckles as he grabbed Parker’s jacket, tugging him back before his friend could crack his head open on the steps. Instead of a “thank you”, Parker whirled around with a furious expression:
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me? Is falling down the stairs some way to summon ghosts now?”
“You pushed me! ” Parker’s shout echoed in the empty stairwell. Pushed him, pushed him.
“I. Didn’t.”
“I felt hands on my back-”
“You slipped, your camera probably hit you!” Arthur argued. He felt something in his chest squeeze tightly at the idea of his friend thinking he’d just shove him down the stairs in some decrepit building, even as Parker raked his fingers through his hair, trying to calm down.
“Right. Yeah, yeah, you’re - this whole damn place has me on edge.” he wrapped his hand firmly around the cold, dusty railing.
“At least it’ll make for good footage, huh?” he added with forced levity, but Arthur didn’t laugh. They continued down the stairs in silence.
When they reached the ground floor, Parker pointed him towards the back.
“The painters and similar artists were in the front of the building. Sometimes they’d even sit out in the foyer, painting everyone who came their way. But, there was a garden behind the building, so sculptors got put in there. Their projects would decorate the garden.”
“So one half was party tricks and the other free decorators?” Arthur dryly asked.
“The school specialised in marble, actually. So maybe if you were really into rocks. Their works are still preserved!”
“And the painters’ aren’t? That haunted painting up there seemed fine. Does the ghost do restorations as a side gig?” Arthur didn’t give a damn about the paintings five seconds ago, but now that he knew that they were there, right opposite them, he very much so wanted to see them.
“Couldn’t tell you. That side is all locked up. They never found the key?” Parker added, a bit awkwardly. Granted, that was a lot less scary than don’t-enter-there-half-the-building-is-cursed, but Arthur couldn't help rolling his eyes. How do you just lose a key to half your building, especially after a tragedy? His mind drifted to the room upstairs, and the torn boards on the door.
“Maybe they hadn’t lost it.” Parker’s bewildered look promptly shut him up. He didn’t want to scare him more, lest his friend literally ran out of the building. Wouldn’t have been the first time he tried.
Instead, he silently followed Parker into what was best described as a hall. Arthur had the creeping suspicion it might have actually been the eating area, back in the asylum days. Figures emerged from the dark, smooth and unfinished, silver under their lights. They were dotted around the space evenly, to create enough space for working students, presumably. Some were their height, others barely to their knees. One in the corner was well over a head or two taller than Arthur, and he tried not to feel unease at the stature of it. Nothing cushioned their footsteps here, and each sounded clear, noise echoing in a room full of silent marble.
“Was the school big on mythology?” Arthur asked, studying the big one better. Its body was human enough, but the head reminded him more of a sheep or a ram. Maybe it had been a botched Minotaur attempt.
“Yeah, actually! It was their whole thing.” Parker grinned, glad that Arthur was interacting with the historical part for once.
“It was the nineteenth century. It was everyone’s thing.” Arthur clapped his hands, pretending to roll his sleeves up.
“So! Where’s the ghost?” his confidence faltered right along with Parker’s expression.
“Well, her statue’s in the garden, but she’s also active here.” Arthur watched in confusion as Parker turned his camera off.
“She was a student here too, but not a sculptor. Her boyfriend was. Best in class. She didn’t die when… all that happened. She’d disappeared some time before that, and then he brought in a super realistic statue of her. Nails, hair strands and all.”
“Fuck.” Arthur muttered.
“You don’t have to - I can do this part.” Parker carefully said. He looked like he was still half-worried that Arthur would push him down the stairs, running his hand through his hair. It made Arthur feel even worse, a deep seated nausea he used to chase away with alcohol until it all came out of him, through tears or other means. Parker knew which unsolved mysteries to avoid, which haunted places never to take Arthur to, no matter how much the fans begged.
“Thank you.” was all Arthur said in response. Parker took a step closer, then back away, clearly unsure of what to do. For his part, Arthur shimmied out of the hall, casting one last look at Parker.
His friend, surrounded by statues, the liveliest thing in the room, somehow also seemed like the smallest.
Arthur sat down against the wall, cold, peeling plaster sticking to his skin and hair. He figured Parker wouldn’t take too long in there. Of course, he’d still have to go in during solo investigations, but this meant he’d skip the questioning about the girl’s death. He knew Parker would let him skip it later too, but if they both skipped everything that made them recoil, they wouldn’t have a show in the first place.
Besides, he owed Parker as much.
The light from his lamp pooled on the floor, disappearing in all the cracks and uneven ground. In some spots, grass had sprung up, which gave Arthur very little trust in the foundations of the building itself. When had the asylum even been built? Nineteenth century? Earlier? Had the art school ever bothered to update the structure, or whatever board had deemed the building safe enough for trips like theirs? His eyes stung from the sharp light and dust and… something else.
Exhaustion. They’d been up since six in the morning, having driven for hours to even find a hostel. Leave alone all the packing and repacking and the drive to the site itself, which was a ridiculous distance from the nearest town. Arthur was pretty sure Parker had mentioned how the school used to have housing on site, but he hadn’t paid enough attention to recall. Now, he was feeling the full effects of it, and he wanted nothing more but to just sleep. He could lie down on the floor for all he cared, he needed rest . Setting his camera on the floor, he put his head in his hands, knees tucked tight. His eyes closed, much heavier than they were minutes ago, when he was too busy catching Parker to notice. He was fully prepared to drift off right there and then, but a sudden slam of the door made him snap his head up, smacking it against the wall. His soft curses joined Parker’s loud ones.
“Fuck that, fuck that fucking place, fuck this whole damn building, fuck-”
“Did the ghost speak to you?” Arthur mumbled, pain jolting him awake.
“Something fucking watched me . And I swear, that fucking statue-” Parker cut off, drawing in unsteady air.
“It. Breathed.”
Arthur gave him an unimpressed look. Sure. A breathing statue. It can go right alongside the musical theatre connoisseur painting. Parker shifted under his gaze, shoulders dropping.
“In retrospect… that might have also just been me.” he ran his fingers through his hair, muttering something Arthur couldn’t even hope to make out.
“You said there was also a theatre?” he shifted the conversation topic, stretching until every vertebrae in his back gave a disturbingly loud pop . Parker made a disgusted expression at the sounds ringing out in the empty room, but replied all the same:
“Yeah. It’s - it’s right over there.” he pointed to the middle of the lobby.
“Well, that’s the uh… basement entrance.” Parker said, as Arthur cursed under his breath. They were standing above a trap door, barely big enough for one person to squeeze through.
“How the fuck did they get props down there?”
“I dunno. Maybe the workshop’s backstage?” Parker suggested, looking as excited about going down there as Arthur. Ghosts, ghouls, abandoned buildings, whatever, that was all fine. But Arthur fucking hated narrow spaces. Walls pressing in on him, passages crushing him, bricks squeezing his bones like lemon juice - he hated it.
“It’s the last place of the night. We could go get a burger after. Maybe there’s a McDonalds around here somewhere?” Parker tried to entice them both.
“You think they sponsored the school? Like, the cursed play had “I’m lovin’ it” or something?” Arthur tried to make light of it all, but the joke fell harder than Parker almost did down those stairs. Parker met his gaze, raking fingers through his hair again. As much as every nerve in him screamed otherwise, Arthur nodded.
They opened the hatch together.
A single ladder was all that greeted them. It was metal, and looked far too new for the rest of the building. Their lights bounced off it, glistening in the darkness.
“The original ladder collapsed. This one’s been added for guys like us, since someone tried to use a rope to get down there. It snapped, and they spent days down there screaming.” Parker’s exposition was relentless, and for once, Arthur wished he’d shut up.
“Were they… alright?”
“They got to a hospital eventually. Uh, kept talking about the dark and eyes and other cheerful stuff.”
“... like?” Arthur’s curiosity couldn’t let him simply live in blissful ignorance.
“Cannibalistic trees.”
He’d have laughed, normally. He should have laughed. But Parker sounded dead serious, and he didn’t leave much room for discussion as he stepped on the ladder. The metal creaked and swayed under his weight, and his hands gripped the hatch so tightly his knuckles paled.
“Parker-”
“It’s fine. I’ll go first. I’ll hold it for you when you go down.”
“Brilliant plan, except for the part where you fall and break your fucking neck. We don’t even have a rope!” fuck ghost hunting, one of them was going to be a ghost by the end of the night if they kept pulling shit like this. A run down building in the middle of the night and no hospital or help near, wouldn’t that make for an excellent obituary. “Died due to sheer stupidity.”
“Call the ambulance if I do.” Parker chimed, and shakily set one foot further down. The ladder shaking right alongside it inspired zero confidence in Arthur, yet his friend removed one hand from the hatch and planted it onto the ladder. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t watch his only friend break every bone in his body because he wanted to prove Jack Skellington was real. Arthur pulled his phone out, double checking the emergency number. By the time he looked back, the top of Parker’s head was disappearing into the hatch, and the darkness below.
“Parker-”
“It’s fine, it’s only some thirteen steps! I think the building slopes naturally after that.” Arthur bit back a reply about that being twelve steps too many, and instead tried to watch out for his friend by shining a light from above.
He waited with bated breath at each clink of shoes against metal, at each scrape of skin along the steps. One. Two. Three. How many steps had Parker already gone down while he was too busy to keep track. How many more until he inevitably shattered his spine while Arthur did nothing, like the idiot he was? Six. Seven. How many more?
“Got it!” Parker exclaimed, and Arthur sighed in relief as he heard some pebbles roll. There was a squeal as Parker gripped the ladder, and Arthur suddenly remembered he had to go down those too.
“Don’t suppose it’s solo investigation time yet?” he nervously chuckled, legs already feeling like lead.
“Get the fuck down here. I’m sure a theatre like this’s gotta have a round table for you!” Parker called, and Arthur swallowed, his tongue suddenly dry. Carefully, he packed his phone away again, tucking it into his jacket pocket. The camera was going to be a problem. Parker had put it up against his chest, but Arthur loathed the thought of it blocking his hold on the ladder. He swung it across his back instead, forcing himself on his heavy, unsteady feet.
Experimentally, he set one foot on the top step, and it sank under his weight.
“I - I don’t think this is a good idea, Parker.”
“You’ll be fine! I’m holding it.” his friend assured him. Right. Right, it was only thirteen steps, and Parker was right there. He put his other foot down as well, gripping onto the hatch like he’d seen his friend do. The creak that followed, travelling up his bones and spine, seemed to warn him to stop being such an idiot. But Parker had done that, and Parker was waiting down there, and right now, Arthur was blocking his exit. So he slowly, achingly slowly, slow enough to feel his tendons stretch and pull, set his foot down another step. It was fine. It was a ladder that had literally been put there for their safety. He took another step down, and the camera on his back scratched against the hatch.
Shit. Shit, shit. The passage wasn’t big enough. He’d get stuck, he couldn’t get the camera off without letting go, and if he moved, it’d only lodge itself into the narrow opening. Slick sweat covered his palms, forcing him to grip the hatch stronger, grip it until it hurt, grip it until he felt splinters of wood embed into his palm, grip it until he couldn’t move, couldn’t fall . His legs were as stiff and cold and unmoving as those marble statues, refusing to send him either way, up or down, up or down, up or-
“Arthur?” down.
He pried one foot off the step, more slipping then stepping down. But he moved. Then, one of his hands. He shimmied, light reflecting off metal so bright it hurt. Instinctively, he shut his eyes, and grabbed the ladder. His stomach lurched at the sudden sensation of blind falling, of snatching the metal, of tugging and releasing at his back.
He’d made it past the hatch.
“How… how many more steps?” he didn’t care that his voice was shaky, didn’t care that he would have to take that same trip back up, all that he cared about was breathing and moving .
“Ten!” Parker responded immediately, still holding the ladder in place. Arthur nodded, moving down like some odd, three-legged reptile. But he moved regardless. Bit by bit, creak by creak, step by shuffle.
One, two, three.
One, two, three.
One, two, three, four.
Parker’s arms were around him the moment he touched the ground, scratched a hole into the dirt below, but he pushed him away. He couldn’t be held, couldn’t be restrained, couldn’t be trapped .
He’d made it underground.
The cavern opened up before them. There were some broken tiles lining the floor, once a well used path, now nothing but a safety hazard. His headlamp revealed broken gas lamps lining the walls, scorch marks on most of them.
“Are you okay?” Parker sounded scared himself. Arthur nodded, a sharp contrast to his subtle shaking. Or perhaps shivering, as he was utterly drenched in sweat and the air down there seemed five degrees colder.
“Just - it was narrow. Up there. My camera got stuck.”
“You’re claustrophobic? You never told me!” Parker picked up on his meaning regardless, even as Arthur tried to march on and stomp the experience out.
“We never went - it’s, it’s not really claustrophobia. More, being trapped? Unable to move?”
“So… claustrophobia?” Parker insisted, trying to catch up to him. Arthur glanced up at the old wooden beams, now thoroughly eaten through with worms and other crawling creatures. They looked… dry. Twisted. Darker than most wood he’d seen.
“No. I’m not going to, I don’t know, freak out on a full bus. Just… I don’t know.” he ran his fingers through his hair, mirroring Parker.
“Let’s just keep going. Those ghosts better be fucking worth this.”
Arthur’s headlamp shone upon rows and rows of chairs, overlapping shadows making their numbers double. The audience. He raised his gaze, to a construction of dark boards piled at the end of the room. Thick, plush yellow curtains, once bright as sunshine, now dull with dust and age, had been half drawn across the stage. The other half lay piled on it, with a metal railing that used to hold its weight dangling freely above it. Arthur turned to Parker, but his friend beat him to it.
“It’s fine. Been cleared safe for adventurers like us.”
“Idiots, you mean.” Arthur muttered under his breath as Parker approached the stage. He indicated for Arthur to climb onto it. Instead of searching for a more reasonable way, Arthur simply put his hands onto the stage and pulled himself up as though he were pulling himself up from a pool. Quick, sharp pain cut through his palms, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. Shit. He must have cut himself open on the hatch. It’d have to be dealt with later.
Parker had, in the meantime, found his own way on the stage. He hopped over the charred remains of the curtain, and Arthur noted more scorch marks along the stage. Okay. Yeah, great. Whatever had happened in there had probably been a fucking fire of some sort.
“So! As I was saying, something had gone terribly wrong here in 1895.” Parker began, and Arthur let his shoulders drop, falling into a familiar rhythm with his friend’s tales.
“A new play was being put on, and they were putting big bucks into this show. All state of the art equipment, cutting edge special effects and the like. But, something had gone wrong.”
“Yeah, probably all the new equipment they’d banged up going down that fucking ladder.” Arthur interrupted. Parker continued with a sigh.
“But that’s the thing - witness reports differ. Some survivors in the audience described it as a fire, but some as flashes of yellow light .”
“So… a fire?” Arthur mocked his earlier statement about claustrophobia.
“No, it was a-”
“Or an explosion. There were all those gas lamps on our way here.”
“Some reports say that the play may have summoned something.” Parker tried to counter the perfectly reasonable explanation.
“Yeah, the firemen!” Arthur retorted through laughter nearing hysterical after his ordeal at the ladder. It was such a stupid joke, but tension shook out of him in short breaths as tears sprung to his eyes. Parker chuckled along, letting him get it all out.
After a minute or two, Arthur drew in a sigh, wiping his eyes. Again, the skin of his palms bristled at contact, but there wasn’t much to do stuck underground in a derelict theatre basement.
“You know, some rumours say this used to be the operating theatre prior to becoming a real one. But why don’t we ask the witnesses ourselves?” Arthur’s eyebrows flicked up. Parker dug through his backpack, countless bits and pieces of ghost hunting scams jingling in there as he did so. Triumphantly, he pulled out a plastic rectangle, and Arthur couldn’t help but cringe.
He rolled his eyes towards the camera as Parker set the Ouija board on the floor.
"So, the idea is, we put our hands on this thingy here-" he raised an eyebrow at Parker pulling out something that looked a whole lot like an oversized guitar pick.
"And the ghosts move it with us to communicate!"
"Why can't the ghosts move it themselves?" Arthur asked, putting his hands on the thing regardless. They both knew how this would go. He'd complain, and point and laugh, and then go along with it, because Parker would. And Parker would also get a heart attack if Arthur wasn't there.
"Dunno. Maybe it's too... heavy?" Parker suggested. And normally Arthur would have poked fun at the word choice, but Parker had been looking over his shoulder since the moment they’d stepped foot on the grounds. So fine, malnourished ghosts it was. Arthur expectantly looked at Parker, clearing his throat.
"Well? Do we need to say a code word or?"
"Uh. Hi?" Parker called out, and Arthur looked at the board between them. It appeared just as cheaply plastic as a few seconds ago, and equally inanimate.
"Is there anyone here?" Arthur felt a slight push and pull against his fingers, like someone placing their hand against his. And then slowly, ever so slowly, the pick slid across the smooth surface. A tingling sensation brushed across his skin, the vibrations of inertia on decades old boards, as it stopped on "No" .
Arthur burst out laughing.
"Well, seems like no one's home." Parker frowned at that.
"You're not supposed to fuck with the board."
"I didn't! Here, I'll ask a question this time." what could he even ask the fucking air?
"What's being dead like?" he blurted out. For a blink, nothing happened. And then there was the push again, quicker this time, like the pick was trying to slam itself into his nails. It moved, weaving between the letters. F. U.
"Fulfilling? Futile?" Parker tried to make sense of it.
"Fun?" Arthur suggested, and the pace picked up again. C. K.
"Wait, hold on-"
O. F.
It lingered on the last letter, darting away from it, then returning.
" Fuck off? " Parker exclaimed while Arthur was yet again too busy laughing to get a response out.
"Arthur, I said not to-"
"It wasn't me!" Arthur insisted, still chuckling.
"These things work on your subconscious. You move your fingers to what you want it to say, it's - it's all confirmation bias. So really, clearly , you just wanted to tell me to-"
Parker interrupted, presumably to keep their sponsorship:
"Oooh, it's too subjective. I see, I see. So let's get an objective communication method then." he grinned, pulling a familiar device out of his backpack.
"No. No, no, fuck that, fucking-" Arthur impressively wrecked his efforts.
"Yes, the-"
"Not the fucking spirit box! " Arthur despised that thing more than the very idea of ghosts. At least ghosts were a funny concept. That broken radio was a personal circle of Hell for his eardrums and he was certain Dante would have had a mental breakdown right there and then had he lived a few centuries later.
"Why not? As a reminder to our watchers, the spirit box works by rapidly scanning between channels. Ghosts are said to be able to manipulate radio waves, so this clears out the rest of the talk and gives us just ghost speech." Arthur once again rolled his eyes. Parker was at this point using the damn thing to get back at him for all his mockery, not because it could actually let the dead speak to them. His friend flipped it on, and Arthur winced as the loud white noise clawed at his hearing.
A melody picked up through it.
"I can't forget the night I met you-" of course it wasn't even set to scan properly. They were getting a faint local radio station, and then Parker was going to use that to prove his bullshit thesis. As if reading Arthur's mind, he switched it to a higher speed of scanning.
"It's all I'm dreaming of-" that was... odd. It definitely shouldn't have still been picking it up.
"Guess they pay big bucks for airtime around here." Arthur joked, but it fell on deaf ears as Parker changed the speed again.
"And you call it madness-" he'd hate that significantly less if they weren't in an insane asylum-turned-art school. He didn't need to believe in the supernatural to recoil at the coincidence.
"But ah, I call it love."
"Right, that's-" Arthur began at the same time:
"Did it break?"
On cue, the box shut off completely.
“I still don’t get what happened to it.” Parker said, knocking on the spirit box. Between the two of them, they’d spent some fifteen minutes turning and tossing the broken radio, jingling the antenna, even putting batteries in upside down. The box refused to come back to life again, and eventually they had to call it quits and climb back up.
“Surprised you aren’t taking it as ghost proof.” Arthur muttered, waiting for his earbuds to sync. They stopped using walkie talkies for solo investigations since they forgot to change the batteries in them for a month and found out acid was leaking all over them in the basement of some creepy cult house.
“Our equipment breaking isn’t proof, it’s a budget concern.” the nervousness that had first overwhelmed his friend when they entered now returned tenfold, as Parker ran his fingers through his hair again and again, until Arthur became worried he’d break his skin from sheer irritation.
“Can’t we just get a radio and break it enough?” he suggested for the tenth time, trying not to seem too giddy about losing the nightmare noise maker. The scathing glance that struck him in return made him shut up about the spirit box entirely.
“You sure you don’t wanna go first?” he said instead, knowing full well Parker would refuse. Solo bits had been Arthur’s idea - maybe the ghosts wouldn’t show up if they were together, so they’d get more activity one-on-however-many-restless-spirits-supposedly-resided-wherever. Unsurprisingly, Parker hated them. More surprisingly, he still agreed to do them. It was some sort of a test for him, or maybe something akin to exposure therapy.
But he refused to be the first in the building.
So, just like every other time, Parker shook his head, messy strands falling onto his face. Arthur moved to grab his backpack, but a question stopped him:
“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” he wasn’t the one scared of air and shadows. Confused, Arthur pivoted on his heel to see Parker cocking his head towards the hatch.
Right. That fucking squeeze.
“I won’t go down there. Just the music room and statues. Maybe the painting room?”
“That one’s locked.”
“I think the door’s just stuck.” Arthur smiled, watching his friend’s face turn from worry to frustrated disappointment.
“Please don’t commit a crime on camera.”
“It’s not a crime if you don’t get sued.” with that, he watched his friend leave, and let dark silence fall onto him and the building, as though they closed their eyes just the same.
Arthur liked solo investigations, truth be told. There was something oddly calming about being in these places alone. The night pressing in on him, pasts worse than his clinging to his skin as nothing but dust now. Those too had passed.
Normally, he'd have done a tour of the whole house, but he beelined for the stupid painting room this time.
It looked just as vacant as when they’d entered it first, but Arthur took his time to properly look at it now. The patterned carpet stretched from wall to wall, fitting into every nook and cranny of poor repurposing of the rooms. Thick wallpaper lined the room, that on closer inspection appeared to be more akin to a quilt than a proper wall insulation. Arthur shuddered to think what molds must have developed in it over the years. The piano still stood in the corner, and as much as his fingers itched, he avoided it as though it was contagious. Instead, his attention turned to the monstrosity in a gilded frame, feet moving mechanically until he was at less than an arm’s length.
Unlike the last time, he studied the painting closer, vaguely aware he had a ticking time limit. Lines he thought were haphazard earlier now seemed more... deliberate. The artist had truly been ahead of their time with this.
"You know, my friend, I'm willing to bet some rich fuck would pay a nice sum to have a modern art monstrosity like you hanging somewhere." he joked, poking at the painting with his finger. It came off covered in something black and greasy, as though the oil was still drying. Fuck. Fuck, had he just ruined some old painting that would, per his own words, cost a nice sum?
"Well, that's disgusting. You're disgusting." he cheerfully continued, aware he was still being filmed. A glimmer of gold in the painting caught his attention.
It was an eye . Hidden under layers of white and yellow, it peered between the strokes.
"Oooh, I see how it is! Is that how you watch people? There's a spooky eye hidden in the paint?" he taunted, stepping closer to the painting. The room was colder than before, probably due to shitty old insulation.
"Well? Do something! Speak to me, bang some pots and pans! Stop being a fucking coward!" he tried yelling into thin air, but of course nothing happened. Nothing ever did happen, and that usually never angered him. Usually it was a laugh. But now - now he was tired, and exhausted, and drained, and it felt like his nerves were itching from the inside, like even his organs were coated in dust that clung everywhere in this place, and he was a grown man yelling at air because his best friend was a-
“Play the piano! Go on, press some keys! Play my fucking song.” the last words escaped him unintentionally. He’d have never, in a million years, had opened up to anyone, anything about that. And now - now what, a ghost, a non-fucking-existent entity, had riled him up enough to say it. A burning feeling deep in his core made him hover closer, until his eyes were inches away from the one in the canvas.
"Is it because you're trapped in the painting? Well how about this - I'm gonna trap you in my ribcage like a little canary." Arthur dropped his voice to a whisper. His chest constricted, throat and airway and heart suddenly too tight. Anger bubbled beneath, stinging just enough to bring pricks of pain all along his lungs and breaths. He was done. He was fucking done . Fuck the show. Fuck everything. Fuck performing of any kind.
He was going to tell Parker he quit. And that thought accentuated itself with another tear right down the centre of his ribcage.
Arthur reached the ground floor, still boiling inside. Something in him twisted and heaved. It scraped along his ribs, dipping into the bone marrow of his spine, singing with heat. Rolling, livid and living, it poked at his heart with each breath, a raw wound opening anew. He moved to the statue room, nails digging into the cold plastic of the camera in his hands, when his foot brushed against a solid bump.
The trap door.
The fucking darkness. The fucking tiny hatch with its fucking rotten ladder. Arthur’s hands were opening it before his mind caught up. Everything, every fear , was utter bullshit. Parker faced his all the time and lived! It was just a ladder. Just an opening in the ground, those have been around since the dawn of mankind.
Fuelled by anger, Arthur stepped on the ladder. He moved quicker, swifter this time, despite his footing rocking with each spiteful step he took. One. Two.
Camera.
He’d swung it across the back like before, and like before, it had gotten stuck. He jerked up and down, muscles spasming with speed, but it only wedged it further. A piece of plastic and glass, not even a good one, some second-rate shit they’d found at a garage sale, yet it wouldn’t bend nor snap. Up, up, he had to move up - sharp pain laced his palms and fingers when he tried. Dark splinters had embedded themselves into his skin on his first way down, and now they were rooted there, nestled along his nerves and muscle fibres, spun together in a tapestry of pain that complained loudly at his weight on them.
Breaths came shorter. Quicker - trying to make up for the volume of his lungs half full. Blood couldn’t circulate in and out quickly enough, pulse quickening to the beat of his burning throat. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t leave or think or do any basic human action, trapped by his own spite and poor choices. Dark cracks in his palms grew, blooming, spilling along his vision.
“-thur?” his friend’s voice melted in his ears, echoing, overlapping, sounding so unlike anything Arthur had heard. It reverberated deep inside his head, inside his chest, inside his increasingly empty lungs as darkness painted his vision. Up, up - a slip, a jolt, a panicked rush of air in his lungs. He blinked, blindfold on his retinas dissipating with flowing oxygen.
He’d moved. Down, but moved.
“Arthur?” Parker asked, worry dripping off him.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Going to kick some ghost’s ass.” he whispered back, spite returning tenfold with humiliation. It was a fucking square in the fucking ground. And he’d nearly hyperventilated himself into blacking out on a rickety ladder.
“Arthur, I’ll call the fucking ambulance-”
Parker’s voice faded, drowned by the drumming of his heart, the ticks pressing against his chest like fingers on piano keys. His ribcage ached with each move, each tug of flesh against his bones. But he continued on down, bolting the moment his shoes scraped the cracked tiles.
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” he kept repeating, more conviction in his voice with each echo.
“You sure?” Parker insisted, apparently not convinced by whatever he was hearing and seeing on the other end of the line.
“Yes. I was an idiot. Might as well get something out of it.” and then, just to prove he was alright, he added:
“Hey, Parker? Boo.”
“Fuck you.” but there was relief in those words.
Arthur hurried through the cavern, passing the scorched gas lamps, the untouched chairs. He clambered onto the decaying boards, pulling himself to the centre of the stage.
“All the world’s a stage! Though I don’t see an audience! C’mon, ghosts! ” he called out.
“Do you only show up when someone’s shit at music? What, is acting-” he whirled around, wincing at how it pulled at his torso. He must have torn something when he slipped. A stretch might help, or make it worse, fuck if he knew. Pushing his luck, he turned his head, headlamp still fixed on, and a reflection of it temporarily blinded him. The fuck?
His gaze was focused on the heavy curtain before him, light bathing it in a shade similar to a runny egg. But somewhere behind it - a glimmer. A shine, one Arthur hadn’t noticed earlier.
“Hey, Parker, check this out.” he began, drawing closer, like a string pulled taut. Plush, thick drapery, now full of dust and lice and goodness knew what else, engulfed his hands, tangling against the splinters in his skin. He pulled, not noticing the faint, rusted pin marks he left on the fabric.
His body stood in front of him.
A shroud the shade of saffron enveloped it, like those silly sheet ghosts he teased Parker so much with. Features of his face blurred together, washed out in the bright reflection. It scattered oddly on his headlamp band, making it appear more like a crown than cave diving equipment.
State of the art equipment indeed. It had to have been a trick mirror of some sort, possibly even two layers of glass put together with some fabric between them. Fascinated, Arthur reached towards the old prop.
“Are you seeing this?”
“It’s a creepy mirror, in a creepy basement.”
“Yes, yes, but the illusion! This is the most impressive thing I’ve seen in a haunted house.” ghosts or not, he had to admire the craftsmanship. His fingers brushed against the smooth glass, a rippling, fuzzy feeling spilling down his nerves. Static electricity, most likely.
“What illusion?”
“The yellow - maybe it doesn’t show on camera, hold on-” Arthur turned to try and catch a good angle, but a rasp cut him off. It was a guttural, trembling thing, raising the hair at the back of his neck. Shit. Shit. There was an animal down there. Maybe a possum - could possums make that noise? Arthur knew fuckall about animal noises.
“What do possums sound like?”
“What?”
“I think there’s an animal down here.” Arthur explained, stepping away from the mirror. He cast a concerned gaze around the stage. That thing had to have been pretty close too - it was practically in his ear when he’d heard it.
“Get the fuck out of there.” Parker sounded more serious than Arthur had ever heard him, all cheerfulness dissipating from his voice. Arthur moved to do just that, shoes scruffing against the disturbed wooden planks, when darkness flickered across his vision - for fuck's sake, now the equipment was breaking too? It didn’t last for long - a second, maybe more, maybe less - but it had been enough for him to misstep, balance knocked off-kilter on the degrading flooring. His foot rolled over the side of his shoe, and he staggered, knees meeting the wood. Normally, he’d have stopped at that, solid, polished stage beneath him, mere inches away from the edge, and Parker would have laughed himself sick. But this stage hadn’t been stable even in its conception, and well over a century of disuse paired with a show gone horribly wrong had eroded it further. So instead of breaking Arthur’s fall, the boards fell right through with him.
The path down wasn’t a linear fall. Sharp, thin, narrow objects slammed into Arthur’s soft tissue, each with a harder bruise than the first. As he fell to the ground, a string of curses fell from his lips, accompanying each bump and crack.
“Arthur? Arthur!” Parker’s voice mingled with static, dipping into octaves Arthur knew his friend couldn’t even try to do as a bit naturally.
“I’m fine. It’s the fucking orchestra pit.” Arthur muttered, more on instinct than realisation. It would be the only thing beneath a stage. Groaning, he pulled himself up on his elbows. Half a dozen sheet music stands surrounded him, knocked over by his fall. At least the dark wood they - and apparently every other flammable thing in this damn place - had been made of made sense now. It was so they wouldn’t be visible to the audience. Nervously, he eyed the seat his head had missed by about an inch in his fall, and rolled onto his back.
“Fine? You just fell from a-”
“It wasn’t that high up.” didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like he’d just hit wood with terminal velocity. But it wasn’t that high up.
“I just need a-” moment , was what Arthur was going to say. But he was interrupted with a cold:
“Get up.” okay, yeah, fuck his injuries apparently. Parker had a point though - nothing would come of lying on the ground in a dirty, ancient orchestra pit except possibly rabies if that animal was still around. Arthur grabbed for his camera.
“Where are you going? I’ll-”
“To that statue place. Maybe I’ll leave something for you there.” maybe the camera, or his mic set. Something that would make Parker actually go in there alone.
“Are you… sure? Did you hit your head?” someone was concerned all of a sudden. Arthur didn’t know if it was the possibility of needing to spend more time in that forsaken room, or that he was actually up and moving again and Parker didn’t need to worry about dragging him up that ladder anymore. Pushing himself to his feet, he bit back a wince as darkness flooded his vision again for a few moments, and every nerve in his chest, every bit of that fine crochet within his bone marrow, became alight with pain.
“Show must go on. If we don’t finish up here, then me falling was pointless.”
“You going down there was pointless.” there was a brief pause as Parker assessed how hurt he actually was.
“The fall was pretty fucking funny though.” he added, and Arthur huffed a laugh. Between him falling through a stage and Parker tripping down the stairs, they’d have excelling views. Maybe even enough to pay the bills on time. As he began searching for the exit from the pit, he remembered to ask:
"How'd you do that?”
"Do what?"
"Make your voice sound like you'd actually gone through puberty."
The shitty folding chair creaked as Parker shifted in it, trying to kill time until his own solo investigation. Arthur had gotten it off eBay some time ago, and he’d always suspected it probably carried tetanus or something. But it was easy to transport, and beat sitting in the grass.
“I bet he’s having the time of his life in there. Probably testing out the art supplies or something.” he commented to the camera, watching Arthur fiddle with his headlamp on the live stream to Parker’s laptop. He already knew most of his previous reactions would have to be cut - genuine concern for his friend hardly worked with Arthur saying they should make a meme out of it. On the stream, Arthur nearly tugged the light completely off him. He’d been playing with it the whole way from the theatre, tapping on the light, resettling it on his head. What, was this some new ghost hunting method? Was he actively trying to make his footage horrendous? Parker frowned as Arthur switched it off.
“You sure you charged these? The battery’s run out.” an elaborate prank. Even after nearly getting his teeth knocked out by some shitty flooring, Arthur was back on his usual bullshit. Parker rolled his eyes, settling back into the chair. The overgrown grass tickled his knuckles as he crossed his arms.
“Hilarious. What a funny little man you are. I can see you’ve shut it off.”
“What? No, it turned off a bit ago.” Arthur insisted, flicking it on and off. The impromptu lightshow elongated shadows in the room, twisting Arthur’s into a writhing mass. Parker suppressed a shudder. It was just his friend playing with lights.
“Arthur, I can see you-”
“Camera too. I think our charger broke - stop doing that!” he suddenly snapped, angrily glaring at the camera.
“Doing what?”
“For fuck’s - stop with the fucking voice! It’s not even funny, it’s annoying.” voice. That wasn’t the first time Arthur had mentioned it. Was he trying to psych Parker out that badly? What for? They both knew he’d scream if Arthur touched his shoulder in a place like this, no need for theatrics.
“What voice?
“Fuck off! It’s not funny!” Arthur repeated. His eyes were wide, but there wasn’t a trace of anger in them. Parker rubbed his face, not wanting to admit that the joke was getting to him.
“Yeah, it isn’t! What voice, Arthur?”
“You don’t hear him?” him? They’d been entirely alone in the building. Even if there was a vagrant, they’d have come across him, his voice would have gotten caught on camera. A light summer breeze touched Parker, cooling his already cold sweat. A shiver ran through him.
“There’s no one else in the room.”
“No, no, there’s - there’s - show yourself!” Arthur’s voice grew delirious. He quickly moved ahead, paying no attention to statues.
“Show yourself, you prick! What, are you-” he collided with one. There was a wet, crunching sound, and a curse, and a crash, as he went tumbling down. And so did the camera.
All that Parker heard was a hysterical:
“I can’t see! I - I can’t see!”
He bolted inside.
His steps rang through the empty building, falling before the previous even had the chance to echo. Shit. Shit, shit. If Arthur sustained a fucking head injury because of some bit - worse, if someone else was in the building with them-
Parker slammed into the door to the sculptor’s area. They flung open, and he didn’t slow down for a moment as they nearly tore off the old, decaying hinges. The night clouded the room, Arthur’s headlamp streaking through it in bits and pieces. A quick mutter came, near matching the pounding pace of his heart:
“Get out, get out, get-”
“Arthur?” he slowly said, carefully approaching. His friend held a hand pressed to his face, a dark, thick liquid overflowing from it, painting the floor beneath, dripping down the curves of the statue he’d nearly taken down with him.
“I didn’t fucking invite you! ” loud and clear, the shout startled Parker. He balled his hands into fists before he realised what he was doing.
“No, you broke your nose on camera. What, do you secretly hate me?” Arthur snapped his head to him. His eyes swept across the room as he shook his head.
“No, no, I-” his whimper was cut off as he bent over as though he’d been struck. He clutched his head, pulling at his hair.
“Fuck off!” he screamed again. Where was this coming from? Months of pent up anger and disdain? Sudden onset psychosis? A concussion from that fucking orchestra pit? He’d have chalked it up to it still being a prank, if he didn’t know for a fact that Arthur was a terrible actor.
“Have you been drinking again?” he snapped, even though he knew that wasn’t the reason. He’d have seen him do it, smelled it on him.
“No. No, no, no, there’s - you were right, there’s - what do you mean, you don’t know how?” his expression switched from terrified to angry, like someone was pushing buttons on a remote Parker couldn’t see.
“Was I supposed to ask for your drinking plan?” Arthur was behaving irrationally. He curled on the floor, lashing out in sudden, jerky movements, head turning as though someone was behind him the entire time. Had he taken something? Parker’s heart now began to pound for an entirely different reason. Did he somehow manage to miss his best friend-
“I can’t see. Parker. Parker, I can’t see, and there’s a - you, you can’t hear him?” despair strained Arthur’s voice. His hands twisted, splashing the blood, digging into his shirt, clawing at his chest, like he was trying to get to something, pull his own lungs and heart and ribs and veins out, like plucking a daisy and pulling the plant out roots and all.
Fuck. Fuck, it was an old-ass building. There could be carbon monoxide in there, mold, asbestos, fucking dormant tuberculosis or some other old timey disease they never bothered to wear protective equipment for. Arthur hadn’t exited it at all, Parker had, and all Parker knew about any of that shit came from watching med dramas once or twice. There was something about checking the eyes, right? Or at least he could try to stop the bleeding before Arthur also left most of his body weight on the fucking floor.
“Arthur. Arthur, let me see.” he carefully said, kneeling down. Sticky warmth soaked his trouser legs, and he tried not to think about how he was sitting in a puddle of Arthur’s blood. Gently, he cupped a hand around Arthur’s rigid jaw, forcing his gaze up.
No recognition stared back at him. In fact, he didn’t think what stared back could classify as eyes at all.
The whites of Arthur’s eyes were no longer that, instead webbed with gold as though bloodshot. The pupil and iris blurred together in wisps of yellow and black, yet, as hard as he looked in the bright light of his lamp, he couldn’t find a trace of Arthur’s colour. Parker tried to speak, to draw air into his lungs and form a question, to push it out like a pump, but he couldn’t. It caught in his throat, refusing to move either way, like a pebble lodged in a shoe. He tried again, and again, aware of building pressure, and Arthur’s stiff, cold skin in his hand. He had to do this. He had to ask. He had to help .
“What’s your name?” words dislodged from his airway, wheezing and cracking as they did so.
“Arthur.” he sounded just as uncertain. Just as fragile.
“A-and the thing inside you?” surprise flashed in those eyes, emotion still clear through the uncanny landscape.
“You can hear him?” Arthur gripped at his hand with his own, covered in drying, coagulating stickiness. Parker shook his head, no matter what little good it did.
“No. Can… can he hear me?” some selfish part of him hoped not. That this would be all Arthur’s to deal with.
“Yes. He says… his name is John.” the whisper might have as well been a scream. John. John Doe . The room upstairs - the yellow painting. Arthur had told him - Parker got pushed. Another shaky breath hopelessly tried to fill his lungs, and then Parker’s arms were around Arthur, struggling to get them both on their feet.
“The car. Now. We’re going home.” and then, just in case the ghost had objections:
“All three of us.”
"Unidentified." Arthur muttered from the back seat. Parker glanced at his miserable form, curled up and pale. His head was pressed to the window, smearing red all over it. It had taken nearly twenty minutes for the bleeding to slow down, constantly punctuated by Arthur’s incoherent snaps at the ghost inside his head, and everything in Parker hoped they wouldn’t get pulled over for speeding. Arthur’s arms wrapped around his torso, the once light shirt ruined beyond repair, and he didn't know if it was from the shock of it all, or because John was redecorating his new home. The eyes though, they glanced everywhere, seemingly trying to take as many details in while Parker broke every traffic regulation he could name.
"What?"
"You said unidentified ghost."
"Well, yeah, cause it was never-"
"Was he identified as a ghost? Or was it assumed?" Arthur pushed, hands clutching at his bloodied, crusty clothes. Something cold ran down Parker's spine.
"Arthur... what's inside you?"
Finally, finally, those goldshot eyes met his in the rear-view mirror.
"I have no idea."