Chapter Text
You listen to the quirky sounds of the forgotten house, bangs on the wall from the water pipes, cracks of shorted wires in the ceiling. There were many things wrong with this poor house, easy things that would be a snap to fix. If you could actually fix it properly without all these damn agents constantly giving tours or using inspectors to get resale estimates. Of course, nothing will stop that dumb, grinning sales woman from trying to sell the place every chance she can.
Idiotic, she's too happy. One day someone who is a realist is going to slit her throat. Leave her a bloody mess on the ground of some cold dark concrete alleyway, with no one to find her until it was too late and her body was drained of any trace of her life. You laughed silently, oh how you wished to see that, you would be elated when that happened, this was all her fault. All the noise, the hiding, the frustration. You felt giddy at the image in your mind, you would be so happy if that was really a sight you had the privilege to behold.
Especially if you were the one to do it, yourself. By your own hands.
You sit on the cement window sill and wait for the ‘tour’ of your house be over with. The stone of attic window scratches at your bare and burnt feet. They were really pissing you off. They don’t have the deed, you do. So, why does the bank think they can sell it? Just because no one can find the owner? Because they can do whatever the fuck they want when the deed’s gone and the owners of it are presumed dead?
They have no right. None.
As soon as you turn old enough, you are going right to their smug faces and showing them that you have the deed to this old barren house you love. You’ve lived here far longer than when those idiots began trying to sell your house, though, they would never know that. As far as though know, you don’t exist. That was fine.
You loved it like that, it made things much easier to get away with.
This couple that's touring has a small kid, now, usually, that’s a good thing. You can cause tricks of the light and fire to scare them. Sometimes your appearance alone does the trick. Then, the parents will be convinced that maybe a spooky house in the woods isn’t such a good place for a child to grow up. Which is bull-shit, but their opinions suited you just fine if they left you alone because of it. This couple, however doesn’t seem to care about the kid, who, because of you, is seeing some pretty terrifying and gut-wrenching images due to projectors and fire glass. Frankly, you were surprised the kid lasted this long without breaking down, or losing their lunch.
Hallucinations of the other couple who moved here, they used to be lying on the ground, now, for convenience’s sake, it was the ceiling, fire licking at their cold dead skin and lifeless eyes. The kid’s horrified eyes move to where you are, staring from the glass panels of your lab, with a creepy grin and a sinister glint in your eyes.
It seems as if the kid is used to this treatment from her parents, silently whimpering and shaking. Trying to ignore the blank stares. You walk away from the window and run your fingers through your (H/C) hair. If they do buy this house, you’ll have to make sure not to put the kid through anything. Make sure she stays asleep until dawn or out of the house. You never liked putting down children, the ones younger than you were the deaths you dreaded the most. They didn’t do anything wrong, they were the only innocence in this world.
The slamming of a door gathers your attention as you see the girl running from the house, her parents not even noticing or caring. The sales agent doesn’t mind, as long as they buy the house she’s fine with anything.
Pathetic, she disgusted you so much, she didn’t have a soul.
Don’t be hypocritical, you don’t either.
You chuckled, yeah, but at least you had a conscience, and morals other than money. You were actually a partially decent person, you just had, irregular outlets for channeling the emotions everyone had deep inside. The only one brave enough to act on those urges that told you to cleanse the evil, protect your territory, the right way.
Your feet treaded against the wood planks of the concealed attic. Small holes from three years ago litter the floor, as well as the ever present scent of burnt wood and gunpowder. You ignore them and look out the far window.
She’s there cowering against a tree. Her slim tan arms wrapped around her head, her body curled in a tight ball against the thick trunk of the birch tree. She looked so much smaller than she was. Shaking like a leaf, no support to hold her still. It was pitiful.
You watch quietly and silently step out of the window, you jump from branch to branch. Almost losing balance a few times as you flail your arms for stability in your flight. Your house is located just behind the rich neighborhoods, by the woods. Almost in them, so tree hopping is what you grew up with. Your jeans rub against your skin, slightly scraping against your stitches and old burnt scars.
You quietly raise your battered and torn-up arm. You sneak up behind her, putting your hand around her eyes and quickly jabbing in the space between her hip and her ribs with your forefinger and middle finger.
Her breath catches in her throat and you hold her steady as she passes out. Children are so sensitive of pressure points. You wrap your (S/C) arms around her back and knees and walk back to the house. Carrying her bridal style as she lays limply in your arms, you gently place her against the stone and wood post on the porch. They would see her there, being honest they would be more likely to ignore her then to check if she were okay. You peek at her one more time.
For a split second her hair turns from a brownish caramel to a bleach blonde, her plain clothes to a ripped up band shirt and a red skirt. You jerk backwards and trip against the steps, you catch yourself on the railing. You grasp at your temple and shake your head to free yourself of the memory. Your (E/C) orbs dull and lifeless as they shake from the inside your head. Blurring reality.
You always wondered how they would vibrate like that, always when you were freaked out. Always when you were off your game. It disturbed you, as if they were fighting something, waging war.
Damn PTSD. You hate it when you see them again, unhappy, unmoving. It made you feel sick, absolutely revolted. You wanted to toss your lunch, but you wouldn’t, that would leave a trace.
You stumble to the outside of the house and scale the vines on the wall, just barely making it in the window as you hear the front door opened again. You sneak above them and look down at the family. They have keys and the agent is driving off. You could picture that rude lady in her car, driving off, a triumphant grin on her face.
You frowned, before imagining it fall when you were done with the family. That was an even prettier picture. You couldn’t wait to see it.
It was so hard to sell a house where so many had died wasn’t it? So frustrating, you were lucky. Those exact incidents that irritated her made your job slightly easier as time went on.
You snap back in time to see the young girl wake up and now face a scolding from her mother. Her mother roughly grabs her arm and yanks her up, still yelling, in her ear directly now. You wince just watching this. Your ears ringing by just imagining it. You stop cringing and growl when you see her get slapped by her father. Your blood boiled.
Wait it out, a week or two. Don’t act rash.
No time, no time. Didn't you see that? A parent should care, not be a dick, how could they?! Dirty child-abuser. You wanted to rip them apart, their own ribs pierce their flesh, their blood will spill and paint the chipped wood floors.
You take a deep breath to calm your body which is shaking in rage. How could they, this was sick! It didn’t matter to you if that was the first time; that was the last time. The last-fucking-time.
Your body stops trembling immediately and a sick grin lights up your face. You grasp a small flask on your thigh and take a sip. It burns as the amber liquid runs down your throat, warming up your blood further. Calming your shaking and igniting a fire deeper in yourself. Your mind turning twisted in a sickingly fun way.
You grasp a (F/C) lighter in your hand and walk to the dumbwaiter. You gently position it just above the second floor for future use and travel. It would be useful eventually, besides, anything to make their lives harder, a missing dumbwaiter would piss them off right? You briskly walk to your lab and grab your white coat on the way.
You had some work to do, didn’t you?
After all, your guests needed a ‘warm’ welcome right?