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Baby pops the bubble from his gum, the sound a loud pfweh that Mystery ignores. The teal-haired man taps the electromagnetic scanner on the side. The screen lit up for a second but still at baseline. None of the other instruments they bought or rented had shifted, made a sound, or blinked.
They've been camped outside of a house in the old double shotgun style for close to a week, in New Orleans' sweltering summer. Just waiting for something to happen.
It's been nearly a year since the murder-suicide, a pretty straight-forward case of domestic violence with guns involved. It's also pretty accepted fact that ghosts hang around places of death, their own or others, filled with regrets. Every Kdrama and story out there said as much.
"The podcasters are back." He sweeps back his sweat-drenched hair with a small frown. It was an open and shut case, but there's still folks out and about making content and positing theories that the 'observed record' is wrong. Anything to get clicks and views.
Mystery doesn't respond. He's been staring a hole into the front windows of the place since it was light out. He shifted his head when Baby moved their rental sedan up and down the street to avoid getting tagged for idling by the police.
"Yanno... When you said you wanted to come to New Orleans, I thought we'd be eating gumbo and spicy shrimps."
"Crawdads." He grunts. Baby rolls his eyes.
"Right. Here to try new stuff and do a ghost tour or three."
"There are tour recordings online." The club president sniffs, "And they're all fake."
Crazy how some ghosts were fictional but others were real. Baby had long stopped questioning his friend, and spits out his gum. He'd give it another few hours before trying to persuade Mystery that they should eat something other than convenience store sandwiches.
[ - - ]
The lace curtains inside flutter, and Mystery dives out of the rolled-down window of the car. He ignores the cars swerving around him down the road, leaping and hissing as he slides across the hot hood of a parked neighbor's car. He can vaguely hear his name being shouted at along with surprised Korean behind him, the sounds growing considerably more panicked as he shoves his shoulder against the door and feels it give a little.
Another shove and he can hear the wood crack, the lock should give way.
Baby's finally behind him, pulling him back before he could throw himself against the door again.
"What are you doing! We can't commit a crime here." He mutter-chides under his breath, his teal hair matted under a blank baseball hat.
"There's someone in there." Mystery replies simply.
Baby looks around, up and down the street. There's no one walking around, the neighbors had left for their work days and no one was watching from their own windows on the murder-house, abandoned and up for sale.
He curses under his breath before looking him into the eye. "Alright, on three. Door's nearly down right?"
Mystery nods, and they're in the house within moments. Dustcovers over abandoned furniture, and the smell of mildew with stale-air greet them.
The purple-haired man doesn't care, making his way over to the curtains that fluttered without wind. He hums softly and a partially-translucent hand waves at him. It moves closer to him as he slows to a stop in front of a grandfather clock, and a head pops out with a small giggle.
Mystery ignores the sound of piss hitting wooden floorboards. Sometimes unbelievers need to see the proof before their very eyes.