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gingerbreadmonsters · 7 months

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something strange

or: who you gonna call?

gn!reader, warnings for mild innuendo and discussion of death, halloween hijinks except it’s literally spring, oopsie. hello, operator? there’s something weird, and it - well, it’s not looking great… it’s time for yet another weirdo DAMN crew AU! cheers as always to agent of the google docs surveillance state @zozo-01 who keeps figuring out when i’m working on this at 4am, and to all the gang on discord who have tolerated the frankly disturbingly-morbid questions that it’s prompted. please keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle - don't worry, we'll reattach those for you at the end of the ride. dear having a dose of a freaky ghost (or five) in just over 13,600 words.

Every day's a school day, or so you're told.

For most people, that's more of a figurative thing. For you, you've been going to school basically non-stop since you were three years old or something, so it's pretty literal.

It's not necessarily a bad thing, you suppose. Teaching at DAMN is pretty good, the faculty and students are nice enough, and it pays… well, it pays. More than your last job, though that's not really saying much, and enough to afford the mortgage on this new house you've moved into.

It’s weird. You’d heard nothing but terrible things about the housing market in California lately, and Dahlia was no exception - it still isn’t, if you’re honest. Rent is extortionate, but even that barely matters when there’s hardly anything available in the first place.

You'd been so surprised when you'd seen it online. A proper, two-bedroom detached house, with a garden and a garage and everything, going for a lot less than the - admittedly-few - other houses nearby. How had nobody snapped it up already? Pleasantly surprised, you'd called the estate agent to see about putting in an offer, and you'd barely been able to get the words out before she'd set you up with an appointment the next day.

She'd been… cagey, is probably the best way to put it. Reluctant to tell you why it was so cheap. She couldn't stall forever, though - you remember the resigned, slightly apologetic look on her face as she took a deep breath, before plastering on a grin and telling you what was going on.

Now then, she'd said. I know it's unpleasant, but I'm required by law to disclose to you that, within the last three years, a number of previous tenants sadly passed away on the property.

You’d certainly been surprised, but she’d clearly just wanted to get this conversation over with, and just breezed on. As far as we understand, none of the tenants were affiliated with each other, and only two of the deaths were directly caused by an issue with the property - some minor faulty wiring, and one of the older sections of the roof was damaged during a storm and collapsed unexpectedly. It’s since been repaired, though, so no need to worry!

Somehow, the worst part about that sentence wasn’t the news that someone had been crushed to death in the house you were trying to buy, but was instead the cheery smile with which she delivered the news, like she thought you’d be delighted. Are all real estate agents in California like this?

How many, exactly? Were there any before that? you’d asked, and she hadn’t quite been able to hide her grimace. And how did they die? Should I be concerned about the local area?

Unfortunately for her, you’d been reading up on the sorts of laws that estate agents like her have to follow in California. No matter what, they have to tell you if anyone died in the house in the last three years - but if you ask for more information about it, or about any other deaths from before then, they’re legally required to tell you the truth about that as well.

Well, I don’t mean to alarm you… Nervously, she’d clicked away on her computer for a few minutes, before turning back to you. The four tenants before you all passed away on the property - not under suspicious circumstances, of course. Just… you know. These things happen.

Yes, you’d said flatly. Obviously.

Three out of the four were accidental - one was the result of a fall, one was the aforementioned issue with the roof, and I believe the other was due to an electrical fault. The fourth was the most recent - an altercation with an intruder during a break-in - but we’ve been assured by the local police department that this sort of thing is highly unusual for the area, and is very unlikely to happen again.

As she spoke, you’d felt a horrible feeling of resignation settle in your stomach. Of course the one place you can actually afford to buy is the one where tenants keep dying inexplicably.

How old were they, would you say?

Some more clicking, and if her expression had been anything to go by, a spreadsheet that was loading a lot slower than it should. It looks like… yeah, it looks like most were in their mid-twenties, or thereabouts.

Perfect. Of course they were. Were they living alone?

She’d clearly been dreading the question, gritted teeth forced into a smile. I believe so, yes. The implied like you will be hangs heavy in the air between you, and her eyes dart momentarily back to her screen before flicking back to yours.

Great. Everything about it had been great. A new city, a new job, living alone in a literal, actual death trap of a house. What could possibly go wrong?

Well then, you’d said, crossing your fingers behind your back. I have a good feeling about this.

For the first few weeks, things had been more or less normal - you’d been a little on edge, but nothing especially deadly had happened to you. No wardrobes falling on you, no rugs pulled out from underneath you, no invisible gas leaking into your lungs. In fact, it had been a perfectly ordinary house. If you were more suspicious, you might even say it was too ordinary. But that would be a silly thing to say, and you’re not, so you don’t.

Just a normal person, moving into a normal house. What could be simpler?

The start of term is a blur, and all too soon you’re so caught up in the semester that you barely have the energy to drag yourself upstairs to bed when you get home, let alone worry about anything else. Introducing yourself to your new coworkers, meeting your new classes, sorting through lesson plans and worksheets and your stupid fucking institutional login, being reset for the fifth time in as many days because apparently the IT department here is just as overworked and underpaid as anywhere else and if you have to go and beg them to reset your password again you’re going to-

Wait, it’s nearly the end of the semester already? What?

Finals season at DAMN is a particularly vicious mistress, it seems, and you've been going out of your mind trying to stay on top of all your work. One of the other Water Elemental professors went on maternity leave a month into the semester, so you've been forced to take over her class for the rest of the year - and you can safely say that you're never doing this again.

Twice as many lectures, twice as many emails, twice as much chasing students for late assignments. Right now, basically your whole day is taken up with running practicals, and your evenings are nothing but marking, marking, marking.

Yeah. That’s all that happens in the evenings. You don’t have time to think about anything else at all, nothing whatsoever, because there’s nothing else to think about.

You don’t think about the odd sounds from downstairs while you’re trying to sleep, muffled whispers of what could almost be conversation, echoing quietly in the hallway. You don’t think about the fact that you definitely turned the TV off before you left the house, and how it definitely wasn’t turned to the news when you did. You especially don’t think about how the plants in the garden never seem to need watering, or how the shelves never seem to get dusty, or how the curtains in the living room always seem to be open in the morning, even though you’re sure you closed them before you went to bed.

The doors that open and close on their own - well, it’s just a bit draughty, isn’t it? The strange chill in the air that seems to linger in certain places in the house, no matter how much you turn up the heating - well, all these old houses have their quirks, don’t they? That faint, blurry figure that you could have sworn you saw ducking past you in the mirror, disappearing so quickly that it can’t have really been there at all - and when you turn, there’s nothing behind you but air…

Condensation on the mirror before you’ve even had your shower, the sweet scent of a perfume you don’t wear. You’re going out of your mind.

You’ve started spending more time at work, waking up even earlier than before and going home even later. Organising lesson plans, sorting through papers, picking up extra invigilation, desperate to spend as long as you can at the university - anything, to get you out of that house. Practically the only thing you do at home now is sleep, and even that’s not for very long before you’re dashing out the door again in the morning. You’ll get breakfast on the way. Maybe if you’re not there as often, whatever it is will just… go away?

Only that doesn’t happen - if anything, it’s the complete opposite. The whole place feels strangely uneasy now, like the house itself is on edge, watching you. Something in the corner of your eye, the feeling of something breathing that surely shouldn’t be able to. Something tense and creeping in the air, stretching and stretching, ready to snap.

Fitful dreams, sleepless nights, keys jangling in your hand. Is it still paranoia if your house is really haunted?

It all comes to a head on - well, to be honest, you’re not so sure what day it is. Wednesday, maybe? Thursday? Whatever the case, you’ve been running on practically empty for longer than you should have been, and you’re really starting to feel it now.

Head pounding, you shut your eyes as you lean over the coffee maker. One for now, and one in your flask for later - oh, and you’ve run out of energy drinks in your office, so you’ll have to get a few out of the fridge to take with you.

Stressed at work, stressed at home, and barely sleeping in between. You’ve been forced to live on barely anything but coffee and energy drinks for almost a week now, just to keep yourself upright, and you think… um, you think it might be…

Fuck, your head is spinning. Just a minute, and you’ll be fine. It’s fine. Your laptop’s upstairs by your bed, so you’ve just got to grab that, and then you can be off to work. Just - just wait for the walls to stop moving, alright? You’ll only be a second…

The coffee’s slightly too hot as you gulp it down, and you hiss as it burns your tongue, scorching the inside of your mouth - something cold, you want something cold, make it stop it hurts it hurts - cracking, fizzing, oh, that’s nice, it’s cold, it’s cold - wait, what is it?

Oh, that’s bad. You look down at the half-empty can in your hand, lovely and cold from the fridge, condensation dripping slowly down the metal. Oops. That can’t be good for you.

Now that you’ve opened it, you might as well finish it. You won’t be able to carry an open can with you and it’ll go all weird if you just leave it out. What a waste!

Sip by sip, you gradually empty the can. Why does your stomach feel so weird? That’s not fun. Wasn’t there something you were supposed to remember…?

Laptop, you need to get your laptop. Upstairs. Right.

Well, if your heart explodes, your heart explodes. Giggling to yourself as you stumble past the front door and up the stairs, you imagine the look on that stupid estate agent’s face when she realises what’s happened - shit, they’ll have to put the price down even further, won’t they? That’ll be a hell of a hard sell. Yeah, they all died in mysterious accidents, all very strange and creepy, no idea how it happened - oh, except the last one. That one died of coffee disease when their blood turned into caffeine and their brain caught fire. Tragic.

It’s all fine. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Smiling, you grab your laptop case from the bedside table, ignoring the way your heart hammers against your ribs like it’s trying to fight its way out of you. Don't even think about it.

Don't think about the way you’re tripping over your own feet as you narrowly miss bumping into the bed, clinging to the doorframe to keep yourself upright. Don't think about the rushing, racing headache that's building in your skull as you drag yourself back down the corridor, that restless pressure in your chest that won't stop growing as you fumble for the bannister. Don't think about the dizzy, blurry world that shudders around you, the strange lightness in your mind as something gives way, the floor that suddenly isn't there beneath you-

STOP!

the horrible sound of your body as it falters and falls, the terrifying space under your feet where the stairs should be

I don't know, they just - I just - oh, God…

the aftertaste of adrenaline flooding through your blood, bitter and strange

Don't just fucking stand there!

as your heart chokes on its own frantic rhythm

Get out of - here, I can do it-

and there's somebody there

What are you even going to do?

and the world goes black

Don't ask.

and everything

disappears.

You don’t wake up for a while.

Shit, your head hurts.

Slowly, you start to feel something on your face, something cold and hard that’s pressing uncomfortably against your cheek. What is that?

You reach up, and - oh. It’s the floor.

Still too lightheaded to sit up, you gradually come back to consciousness in fits and starts, lazy thoughts swimming through your heavy head. You’re lying in the corridor on your side, staring at the skirting board - which is looking a bit grubby, now that you really look at it - and your laptop case is on the floor by the bedroom door a few feet away. The zip is open, and you can see about half of the actual laptop peeking out.

Thankfully, it looks okay. You’re not sure you could deal with having to buy a new one right now, especially with all the work you’ve got to-

Panicked, you jolt upright, one hand coming up to clutch at your skull as it feels like it’s on fire. You’ve got work!

Wait, what’s the time - how late are you? God, you really couldn’t have picked a worse time to fall down the fucking stairs, could you? You’ll have to call the office and tell them what’s happened, that you’re so, so, sorry, that if they can just get someone to cover your second period lecture you should be in by then…

Hold on.

Confused, you look down. Yeah, that’s what you thought - you’re sitting on the floor, sprawled out in the hallway and facing the wall. There’s nothing around you except your laptop case, and your bedroom door is open.

This isn’t right. How are you looking at your upstairs bedroom door, when you’re sure you fell down the stairs?

And that’s only the first thing - now that you really look, of course you’re not downstairs. The stairs go right down by the front door, but there are no shoes on the ground or coats hanging on the wall. Your laptop case must have been open when you dropped it, but the laptop itself is still inside - surely it would have fallen out when it slid down the stairs, or at least be in much worse shape than it is now?

You’re so confused by the whole thing that it doesn’t even occur to you that, besides the throbbing ache in your head, you’re not actually in any pain. Your heart has slowed back down to normal so you don’t feel quite so sick, and you can’t even feel any bruises or soreness from where you must have hit the ground. It’s as if you’d just… decided to lie down.

It doesn’t really matter, though, because you don’t notice it. You slowly pick yourself back up and stagger into your bedroom, reaching for the glass of water that sits on your bedside table, and the telltale fizzle of healing magic that was left on your tongue disappears without a trace.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. The ladies at the front office are very kind when you call to let them know you might be a bit late, but you hadn’t been unconscious for as long as you thought. You only end up missing half of the first period, after all, and even your headache gradually disappears over the course of the day.

The idea of going to the hospital does occur to you - you did lose consciousness, after all - but you decide against it. You feel fine, and it was probably just your body telling you to cut back on the caffeine for a little while. The winning combination of coffee and a can of whatever-it-was probably wasn’t the best idea on an empty stomach.

Ironically, if you had a student who this happened to, you’d probably have dragged them halfway to A&E yourself by now. Funny how that works, isn’t it?

Unfortunately, you can’t pretend that everything’s normal once you’ve finally arrived - your department head comes in at lunchtime to find you ankle deep in a pile of second-year practical write-ups, and all but kicks you out of your office so you can go home early and recover. For my sake, if anything, she says with a grin, although you know she’s only half-joking. Think of my reputation - I can’t let my newest lecturer spend more time here than I do, can I?

It’s certainly very kind of her, probably more so than you deserve, and before you know it you’ve been unceremoniously booted out of the building and onto the quad. Looks like it’s hometime, then.

The bus is warm, but not too crowded, so you’re lucky enough to get a seat by the window. There are worse things to do than watch the world go by on your way back home, and the nice view makes the trip go faster - in no time at all, you’re getting off again.

It’s so bizarre, going home in the middle of the day. Normally it’s long been dark by the time you get back, and everything looks so different in the light that you almost walk straight past your street entirely. Has the house on the opposite side of the road always had those flowers in the front garden? Or has it just always been too dark for you to notice them?

Fishing your keys out of your pocket, you have a horrible feeling that you don’t really know anything about this place. What really happens here in Dahlia? How much of it have you actually seen, that isn’t the inside of a university building?

Unsettled, you unlock the door and step inside, shutting the door behind you with a sigh. Home at last. You’ll have to-

I swear, if you-

Wait, was that the door?

Hold on. What was that sound…?

You listen for a second, but you can’t hear anything unusual. Huh. Must have been nothing.

In any case, now that you’re home, you’re really starting to feel that tiredness creeping in. With a sigh of relief, you toe your shoes off and leave them by the door, before sliding your bag off your shoulder and dropping your keys into th-

There’s no way. It’s, like, lunchtime or something, right?

Okay, this is really starting to get weird now. You could have sworn you heard someone, muffled and ever-so-quiet underneath the noise of your keys falling into the bowl that you normally keep them in.

Is there someone else here? There can’t be, surely. You peer around the hallway, looking for any sign that someone might have broken in, but you don’t see anything weird - although it’s not like you really know what you’d be looking for. The door was locked when you came in, and you know that when you left for work, all the windows were shut and the back door was locked too.

Besides, everyone said this part of the city was pretty safe, didn’t they?

(Okay, so the last tenant did die horribly when someone broke in a few months ago, but something, something, never strikes twice or whatever.)

Your aura flickers as you try to reach out and see if you can feel something there, but there’s nothing at all. No sign of anyone, empowered or otherwise, and nothing out of the ordinary happening with the ambient magic in the house.

To tell the truth, you’d been surprised at how strong it was when you moved in. At least one of the previous tenants must have been magical, and really powerful - this house is full of magic left behind, traces of a forgotten aura, echoing softly in the walls and floors. It happens to most places where empowered people live or work, so it’s not like you’re not used to it, but even so… wow. It’s very strong.

Gingerly, you creep across the hallway and nudge the door to the living room just slightly open, before holding your breath and peeking inside.

And… there’s nothing there.

Just your boring, ordinary living room.

You check all the other rooms just to make sure, but they’re exactly the same. Nothing out of place, everything just as you’d left it. Nothing missing, nothing moved, nothing weird at all. There’s no trace of an intruder, and you’re starting to feel a bit silly, really. Surely you’re just imagining things, right?

Well, that or you’re hearing voices. God, all that caffeine really has fucked you up.

Perhaps a nap might be in order, now that you think about it. Yeah, a nap would be good. You’re getting tired just thinking about it - falling asleep, not having to worry about anything, relaxing after all the bizarre things that have been happening to you today. It sounds wonderful.

Quickly, you change into your pyjamas and get into bed, getting a glass of water from the kitchen before you go upstairs - you briefly consider having a shower beforehand, but you’re too sleepy to bother. Your bed is warm and soft and quiet, and that’s what matters right now.

Oh, it’s so nice. No more headache, no more confusion. The duvet is thick and comfy as you pull it around you, and just like that, you’re asleep almost immediately.

While you’re sleeping, do you dream?

I don’t get it. Why come back so soon?

Maybe it’s a timetabling thing? For finals? Like, an exam got cancelled so they didn’t have to stay? But it really could be anything - it’s always a miserable time for everyone, even the staff, so who even knows what it was…

Yeah, that’s true.

Do you think it’ll be back to normal tomorrow?

We’ll just have to wait and see. Hopefully we don’t get another scare like earlier.

Oh my God, that was fucking terrifying… I thought I was going to have a heart attack! Again!

Is that what happened? I thought it - oh, yeah, I guess it sort of counts. But it’s not like anyone can see us, anyway, so it shouldn’t really matter.

Well… But, like, it’s still kind of stressful though, don’t you think?

A bit, I guess. But you could probably say we’ve had worse.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s fair enough.

…No, you probably don’t.

When you wake up, it’s nighttime, weak moonlight sneaking through the gap in the curtains and falling across the floor. Mm, it’s so nice and warm under the covers. What’s the time? Everything feels weird.

Blearily, you reach for your phone - it’s about eight o’clock. Shit. Has it really been that long? You’d only meant to be asleep for a few hours, not the whole rest of the day…

Ah, whatever. You must have needed it. And anyway, you can’t really be bothered to try and think about work now - whatever you were going to do, you’ll just deal with it tomorrow. Maybe you’ll go downstairs and have a little something for dinner, and then relax a bit more before going to bed properly.

You rub your eyes with one hand as you push yourself up to sitting, swinging your legs over the side of the bed with a groan. Getting up is the worst. The glass of water on your bedside table is nice, though, and you gulp down about half of it while you get used to being upright again.

…Is it just you, or can you hear something coming from the next room?

Nope, nope, you’re not doing this again - it was nothing last time, and it’s probably nothing again. You’re just a little bit on edge. Perfectly understandable. You’re going to get up and go out of your room, and walk over to the stairs. Then you’re going to go down the stairs, and go to the kitchen to make some dinner, and absolutely nothing strange is going to happen while you do it.

With that in mind, you stand up and walk towards the door with a lot more confidence than you feel, although it’s slightly undermined when you have to backtrack a few steps in because you forgot to pick up your phone. But with that in hand, you pull the bedroom door open and step out into the corridor, safe in the knowledge that everything is exactly as it should be-

“Ah!”

It’s not. Oh, fuck, it’s really, really not.

There’s a shadow in the corridor - your breath freezes as you see it, a paralysing chill slicing down your spine. Floorboards creaking quietly, the faintest sound of breathing. Something moving, just inside the doorway to the guest bedroom down the hall.

There’s someone else in the house.

The door is slightly open, letting you see just a tiny bit inside the room, and you stare in shock as you catch a glimpse of a definitely-there, definitely-real hand suddenly reaching out to grasp at the doorframe. Whoever it belongs to, the angle makes it look like they’re leaning against the wall - the hand trembles slightly as it clutches at the wood, clumsy and frantic, nails scratching at the paint.

Terrified, you’re frozen to the floor as the hand slips down a fraction, and the arm it’s attached to knocks the side of the door. The hinges creak faintly as the door slowly swings open, only to reveal-

“Mmm…”

Wait, what?

Okay, you realise that you screwed up with the whole caffeine thing earlier. And you’ve been running yourself ragged for weeks. And you just woke up from a nap. So all in all, you’re probably not operating at full capacity right now. But even so, even with all that going on, you have to admit that you really weren’t expecting to see a couple very enthusiastically making out against the wall of your guest bedroom.

The two of them are utterly lost in each other and totally ignoring you - in fact, it doesn’t even look like they’ve noticed you standing here at all. If your brain could stop bluescreening, you’d almost be offended.

The - um, demon? Is that really a demon? You’ve only ever seen a few from afar, mostly on campus, but the distinctive flavour of magic that soaks into your aura even from here is a dead giveaway - the demon presses himself against the human-looking one as he kisses them, horns knocking softly against the wall above their head as he leans over them. The human clings to his shoulders in return, and you watch as a hand that you now recognise slides down the demon’s chest to tug impatiently at the hem of his shirt.

They’re also both very, very hot. Woah.

(Look, it’s been a while, okay? And anyway, it’s just an observation. An idle, ordinary observation. It’s not your fault that they look… fuck, they look really good. Like, really good.)

The human sighs softly as the demon nudges their head to the side with the tip of his tail, kissing avidly across their jaw and down their throat. Are those fangs? Does he have fangs? Because it certainly looks like it from here - the human’s eyelids flutter as he nips sweetly at their skin, only for their gaze to fall on-

“Mm - mmm!” The human splutters as they finally notice you, eyes going wide and hands clutching frantically at the demon’s back as they try to nudge him away. Is it fear or surprise? “It - baby, baby, there - there’s s-”

“Yeah - mhm, I-”

The demon shushes them breathlessly, chasing their lips with a quiet whine, one arm locking tight around their middle to keep them close as his other hand cups the back of their head, presumably to protect them from hitting their head against the wall. “They can’t see, deviant, ‘s okay-”

“You - mm, fuck! - Gav, they’re right - they’re right there!”

Somewhat belatedly, you realise that you’ve just been kind of standing there and staring at these two - with a start, you stumble backwards a step and drop your gaze to the floorboards in embarrassment. Should you be embarrassed? You’re a little bit embarrassed.

(It’s kind of rude to stare at people who are making out. Although, it’s also kind of rude to break into someone else’s house and start making out against the wall while the owner of the house is trying to sleep in the next room, so maybe you’re even.)

You scramble hastily for words, half-formed syllables spilling out of your mouth, but you have no idea what to say - what can you say in a situation like this? How do you - what do you - where do you even begin?

Luckily, the demon speaks up before you can make too much of a fool of yourself - you notice that he’s stepped slightly in front of the human, tail coiling around their calf in a way that you can only describe as deeply, deliberately possessive. Does he think you’re going to… to do what? Hurt them?

“I suppose we ought to explain…?”

He sounds a bit surprised, which is unexpected, considering that this is the weirdest break-in on Earth, and also that this isn’t his house. Aren’t you the one who should be surprised?

“I think they’re in the living room,” says the human in a total non-sequitur, gently extricating themselves from the demon��s tail and backing away towards the end of the corridor. “I’ll go and get them.”

“No - no, we’ll come down,” the demon calls back to them as they disappear downstairs. “I think our new friend might want to sit down for this.”

You don’t really have a chance to protest, utterly lost in shock - numbly, you follow the demon as he beckons you over, with a smile that looks easy, but you’re sure it’s taking a lot more effort than he’d like.

“My name’s Gavin,” he says conversationally, gesturing towards the stairs. “Nice to meet you.”

He motions again towards the stairs, but you’re too dazed to really get what he means - with a good-natured sigh, he takes a step in front of you and starts walking backwards down the stairs, one hand drifting just slightly above the bannister as the other keeps urging you forwards. “And you might be…?”

Oh - oh, that’s what he wants! You wouldn’t say that the jumble of syllables that falls out of your mouth is exactly your name, but it’s close enough, and he nods in acquiescence.

“Well, then. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

There’s a funny sort of smile in his voice when he says that, but you can’t quite put your finger on what it might be. And anyway, what does he mean by finally?

The demon - Gavin, what a strange name for a demon, you’ll have to remember that - he turns when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, and you see that the door to the living room is open now. You can hear a sort of whispered argument going on in there, between what sounds like two or three people, but you can’t see wh-

“Um, yeah - yeah, I’ll just go and get something from the - fuck! - sorry, sorry, I’m just - oh my God!”

Totally stunned, all you can do is watch as a man comes hurrying out of the living room towards you, talking at lightning speed over his shoulder and almost tripping over Gavin’s tail before the demon whips it out of the way just in time. He stumbles forwards as he tries to get his balance back, grabbing the end of the bannister to keep himself upright - you catch a glimpse of something silver around his neck, tucked into his shirt, before you’re suddenly face-to-face with a very large pair of glasses, and the very flustered-looking man who’s right behind them.

(Oh, for the love of - did anyone break into your house who isn’t ridiculously pretty? What sort of home invader beauty pageant did these people all come from?)

“Shit.”

Both of you stare at each other for a confused second, unblinking, before the strange man jerks backwards away from you, hands fluttering awkwardly in the air as he starts to ramble.

“I mean, um, sorry! Not to, like, call you - not you, obviously - that would be rude, and - and I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just, you know…”

“Smooth,” murmurs Gavin behind him, leaning against the wall and not even trying to hide his grin. “Now do one of those pick-up lines we practised.”

The man shuts his eyes like he’s trying to stave off a headache, taking what’s clearly a blood-pressure-lowering deep breath. “Please, please fuck off.”

Gavin shrugs, blowing him an unapologetic kiss and waving at you with the tip of his tail, before disappearing through the door to the living room with a cackle.

“Whatever you say, Lasky!”

“Oh, not again-!”

He turns to you, almost pleadingly, and he looks so comically weary that you’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. “It’s Lasko, not Lasky, he does this every time and I…”

“It’s - um, it’s alright,” you reply, and give him your nicest smile. “Nice to meet you, Lasko.”

He blinks owlishly at you for a second, like he’s not sure what to say, before smiling back at you. “Nice to… uh, nice to meet you too!”

Idly, you notice that his hand has come up to fiddle with the chain of his necklace, although the actual pendant is hidden under his shirt. It must be pretty sizeable, though, because you can just about see the shape of it through the material - a kind of sphere, or a round-ish chunk of some gemstone, maybe?

“I was just going to get some water for - well, for you, actually, just ‘cause Hux said he thought it might be nice? Like, obviously it’s a lot to get used to, and if you’re holding a drink then you don’t have to, um - you know, when you don’t know what to do with your hands? Or if you don’t know what to say, then you’ve got something to do, and anyway, it’s just kind of nice to… to, uh…”

Lasky - nope, Lasko, it’s Lasko - trails off, apparently only just noticing that he’s blocking the bottom of the stairs, and hurriedly sidesteps out of the way to let you past. “You can go in, by the way! I’ll just be a minute.”

Before you have a chance to say anything, he disappears off towards the kitchen, white ankle socks sliding slightly on the wooden floor, and all you can think is that you’ve never heard of a burglar who took off his shoes when he broke into the house.

Well, you might as well do what he says…?

Timidly, you creep up to the living room door and peer around the doorframe, dreading what you’ll find. These people all seem very nice, but what the hell are they doing here, anyway? Are they going to do something to you? How long have they been planning this? You couldn’t run, even if you tried - if they’ve got a demon on their side, you’d barely be able to get out the front door before they’d catch you again.

Being brave, you’ve got to be brave. Whatever they want, just give it to them, and maybe they’ll go away.

“Hey, uh… you okay?”

You jolt as another man pops into view, leaning into your field of vision from where he’s sitting on the sofa. He waves, and his smile is awfully sweet as he motions for you to come into the room.

“You can stay there if you want, but, like… it’s your house, right?” he laughs, not unkindly. “You can go wherever you like, dude, we won’t stop you.”

He sits back upright from where he was leaning over as you walk nervously into the room, and you notice that there’s another man sitting next to him on the sofa. It’s hard to tell, seeing as they’re sitting down, but this one looks slightly shorter than the first, flicking his dark hair out of his face and fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

(Fucking hell, they’re literally all so beautiful. Do the cast of Vogue normally spend their free time breaking and entering, or are you just really lucky?)

“Damien,” the shorter man says, standing up and walking around the coffee table with one hand outstretched. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Well, he’s certainly cutting to the chase, isn’t he? Fair enough. You introduce yourself in turn as you shake his hand, but you can’t help but think there’s something… something odd about the feeling of his skin. He’s not cold, per se, but it’s something like that - a strange feeling that runs down your spine like ice water, like your mind can’t place it but your body instinctively knows that something isn’t quite right.

In any case, he sits back down and the man next to him lifts a hand in greeting, looking slightly embarrassed that Damien beat him to the punch.

“Ah, I’m Huxley,” he says, “but Hux is fine, if that’s better for you.”

Damien rolls his eyes with unmistakable fondness, which is a bizarre choice for a home invader. “You can just say which one you prefer, you know. It’s your name.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

Huxley shrugs, and you can tell they’ve had this conversation a thousand times. “I don’t really mind, you know? Like, whichever one you say, I still know what you mean, ‘cause it’s all still me. And anyway, if I changed my mind, I’d just say later.”

He grins, sharp and painfully handsome, and turns his head to look past Damien over to the loveseat, where you belatedly realise Gavin and his human, um, friend from before are sprawled out across the cushions.

“Besides, I feel like there’s worse culprits, y’know?”

Damien drops his head in his hands. “Don’t even get me started on Freelancer.”

Apparently-Freelancer lifts a lazy middle finger in his direction. “It gets the point across, doesn’t it?”

“There’s got to be more to a name than just gets the point across,” he moans. “Just because you happen to be a Freelancer doesn't mean that's all you are.”

They huff, turning their face away haughtily. “It’s a name if I say it's a name.”

“It's literally a nickname! You have a different name! That we know and also call you!”

Freelancer’s eyes narrow wickedly. “Want me to choose a different nickname?”

Gavin lifts his head interestedly from where he’s draped across their lap. “I might have some suggestions-”

“No!” shrieks Damien, and the temperature in the room unexpectedly spikes as he flops backwards against the sofa cushions, decidedly not looking over at the loveseat. “God, no, we already hear enough of those when you’re-”

“Jesus,” Lasko mutters as he comes in through the door behind you, silently passing you a glass of water and motioning for you to sit down in the one empty armchair that's opposite the sofa. “Sorry about them. It happens a lot.”

You nod noncommittally as you sit down, watching it all with a sort of vague detachment as he goes to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Huxley. The three of them are facing you across the coffee table, with Gavin and Freelancer occupying the loveseat on the right, and something about the way they’re all looking at you is strangely… interrogative? Like you’re here for the world’s weirdest job interview or something - like they’re trying to get the measure of you.

It’s quite awkward, to be honest. You take a sip of your water, feeling oddly grateful for Lasko’s foresight about not having to wonder what to do with your hands.

“Okay, look.”

Damien breaks the ice, leaning forward slightly as he looks seriously at you. “This is going to sound kind of - kind of unusual. And we get that. But it’s true, and you deserve to know, so we’ll just… we’ll just say it, I guess.”

He takes a deep breath. Huxley quietly holds out his hand, palm up, and Damien takes it.

“When you bought this place, they told you about the previous owners, right?”

You nod, remembering that uncomfortable meeting with the estate agent. “Yeah.”

“Well, you’re, um…” Damien’s gaze slides to the side, uncomfortable, before returning to you. “You’re looking at them, I’m afraid.”

Sorry, you’re what?

He gives you a second to process that, not that a second is nearly enough, and carries on. “All of us owned this house before you. Whenever they said anything about previous occupants, or ex-tenants, or whatever bullshit word they used - they were talking about us.”

“You’re joking,” you manage to force out, incredulous. “But you - she said you - she said-”

“That we died?” says Gavin, with a grim smile. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“No. No, no - that’s impossible!”

Your mind reels in confusion at this utterly bizarre story, trying to make sense of it all. So what - so they’re all dead, then? Like, ghosts or something? That can’t be right - the closest thing you’ve ever heard of to that were Shades, and they definitely aren’t Shades.

There’s no magic in the world that can reanimate the dead. For as long as humans have had magic, they’ve tried and tried, but it just doesn’t work. So what the hell are these people playing at?

(And anyway, didn’t the woman at the estate agency say there were four ex-tenants? How can there suddenly be five of them?)

You shake your head in disbelief. “You’re joking. This has to be a joke.”

“I said the same thing,” Lasko says mournfully, looking down at the floor. “If it is a joke, it looks like it’s on us.”

“You’re magical, right?”

Freelancer’s voice is quiet, but something about it is strangely urgent. “You can feel other people’s auras, can’t you?”

“Yes…?” you reply, unsure of what they’re getting at. “What about it?”

“We are, too,” they say, and a flame dances to life in their palm. “So shouldn’t you be able to feel us?”

Reflexively, your aura ripples around you as you search for what you know must be right in front of you - they’re doing magic right now, so surely you’ll be able to feel something…?

Nothing. Not them, not anyone else. It’s as if nobody’s there at all - only that insistent thrum of magic that flows through the bones of this house, that you remember thinking was unusually strong. Those noises you couldn’t explain, things in strange places that shouldn’t have been able to move. You’ve never had to water the plants once.

Was this what that feeling was all along? Were they what you were feeling?

You don’t know what to say. This shouldn’t be possible.

“I don’t get it,” you mumble, feeling awfully small and scared. “I don’t - I don’t understand.”

“Then we’ll explain it a different way,” says Huxley, with so much patience that you could almost cry. “Is that cool with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He starts to stand up like he’s going to come over to you, but there’s not really any room on the chair next to you, so he just sort of awkwardly sits back down again. “Okay, we’ll start from the beginning. Lasko?”

Lasko waves, an awkward little half-gesture. “Hi.”

You take another sip of your water - it’s slightly lukewarm now, but it’s still comforting.

“I was - well, I was first,” he says, trembling fingers tugging at his necklace chain again. “I used to work at DAMN, like you, and I ended up renting this place - I remember thinking it was unusually cheap, but I needed somewhere to live, right?”

He laughs, slightly shakily. “I guess it must have been a problem with the electrics, or something, ‘cause I’m sure it wasn’t me. But I was in the, um - I was in the bath, and I remember the lights flickering like there was a storm, or something? It felt odd, like something in the air, and there must have been a power surge…”

A horrible feeling blossoms in the pit of your stomach when you realise what he’s saying - he must see it on your face, shrugging sheepishly. “I don’t really know how it actually happened…? I mean, I think it was a heart attack, or it stopped my heart or something like that, but I - I guess I normally just say I got electrocuted. It’s - uh, I mean, I don’t have to explain it a lot, but it’s easier than saying the whole thing, I think.”

Dimly, you recall the estate agent’s voice in your head. An electrical fault.

“Afterwards, the rental company didn’t want the place anymore,” Lasko says, surprisingly cheerily. “You can’t really blame them, though.”

“I think you can,” grumbles Freelancer. “They did kill you.”

Lasko shrugs. “How were they supposed to know?”

“They sold you a house that zapped you to death!”

“They rented me a house that zapped me to death,” Lasko fires back, waving a hand in Freelancer’s direction as they stick their tongue out at him. “It’s probably different.”

Damien rolls his eyes - you’re getting the distinct impression he does that a lot - and elbows Huxley lightly in the side. “For the love of God, please distract them.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, and turns to you. “I used to be a student at DAMN, and I needed somewhere to live after the semester ended, right? Like, my lease was up, and I didn't really know what I was gonna do - you know what it's like.”

“You were at DAMN?” you ask, surprised. “What were you studying?”

“Oh, uh, Earth Elemental Studies,” Huxley replies, with a melancholy smile. “I had a teaching gig lined up for after graduation, but… you know.”

He gestures down at himself and shrugs. Lasko looks away.

“I ended up renting this place after Lasko had his, uh, accident - they said everything had been fixed, but I guess they didn't get it all…? The weather in Dahlia isn't normally so bad, so I must've just been unlucky with the storm. You know how the ceiling in the kitchen is a different colour to the walls? Like it's been repaired recently?”

Oh, you have a bad feeling about this. “Yeah.”

He grimaces. “It, uh… well, it wasn't like that before I moved in.”

Fucking hell. When she said there has been an issue with the roof she’d been putting it mildly.

Huxley must see your horrified expression, quickly cutting back in. “Don’t worry about it, dude - it didn't hurt that bad, not for long. It was pretty quick, when you think about it.”

“I mean, most people don't like thinking about it at all,” Damien murmurs under his breath. “We’re not exactly in the majority here.”

Huxley tips his head to the side in acquiescence. “It was a while ago. Gotta get over this kind of shit eventually.”

Gavin’s jaw drops. “You're over it?”

“Well, no…” he replies. “But it'll probably happen at some point, yeah?”

Freelancer, half-buried underneath their human-blanket (demon-blanket?) over on the loveseat, blinks in apparent wonder. “Hux, you're my hero.”

Huxley grins. “Don't let Gav hear you saying that.”

“Oh, he's not listening,” they scoff, tipping Gavin’s face up to kiss the tip of his nose. “Are you, darling?”

Gavin shakes his head, eyes closed and wearing a wide, lazy smile. “Didn't hear a thing.”

Damien sighs fondly at their antics, gaze all soft and sticky, before turning back to you. “In any case, I was the next one. Moved in a few weeks after the storm, when they said everything was fixed. When they were telling you about us, did anyone mention a fall?”

You’d been kind of preoccupied by the more unusual deaths, so you don't really remember if the lady did or not, but it sounds about right. “I think so…?”

“Then there's not much more to say.”

He shifts slightly in his seat. “I was rushing, and I slipped - it's my own fault, really. I’d overslept and I thought I was going to be late for a lecture, so I wasn't really looking where I was going. You know how slippery the stairs can get.”

You wince. “They’re pretty bad, yeah.”

“You'd have thought they'd at least put some carpet down or something after I died, but apparently not,” Damien grumbles. “First they had to dig Hux out from under whatever cheap roofing shit they had before, then five minutes later we were all watching some poor contractor scrubbing my goddamned blood out of the floorboards, because it would have been too fucking expensive to replace it all - do they just like having to scrape their tenants off the floor, or something? Because that's what would have happened to you earlier if we hadn't done anything, for fuck’s sake…”

He looks up sharply when he says that, like he's just remembered something. “Oh, um - yeah, that was us. Sorry about that. But also, like, the espresso-Monster thing you drank probably wasn’t the best breakfast.”

This morning. All those things that didn't add up. Falling down the stairs, and landing at the top of them. That was them?

“How did it…” You're not quite sure how to put it. “How did you do it?”

“Oh, you can thank Lasko for that,” he replies. “He managed to slow you down enough that Gavin was able to heal you without anything being too serious.”

You look over at Lasko, nervously waving his hands in front of his face like it’ll ward off any sort of thanks. “It was just luck, that's all! I just, you know - I was in the right place at the right time, and I - well, the whole air thing is kind of easy for me, so it wasn't even that complicated or anything - I mean, not that it wasn't important, obviously, but-”

“Lasko.”

“Yes?”

You smile. “Thank you.”

Nervously, he smiles back, with an charmingly-awkward little thumbs up. “Not, uh, no problem.”

“If you’re trying to join us, you’ll have to try harder than that,” Damien quips, blackly. “Dying like that isn't fun, believe me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you say. “Next time, I’ll just let the caffeine poison me all by itself.”

He nods approvingly, the hint of a held-back smile brightening his handsome face. “See, now you’re getting it.”

Idly, you lift the glass to your mouth, only to realise that - wait, it’s empty? No, it can’t be. When did you drink all of that? How bizarre. Hearing about people dying must be thirsty work. Quietly, you put it down on the coffee table in front of you.

“Freelancer.”

“Mm?” Freelancer looks up, distracted from whatever sweet nothings Gavin seems to be mumbling into their neck. “What?”

Damien tips his head slightly in your direction. “You’re up to bat, I’m afraid.”

“Already? That was quick.” With a little bit of fidgeting, they push themselves up to sit facing you, one hand holding Gavin’s, and the other around his back as he sits sideways with his legs across their lap.

“So, it’s… it’s not the nicest thing,” they say, eyes darting away before sliding back to meet yours. “And it probably isn’t going to make a huge amount of sense, just ‘cause when the - actually, that reminds me - did they say something about a break-in? And - and a trespasser?”

The most recent. Altercation with an intruder. Highly unusual. Shouldn’t happen again.

You look down. “They did, yeah.”

“Well, it’s mostly true,” Freelancer says, “although it’s not the full thing. The unempowered police had to come and investigate, and that was the best they could come up with, so that’s what the estate agent will have told you.”

“Was it magical, then?” you ask, slightly hesitantly.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was,” they reply hesitantly. “I’d only just moved here to come to DAMN. I was humanborn, so I didn’t really know a whole lot about magic, but I had a - well, there was an… uh…”

Nervously, they look at Gavin - he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and they swallow.

“I heard about DAMN from a friend, so I thought it would be good to come and try and learn some, like, actual magic, right? And Gavin and I met here, just after I moved - it’s kind of a long story, but he ended up basically moving in here as well after a while. So that’s why we - well, that’s how we’re, uh, here. Together.”

Their leg bounces as they tap their heel against the floor, over and over. You’re not getting the feeling that this story is going to end well.

“There was a… a problem,” they mumble, after a little pause. “A friend of ours was being chased by a demon - a different demon, a really strong one, who we didn’t know. He was hurt, so he came here for help - but the demon chasing him followed him here.”

Attacked? By a demon? God, what sort of city is this? If this is the sort of thing that’s happening here, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that you don’t go out much.

Freelancer continues, gaze now fixed firmly on their feet. “He attacked us - and our friend. There was no time to do anything, so we - we did what we could, but…”

Gavin’s tail wraps and unwraps around Freelancer’s wrist, winding around their arm first one way, then the other.

“This demon, he was… powerful,” he says, carefully. “He was old - much older than me, and it wasn’t exactly like we could have seen him coming. We were lucky to do as much as we did.”

Silently, Lasko picks up your glass from the coffee table, and walks out of the living room.

“Our friend got away, at least,” Freelancer says, through what you think is meant to be a smile. “And we did sort-of win - Gavin managed to knock him out, and took him to the Department. He’s probably in a prison somewhere, now.”

So… they won? But then how are they…?

Freelancer must see the question written across your face. “By the time Gavin got him, I’d already, um… you know. The old coffee table in here was pretty heavy, and when it hit me, it was kind of, uh - yeah. It wasn’t great.”

The thought of it turns your blood to ice. They died in here? This room? The same room you’re in right now, where they’re sitting on the loveseat like it’s nothing - this room? How can they even stand to be in here like this, after everything that’s happened?

“I’m - I’m sorry,” you manage to say, painfully aware of how hollow it must sound. “That must have been awful.”

Strangely enough, they shake their head. “Gavin got the worst of it. The rift, when he came back…”

They trail off into silence, and Gavin doesn’t say anything either. Frozen in place, unmoving - like this, they could almost be stone. Alive and undead. Sobbing but never crying, rainwater dripping down the marble.

“When we died, we became… this.”

You look over at Huxley, speaking softly. “We can’t be seen by living people, and we can’t leave this place. Touching objects - like, physical stuff like doors and books and water - it takes more effort, but it’s still okay. We can still do most magic, too, but it’s not as easy as it used to be.”

You nod, slightly confused. Why is he telling you this now…?

“It happens pretty quickly,” he adds, “the whole transformation, resurrection, whatever. But it… well. Yeah.”

“It doesn’t take much to kill a human.”

Gavin’s voice is raw and venomous, glaring at the floor, fangs bared in a bitter snarl.

“Demons last a little bit longer.”

In your mind’s eye, the horrifying scene unfolds. A human body, shattered and bloody, lifted gently from the wreckage and cradled in the fading arms of a dying demon. Gavin, tears streaming down his crumbling face, clutching the corpse of his human lover - no magic left, an immortal being surrendering to an impossible death. Freelancer, imprisoned in the silent space between sleeping and waking, screaming in terror yet doomed to go unheard. Forced to watch as Gavin’s form falters and dissolves, scattered back into the nothingness of stardust.

Of course. Five deaths, four tenants. No body left to bury.

There’s nothing you can say to that. Nothing at all.

Behind you, Lasko comes back in from the kitchen, passing you a refilled glass of water before walking back over to the sofa. It’s freezing cold in your hand, and you can’t help but shiver involuntarily.

“Ow!”

Startled, all of your heads snap towards Lasko - he’s tripped over the stack of papers that you were marking last night, catching himself on the side of the loveseat and accidentally smacking face-first into Gavin’s shoulder. Freelancer jerks backwards out of the way as he hisses in surprise, jolting forwards with the unexpected weight against his back, and Damien bursts into laughter as Lasko stutters his way through a flustered apology, wrenching himself back upright and scurrying off to the sofa to hide behind Huxley.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry! I didn’t see it - I just tripped, and oh, I didn’t mean to hit you - are you okay? Like, I didn’t hurt you, did I? God, I don’t know how I forgot it was there - and your back, are you-”

“If you want to get your hands on me, you can just ask,” Gavin purrs over the top of him, rubbing his shoulder blade where Lasko’s face presumably impacted with the flat spade of his tail. “And yes, I’m fine, thank you. Unless you wanted to kiss it better?”

Lasko’s breath visibly stops, the poor thing, as Gavin fixes him with a smirk so ridiculously charming that you almost can’t tear your eyes away. Fuck, he’s so beautiful, wicked gaze dragging slowly down the length of Lasko’s body, painted claws catching the light as they just barely start to flirt with the hem of Freelancer’s shirt…

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Huxley trying not to laugh as Lasko peeks out from over his shoulder. “Keep it together there, Gav. We’ve got an audience, y’know.”

Lasko buries his face in his hands. “Please, God, don’t-”

“Oh, Hux,” Gavin sighs plaintively, although the impish smile across his face gives him away. “Why do you think I offered?”

A quiet rustle of fabric, and underneath him, Freelancer lets out a long, slow breath that you hadn’t noticed they were holding. You, um… you can’t see the end of Gavin’s tail any more, and you’re not entirely sure if you want to know where it is.

“I’m so sorry,” Damien groans, flinging a stray sofa cushion at Gavin’s head as he gives you an apologetic look, ignoring the confused squawking from the loveseat when it accidentally hits Freelancer in the shoulder and ricochets into Gavin’s face. “You’re all dead to me.”

Huxley pats him on the shoulder. “We’re dead to everyone, babe.”

“Not helping.”

“Love you too.”

“That was so rude!” comes a gasp from your right. Amused, you look over to find an outraged Gavin, holding up the projectile cushion in one clawed hand, eyes narrowed sulkily at Damien for ruining the fun. “Don’t you think, deviant?”

Freelancer nods sagely. “Very rude.”

“He didn’t even let us finish! We could have been doing something entirely innocent.”

“We’re so nice to him, and he’s always so mean to us.”

“Spoiling our fun.”

“Getting in our way.”

“Getting in our bed-”

“Will you two stop it!” Damien hisses, pointing an accusing finger at Gavin when the demon actually hisses back at him. “I wouldn’t have to be rude if you two would stop being so - so… lascivious!”

Freelancer grins, eyes scrunched up into happy little half-moons and arms wrapped possessively around Gavin’s waist. “He thinks we’re lascivious.”

“What about tea?” interrupts Lasko, standing up suddenly and motioning behind his back for you to follow him. “We’ll have tea, that’ll be nice, does anyone want some? Good, okay, we’ll just go and make the - the, um - we’ll just go, won’t be long, back in a minute-”

You’re not sure if ghosts can get high blood pressure, but you say a silent prayer for whatever nightmare must be going on in Damien’s undead arteries. Huxley jokingly salutes the pair of you as you scramble after Lasko - shaky hands all but push you out of the door, and he pulls it swiftly shut behind him with a decisive psychokinetic flourish, muffling the enthusiastic bickering inside.

It's finally quiet again.

Just you and Lasko.

“Is it always like this?”

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the door, laughing weakly. “Basically, yeah.”

Well. Considering everything that could have gone wrong with finding out that your house is haunted and practically infested with the undead, at least the ghosts that you've got are fun ghosts.

“Kind of you to volunteer my tea for everyone,” you say breezily, motioning for Lasko to follow you into the kitchen and stifling your smile when his face turns to almost comical panic. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Are - are you sure?” He wrings his hands as he trails after you, teeth digging into his bottom lip in a way that really shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “Sorry, I just - we’d be there all day otherwise, and I just wanted to distract them for a bit, but I didn’t really think about it, you know, and…”

He takes a slow, deep breath, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. “I mean, uh, thank you.”

The kettle’s empty, so you go to fill it up at the sink while Lasko silently gets some mugs out of the cupboard, along with a handful of teaspoons and some teabags.

Too silently, in fact.

“Tea’s in the right hand drawer, by the way.”

Lasko freezes guiltily as you say it, wrist deep in the box of Earl Grey. “You know. Because I didn’t tell you, so there’s no way you could have known.”

He winces. “Sorry…”

“I mean, it’s not the worst thing you could be looking at.” You’re not actually that angry, all things considered, but it needs to be said. “Do I need a ghost-proof shower curtain, too?”

“What? No - God, no!” he stammers, seemingly horrified by the implication. “I swear none of us would do anything like that - we would never! We have never! No, that’d be - no!”

He shakes his head emphatically, nearly knocking his glasses off in the process. “We don’t go into the bathroom when you’re there, and your bedroom is always off-limits. Promise. You can ask the others.”

“I should hope so.” Next to you, the kettle starts to steam, although it’s not quite hot enough yet. “Am I - wait, you were the first one, right?”

He nods, quietly shuffling through the tea drawer again. “Yeah.”

“Could the others see you… before? Like me?” you ask, walking over to the fridge. “Milk?”

“If that’s okay.”

Without looking, you reach in and grab the carton, before putting it down on the counter next to him. “I just don’t understand. How come I can see you now, but I couldn’t before?”

“That’s what we were talking about before you came in,” he replies. “Hux thinks it’s something to do with this morning - like, that you had some sort of near-death experience? And then that means you can see us, because we’re dead and you were nearly-dead…? I don’t know, it’s a work in progress.”

Wait, so does that mean you actually did poison yourself this morning? Or is he talking about falling down the stairs? Of course you’d accidentally manage to find a way to nearly kick the bucket twice in a single day. What a liability they all must think you are…

“The others couldn’t see like you do,” Lasko continues, oblivious to your spiralling. “Not until they were already gone. You’re the first one who’s been able to see us while you were still - actually, um, that reminds me…”

The kettle clicks, having boiled. He reaches over to get it, but you wave him away, picking it up and moving to fill up the collection of mugs - and, oddly, an entire teapot that you’re sure you’ve never seen before - he’s arranged on the countertop.

“If you wanted to leave now that you’ve heard all of - uh, all of this… well, we wouldn’t be upset. We’re not gonna, like, make you stay here or anything.”

Confused, you frown down at the mug in front of you. “What do you mean?”

“You know, ah…” Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him fiddling with his necklace again. “We’re not the luckiest people in the world. None of us lasted very long in this house - and the whole ‘being undead’ thing isn’t really something we understand. Like, why us? What did we ever do? Is it the house? Is it us? Is it, like, destiny or fate or something - because it kind of brings up a whole new set of problems about the existence of life after death - and, you know, are we the only ghosts in the world, and if so then why, or are there others? Does this happen to everyone, and living people just can’t see them? We wouldn’t blame you for wanting to get out before, you know…”

You put the kettle back on the stand. It doesn’t look like he’s going to stop for breath any time soon.

“Not that we’re going to like, do something to you! No, no, that’s - I didn’t mean we were going to kill you or anything - oh, fuck, now it just sounds like we were going to do something and now I’ve put the fucking idea in your head, and now you’re going to be all stressed about it, and, like, ‘is it cursed?’ - and it’s not cursed, I think, but we don’t know for sure because even though curses aren’t a thing like unempowered people say, none of us have been able to figure out if there’s any, uh - any magic that might be like a curse, right?

“Lasko.”

“Just, you know, magic is so unpredictable and there’s so much we don’t know, so maybe it is cursed but we just can’t recognise it because we don’t know what we’re even looking for, and Gavin’s been trying to come up with ideas, but it’s been really difficult ‘cause we didn’t want to use your computer or anything, that’s a huge breach of privacy, right? And - and we can’t leave the house to go and talk to anyone - well, really it’s the property, so we can still go out in the garden and stuff - which reminds me, I was meant to tell you about-”

“Lasko!”

You can practically see the words falling out of his mouth before he cuts himself off, the poor thing. “Mm-hmm?”

“The tea,” you say calmly, stepping back from the counter to give him room. “I don’t know how they like it.”

“Oh, right! Yeah, I’ll, um - I can do that.”

He starts sorting out the different mugs, taking teabags out of some sooner than others, adding milk and sugar and what-have-you, leaving one to the side for you and nervously chattering away.

“I’ll never understand how Gavin and Hux have it so sweet - although, I think Gavin’s like that with everything, you know? He says it’s just because he likes the taste, but Damien told me - um, you shouldn’t say I said this, but he thinks when Gavin gave himself a human form - ‘cause demons don’t have physical bodies normally, right? Well, Damien thinks he accidentally got his body addicted to sugar or something like that, because - oh, I don't know, something, something, pleasure centres or pleasure receptors, whatever - it probably lit up a similar part of his brain to the bit that he associated with eating, and being full - wait, did he say he was an incubus? Because he is, he definitely is - oh, we probably should have mentioned that…”

Slowly, Lasko’s voice settles into the back of your mind as you make your tea, head too full of everything else he’s said to really be listening. It’s not on purpose. You’ve just got a lot to think about.

Yes, he makes a good point about the house, and the strange coincidences that have happened here. Yes, he makes a good point about what might happen to you if you choose to stay. Yes, he makes a good point about how you’ll have to actually accept the undeniable proof of the existence of life after death, and everything that means for your worldview.

Looking up, your eyes are drawn to the faint line where the ceiling and the wall meet, and the two shades of paint that don’t quite match.

Wow. In about an hour, this is going to be a magnificent existential crisis.

But those aren’t problems for now, are they? If you try and deal with all of this at once, you’re fairly sure your head is going to explode just thinking about it. All of this, all of the fucked-up undead weirdness that’s just fallen into your lap out of thin air - all of it can wait.

First, tea.

Lasko seems to have sorted out all the different cups of tea, stirring a final spoonful of sugar into the one second from the right with one hand. Luckily, he’s picked cups that are all different colours, so hopefully it shouldn’t be too hard to stop them getting mixed up.

“That one’s for Hux, then Damien’s is the jasmine, then the middle one is for Freelancer. Gavin’s is the penguin one, and then this one is for me.”

He points at them from left to right, explaining whose they are as you get a tray out of the cupboard and put it down on the counter. You’re just about to start transferring everything onto it when - oh, that’s what’s missing!

Lasko takes over, looking confused as you suddenly turn on your heel and start rifling through the cupboard by the microwave. “Are you… okay?”

“Just a second…” Where are they? You could have sworn they were just… ah, there they are. You’ll have to get some more at the supermarket when you go next. “Do you think they’ll want plates?”

Lasko’s face brightens when he sees what you’re holding, and it belatedly occurs to you that he probably hasn’t eaten much since - well, since everything. If the owner of the house can’t see you, then they’re not going to give you anything, and if you can’t leave the house, you can’t buy anything yourself. If he’s a demon, then maybe Gavin could magic something up, but didn’t Huxley say that doing magic was harder for all of them then it used to be? What’s the limit?

Besides, even if ghosts probably don’t need to eat, that doesn’t mean that they can’t, right? It might not be necessary, but it might still be nice.

“Mm, probably not,” Lasko muses, but he gets a few out of the cupboard anyway as you open the packet of biscuits and put it down on the tray next to Freelancer’s tea. “I don’t think they’ll, uh, last that long.”

He moves the penguin mug slightly to make room for the teapot and an empty cup - oh, that must be the jasmine tea he was talking about. But where did he…?

“Damien used to have one like this.”

Lasko’s voice is quiet, presumably having noticed you staring in confusion at the tray. “It got taken away with all his things when Freelancer moved in, but Gavin made him a new one. The cup, too. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s close enough.”

He looks away, eyes closed. There’s not really anything you can say to that.

“If there’s…”

As you speak, you can hear the faintest sound of laughter from the other room. Presumably they’ve kissed and made up, in what you get the feeling isn’t always an entirely metaphorical sense. “If there’s anything I can get you, then you just need to ask. Anything.”

Lasko smiles down at the tray, and you don’t look at how his eyes are a little bit shinier than they were a minute ago. “Thanks.”

“Come on, then,” you say with a smile, nudging him out of the way and picking up the tray. “It’ll be stone cold in a minute, if we’re not careful.”

Lasko protests, fluttering around beside you as you head back towards the living room, insisting that he doesn’t want to be rude, please please please let him carry it, it was his idea and now you’re doing all the work, oh he’s so sorry - but you don’t let him. It’s a bit heavy, but it’s not that bad, and didn’t one of them say that it’s harder to interact with physical objects now than it was when they were alive? You don’t know exactly how much harder, but you’d feel kind of bad if you made Lasko hold all the stuff when it’s not as easy for him.

Darting ahead of you down the corridor, he opens the living room door for you, and you - well, you were going to put it down on the coffee table in the middle, but it’s not actually there anymore. Instead, it’s been pushed out of the way towards the window, to make space for the sofa to be tilted a little bit more towards the TV.

Lasko, the bastard, takes advantage of your momentary surprise. You’re going to have to ask if he’s an Air Elemental or something, because you feel a suspiciously-timed air current rushing past your arm and almost pushing the tray towards him, letting him lift it deftly out of your hands and carry it over.

Freelancer and Gavin, chastised but utterly unrepentant, appear to have commandeered most of the sofa, along with its previous occupants. Huxley idly strokes his fingers over Gavin’s horns as Freelancer flips through channels on the TV, while Damien, sitting cross-legged on the rug against the front of the sofa, pats the ground next to him when Lasko bends down to put his teapot and cup in front of him.

“Join me. I’ve been exiled.”

“We’ll call the Pope,” Lasko replies thoughtfully, “he might be able to get you excommunicated as well. Two for one.”

Damien raises an eyebrow, just barely failing to resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “See, now you’re talking.”

Lasko laughs, standing back up and offering the tray to the others on the sofa. “Clever of you to move the table out of the way,” he notes dryly, as Freelancer goes to take their tea from the tray and recoils at the heat of the ceramic. “Do you want me to leave it over there until it cools down?”

Huxley nods gratefully, taking a biscuit from the packet and batting away Gavin’s tail without even looking when the incubus tries to surreptitiously steal it out of his hand. “Aw, would you? Thanks, dude.”

Now that he says it, that might actually be a good idea - you reach over to get a biscuit for yourself as well, before going round to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Freelancer while Lasko puts the tray down on the coffee table. They seem to have found a programme they like, some cooking competition show you’ve never seen, and pass the remote down to Damien with a satisfied hum so he can put it on the floor next to him.

“Is this a new series?” he asks quietly, head resting against the side of their leg. “I thought you already watched all of them.”

Freelancer shrugs, absentmindedly twirling Gavin’s tail between their fingers as he readjusts his legs across their lap. “We did, yeah. But this one is a good one.”

The rest of the evening passes in something of a blur - warm tea and good company and some truly ridiculous commentary on the TV that has you laughing harder than you think you have in weeks, maybe even months. After the first programme finishes and the next one is starting, Damien seems to remember that you’d never actually had that dinner you were going to make, and drags you into the kitchen to get you something a bit more substantial than a biscuit.

Gavin trails after you, too, sitting himself on the countertop next to the fridge and watching you two cook. It doesn’t seem malicious or mean - rather, his eyes follow you curiously around the room in a way that distinctly reminds you of an intrigued housecat. He seems to have magicked up a lollipop or something to amuse himself with as well, idly moving the stick back and forth in his mouth as the hard sugar clicks against his teeth.

The feline comparison apparently occurs to Damien as well, who, for some reason, quickly moves everything within about a metre of the fridge on the counter out of easy reach. At first you’re surprised, but then you see Gavin’s tail droop in mock-disappointment, hanging limply down in front of the cabinets, and you realise what’s going on.

“Don’t mind him,” he stage-whispers to you as you wait for the stove to heat up. “He’s not so bad. Freelancer just spoils him something rotten.”

Gavin sniffs haughtily, clawed fingers pulling the - apparently heart-shaped - lolly out of his mouth and sticking his red-stained tongue out at Damien. “I am very cute and sexy and worthy of spoiling.”

“What you are is in the way, genius,” Damien replies, deadpan, pointing at the cutlery drawer that Gavin’s legs are currently blocking. “Fork, please.”

You can practically see Gavin vibrating as he tries to hold back the obvious joke, in favour of reaching down and taking a metal fork from the drawer, holding it out in one hand.

“Ah, ah-”

He snatches it back when Damien reaches for it, holding out the lollipop in his other hand instead. “I got you a present.”

Damien eyes it with interest, shiny and red, and you’re not sure if you should still be watching. “What flavour?”

“Cherry.”

Damien thinks about it for a second, before opening his mouth and letting Gavin put the lolly on his tongue. “Mmm. Thanks.”

Gavin smirks lazily, and hands him the fork. “Mwah.”

Neither of them seem embarrassed afterwards, like it was something you weren’t supposed to see, or like they’d forgotten you were there. It’s… kind of pleasant, in an unexpected way. Being around people who are funny, who are friendly, who don’t seem to be uncomfortable around you. You don’t really know anyone like that in Dahlia yet, and you hadn’t realised quite how much you’d missed it until now.

It’s just the same when you go back into the living room to eat, sitting properly on the sofa this time, next to Huxley. All of them just seem so nice - a far cry from the terrifying criminals you’d thought they might have been. Just ordinary, good people. Sweet and kind and silly. The sort of people that you’ve always wanted to be friends with, but that you’ve never been good at finding.

Damien makes a joke about one of the cooking judges on the screen, and Lasko splutters as he laughs and his tea goes down the wrong way. Huxley wraps his arm around Gavin’s waist to pull him closer against his side, and Freelancer follows suit, draping themselves over Gavin’s back and gleefully making themself comfortable on his shoulder.

There’s a lot to think about, that much is clear. The reality of the situation, the fear of what might be waiting for you if you choose to stay - in a very real sense, they might very well be the death of you. But looking around at them, these people, trusting you with their secret and hoping that you’ll keep it for them, you’re struck with a new and frightening question.

Maybe it really is dangerous. Maybe this would be the biggest mistake of your life - the end of your life. But could you do it? Could you walk away now, knowing what you know, and not regret it?

Lasko leans his head against the front of the sofa, turning his head slightly to look up at you, and gives you a tiny, bashful wave with one hand.

You wave back. He smiles, warm light reflecting softly off his glasses, and perhaps the question isn’t quite as frightening as it used to be.

masterlist

this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted fluff #redacted gavin #redacted lasko #redacted damien #redacted huxley #redacted freelancer #redacted dear #redacted damn polycule #redacted damn crew #redacted fic #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters

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