#lra: r1

[simstationdance]

The projection ended quickly, and Olive re-materialized in the exact same place she previously stood. She grumbled under her breath. “Of all people to get their hands on a genie lamp, why did it have to be... some random child?”

Then again... how hard could it be to get such a powerful artifact out of irresponsible, untrained hands? It’d be like stealing candy from a baby. Probably.

Hopefully.

[postsofbabel]

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[simstationdance]

As Ichabod finished his shift and prepared himself for the walk to the nearest bus stop, he found himself making eye contact with - of all things - a crow, perched on the railing immediately out front.

Some say that seeing a single crow is a bad omen...

But, for once... the path home from work was uneventful. Though, he would admit a sense of having eyes on him the whole way. 

He tried to think nothing of it.

[simstationdance]

After a short pause, Earl decided to answer Ichabod’s question - reenacting his death in somewhat graphic detail.

Earl: My memory’s real fuzzy after all these years, but I think it went a little something like this. Ichabod: Electrocution, huh? Ouch... Earl: Ohhh yeah. I remember the pain more than anything else... because it’s all I can feel anymore.

Earl: Here’s a tip - try not to die this way, it’s excruciating! Ichabod: I... am aware. I’ve had my fair share of shocks. Why do you think I always hire a repairman when the TV breaks? Better safe than sorry. Earl: More like ‘better get somebody who ain’t me to do it.’ Yeah, I can respect that. Anyway - what else do you wanna know, weirdo?

Ichabod: Right. One more question, if you don’t mind. Was... was it an accident? Or did someone do this... to you? Earl: Uh... I mean... I guess you could say that. I don’t like thinking about it, though. Or... talking about it. Ichabod, genuinely: Oh. I’m sorry. Earl: It’s fine. Anyway - here’s a deal for you to consider. You and I? We can coexist. I won’t try to spook the living daylights out of you from now on, and you can have your peace and quiet. Of course, you can go ahead and try to figure out how to help me ‘move on’ if you really want me gone that bad. But just so you know, I was here first, and gettin’ rid of me ain’t going to be easy. Ichabod: That sounds fine to me... I guess. No different than how it’s been for the last ten months. Earl: Then it’s a deal! I promise you won’t regret it. I’m lookin’ forward to it, honestly. The ‘scary ghost’ bit was starting to get old for me, too.

[simstationdance]

One might say that the practical thing to do after that... unexpected, little outburst, would be to finally get some proper rest after such a long, stressful, sleepless night. But Olive still had more to do, and she now had all the time in the world to do it.

No more distractions. She was finally going to get a handle on this genie problem. 

Searching for a way to learn the identity of the lamp’s owner, she searched through her spellbooks until she found it... a spell to peer into the past. Or, rather, to peer into a specific moment in the past.

It didn’t take long to create the necessary reagents. Soon enough, she had constructed a vessel through which she could locate the precise origin of such powerful magic, on the day it was first activated.

“Orb of fire, hear my plea, trace the threads I’ve given thee.”

“Return to ‘where’, return to ‘when’, show it to me once again!”

[simstationdance]

The ghost was surprised when the other man turned to face him and began to approach, but for the first time since Ichabod moved in, he didn’t float off or jump into a nearby object in an attempt to hide himself.

Ichabod: Tell me, why do you haunt this place, spirit? Earl: ...Wait, you can still see me? Ichabod: Actually, I could always see you. I just didn’t feel the need to kick up a fuss about it. Earl: Oh... you’re one o’ those types. Makes sense, I guess they don’t call you ‘Mr. Specter’ for nothing. The name’s... Earl. Ichabod: Nice to finally meet you, Earl. I’m sure you already know, but my name is Ichabod. Earl: Yeah, I know who you are. You’ve lived here long enough for me to figure that out. Y’know, you could’ve told me that you could see me wayyy sooner. I probably would’ve stopped trying to scare you off if I knew it wasn’t gonna work. Ichabod: It’s alright, really. You’re actually more courteous than some of the other ‘haunting’ ghosts I’ve seen. But, returning to my original question... why do you haunt this place?

Earl: ‘Why do I haunt this place���? Buddy, this is my home! ...Or, it used to be, until... well, yeah. It hasn’t belonged to me in decades, but uh, I can’t just leave, you know? Ichabod: Ah, yes. I’m guessing this is where you... Earl: Yeah, right here in this house. ‘Cause of that, I’ve been stuck here for... uh... somewhere between twenty or thirty years, I think. I lost count after a while... Ichabod: Do you remember what happened to you? Earl: Man, what is this, twenty questions? What do you need all this info for, anyway? Ichabod: I want to help both of us. You to move on, and myself, so that I can live my life in relative peace. No offense, but... as fun as it’s been these past ten months, I usually prefer the houses I live in to be tranquil, and... not haunted. Earl: Aww, what? You don’t want a little ghost buddy? Come on now, I'm friendly! When I’m not tryin’ to scare you, obviously. Ichabod, rolling his eyes: Right... Earl: Anyway, as for what happened to me... I’ll warn ya, it was pretty bad. But if you really wanna know...

[simstationdance]

...The following afternoon, Ichabod excitedly headed to Olive’s estate, manuscript in hand. He was a bit nervous, but - as tempting as it was - he wasn’t about to let his nerves stop him from sharing his work with someone.

Gathering up his courage, he lightly knocked on the door, wearing his usual bright smile. But as Olive emerged from the other side, he couldn’t help but start to worry. She looked like she hadn’t slept at all.

Olive: Ah, there you are. Ichabod: Good afternoon, Olive. How are you? Olive: ... Ichabod: Uh... are you feeling alright? You look a little-- Olive: Hm? I’m fine. You wanted to show me your novel, right? Ichabod, awkwardly: ...Yes, I did! Would you, uh, like to read it now? Olive: Come in.

[simstationdance]

Although the move to Strangetown has, for the most part, done wonders for his peace of mind, Ichabod knew he couldn’t get away from Copperhead City entirely. For one thing, trying to get a single written work published - especially with his rotten luck - was by no means a way to pay the bills.

Secondly, abandoning his position in favor of running off to the middle of nowhere wouldn’t look too good in the eyes of his coworkers, with whom he’d never been especially close. To be the subject of incredibly unsubtle workplace gossip disguised as ‘expressing concern’ was bad enough on its’ own, but he knew it’d only get worse in his sudden absence.

“Do you think Mr. Specter’s okay? Considering what happened...”

“Honestly, I wonder that too. I mean, why move to Strangetown? Especially after... you know. Not much for anyone there, unless you’re military."

“...You all realize I can hear you talking about me, right? Why not just ask me yourselves?”

“You’re free to join the conversation any time, Mr. Specter.”

It was, supposedly, their way of ‘getting him to come out of his shell’ and ‘socialize more.’ But since they spent more time talking about him than to him, it instead felt like he was just a spectacle to them. Something to gawk at and whisper about, instead of a person who could speak for himself. That is, if and when he wanted to. 

Asking them to stop proved fruitless, and reporting the behavior didn’t work either. Apparently, around these parts, it wasn’t considered harassment to ‘express concern’ about a coworker. 

But... he could tolerate this. As annoying and painful as it was to be openly speculated about, he always served the company well, he was highly ranked enough to be very handsomely paid, and he had a spacious office with a lovely view all to himself. He should be grateful, right?

He could tolerate this.

[simstationdance]

The next morning, right before heading off to work, Ichabod called up the publisher he just barely managed to get a hold of. He was happy to finally tell them that his novel was finished, and that the final draft will reach them soon enough.

He had to hold back his nervous tics just long enough to maintain an air of professionalism, but once the call ended on the other line, Ichabod couldn’t stop himself from slamming the phone back into the receiver as a result of the raw, anxious energy building inside of him.

This had to be it. This had to be his big break. He’d come too far for it all to just fall apart again.

[simstationdance]

Electricity crackled all throughout Earl’s spirit, sending waves of static across the room. Ichabod could feel his hair standing on end just looking at him.

Ichabod, very confused: ...What is happening right now-- Earl: Nothing! Don’t worry about it! You just... shocked me - ba dum tssss - that’s all! Haha! Ichabod: ... Earl, flatly: I spent two whole seconds thinking of that joke. Please laugh. Ichabod: ...

Earl: ...Damn, okay. Tough crowd. Ichabod: What were you even doing in here? Earl: Heh, I think the real question is, what are you doing in here? Ichabod, even more confused: ...This is my bedroom? I’m going to bed?

Earl: ...Right. Yeah. Makes sense. Uh... sorry, I’ll show myself out now.

If it were even physically possible, Earl would find the nearest hole to shove himself into and never come back out.

[simstationdance]

As Earl drifted around the old house, he found himself reminiscing. Trying to remember where everything used to be. But as the years dragged on, he found it harder and harder to recall certain details from before... all this.

One thing he knew for sure, however, was that this part of the house used to be Tim’s room. It had been decades since he last saw his brother. He could only hope that the poor guy wasn’t stuck here the way he was. 

It would make sense, right? Tim was always a good guy, of course he’d be able to ‘move on’ or whatever it was Ichabod was talking about. Anything was better than being trapped like this. But then... that would mean he left me here. Alone--

Ichabod: Earl? Are you alright? Earl: HUH WHAT--

Ichabod: Oh no...

Although Earl knew he should’ve expected it, seeing Ichabod standing by the door like that was... definitely a shock.

[simstationdance]

Earl went quiet, but Ichabod could still feel his eyes on him. As the other man’s ghostly visage drifted around the room, he couldn’t help but feel increasingly... uncomfortable. This, of course, came to a head when Earl just wordlessly stood by the desk. Staring...

Earl: ... Ichabod: Look, I know you don’t breathe in a literal sense, but I want to get all of my work done by midnight, and I’d work a lot faster if you weren’t metaphorically breathing down my neck right now. Earl: What? Oh, sorry. I’ll get out of your hair in a minute, it’s just... those weird lookin’ flowers on your desk caught my eye, is all. Where’d you get 'em?

Ichabod: It was a gift from a friend. They pretty rare, I think. They usually only grow in graveyards, and in very small numbers. Earl: Yeah? That’s cool. I used to know a gal who had a whole garden’s worth. Ichabod: That’s... nice. Earl: You better keep ‘em close. Rumor has it that they ward off death itself. Could be useful. Ichabod: Hm. Good to know.

Ichabod would have asked who, exactly, this man once knew that grew an ‘entire garden’s worth’ of death flowers, but... no, it would be too coincidental, even for someone like himself.

And by the time it had even occurred to him to ask, Earl had already left...

[simstationdance]

Hope has never served Ichabod well, however, and it seemed Earl was feeling chatty tonight. He couldn’t blame him, given that most of their interactions up to this point have been silent spectral trickery, but... why pick right now, exactly?

Earl: ...Man, you’ve been staring at that typewriter a lot ever since you moved in. What’cha been writing, anyway? Ichabod, mildly embarrassed: Um... it’s a--... my first real novel. It’s very nearly done, I’m just... proof-reading, at this point. Earl: Yeah? What’s it about? Ichabod: Well, it’s a murder mystery... it all starts when a body is found in the courtyard of-- Earl, suddenly: Actually, uh... nevermind. I’ll be real, never was a huge fan of... most books. But murder mysteries are definitely not my thing.

Ichabod: Okay then. Not to be blunt, but... if you’re not interested in what I’m working on, why are you in my office, just staring at me like that? Earl: My guy, this used to be my bedroom. You of all people should know that a ghost gets real pissed if someone moves his bed, right? Ichabod, sighing: As the old saying goes - you learn something new every day... I guess.

The ghosts in the few haunted houses that he’s lived in previously were only capable of screaming, never willing to just have a conversation. And now, he presumed he knew why.

[simstationdance]

Late into the evening, Ichabod returned to work at his typewriter with renewed focus, finally pinning down what he wanted to write. All he needed to do now was look it over... and over... and over. For mistakes, or inconsistencies, or anything else he may have missed. There were editors for that, of course, but the last thing he wanted would be to... give anyone any extra work when editing out the shortcomings in his writing. Very normal.

With his ten-month-long ghost problem finally solved, that meant no more sudden scare attempts, or inexplicably strong static shocks. In exchange, he’d finally have the peace he craved. Thus, he estimated that he’d be able to get this all done in a single evening - and finally, officially call his novel done and send it off to the publisher by morning.

He hoped so, at least.

[simstationdance]

It was no surprise to him that the house was haunted, he honestly expected worse when he moved in. A ghostly roommate was the best case scenario. As such, Ichabod didn’t think much of the paranormal phenomena surrounding him, instead choosing to mind his own business.

He was actually quite used to seeing ghosts. In fact, they usually made for great conversation partners, having so little to do, but so much to say. 

He had made plenty of friends down at the Muenda estate cemetery when he was still able to visit, before the recent closure. Something he’d have to ask Olive about, perhaps.

But... this particular spirit, furious as he was, was incredibly determined to scare Ichabod at every chance he got. Maybe in the hopes of scaring him off? Not that it was all that effective. A shock, for sure, but it’s not like he hadn’t seen the man roaming around at night for months already.

It was a little funny at first, but with the amount of time that has passed between moving in and the present moment, it has gotten... more than a bit grating.

Perhaps now was the time to try communicating.

[simstationdance]

Save for the occasional bit of misfortune, Ichabod’s life in Strangetown was, so far, a nice and quiet one - just the way he liked it. Life back in Copperhead City was far too noisy, overwhelmingly so. Back then, he could barely hear himself think.

His new house, a relatively cheap, old place that had undergone some recent renovations, was quaint and almost dreamlike. However, he’s only lived here for the better part of a year. And knowing his often rotten luck, he was still keeping his expectations low.

Something that didn’t exactly inspire confidence was the fact that the former homeowner seemed overly eager to pawn the place off to him. For... whatever reason.

Well... actually, the reason was fairly obvious. At least, to anyone who could see it. The house was haunted. 

Because of course it is. Every house he’s ever lived in has had something off about it.