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Realistic or Modern Surreal Estate || IC

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elytra

elytra

a beetle may or may not be inferior to a man
Roleplay Availability
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current scene. Scene 1
scene details. The morning of the first day working on the latest jobs. The group is splitting up to look into the houses and see what they can do to get them un-haunted and ready for sale.
weather. Lightly raining; a dreary fall day.

current house(s). 11 Bunting and 17 Debdhill Road

past houses. N/A

Please include a header in all posts that includes: Character name, location, interactions, mentions
If there's any potentially triggering content, please tag it in your header as well. If there is a scene you include that you are unsure will cause someone distress, please spoiler it and add a trigger warning prior and a TLDR after. Thanks!
 













  • XI.
    the (ex)priest





    grover waycott.
    mood
    dread & despair

    location
    his car

    interactions
    N/A yet

    tags
    N/A yet





designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ
 


𝕁𝕆𝔸ℕℕ𝔸 ,, 𝔻𝔼𝕊𝔸ℕ𝕋𝕀𝕊 ❜ ─ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 ─ ❛
tags: idalie idalie ; location: ackehurst real estate office (break room)
interactions: n/a ; notes: tagged laurence in since i said i would!

There was inspiration to be found in the rain. A mental clarity, akin to washing away one’s tribulations and indecisiveness, that of which tends to fester beneath the skin like a muscle that refuses to shed its knotting. Joanna could feel that at times, and how it gnawed, but she was not one to let it linger. Be it the rain to cast it away, or her own spontaneity, but staying too long in one position, often unmoving, left her feeling withered away. The day that she no longer moved, or could not jump to her feet as she still could now-- even if her ankles tended to creak a little bit at the motion-- would be the day that she’d give up entirely. There was no point to life if you could not keep moving; keep striving toward the unique mysteries that still remained to be solved.

Libraries, then, were best visited on these days. City hall, too, though that tended to be more bleak than Joanna liked, but the point of the matter still got across. Records, some long since passed since their initial conceivement, that required a gentle touch-- or in some cases, scrolling through an online catalogue to prevent any physical decay from the oils of one's hand. It was an art in itself, though that would be looking too deep into the intricacies of urban planning. It was nuanced at times, sure, but in most cases it was simply a house. A building. Some held stories, others did not; and when it came to something as basic as a floor plan submitted into the city archives, or kept among the library’s other records, some held secrets in those as well. Joanna liked to pull apart what was already made, peeling back the pencil strokes and the ink stains, to see what methodology crafted each reason and each meaning. There was a purpose to everything.

It was analytical, but it was not without its creativity. Coming up with conclusions, especially in her line of work, that didn’t simply stop at: “well, perhaps the family just wanted the bedrooms to look out at the surrounding woods”. Answers could be simple, sure, but there was no fun in it-- no furthering reason why ghosts, ghouls or otherwise unnatural creatures would flock to these sights. It was the combination of skeptical reasoning and thoughtful, abductive reasoning that yielded the best output. She was not good at her job for no good reason; she had the merit, the eight years under her belt at Ackehurst, and a stubborn resolve.

Superstitions kept one alive. Where natural conclusions could ward against natural phenomena, it took unnatural conclusions to combat against unnatural phenomena. It was a simple fact of life. There were things that just couldn’t be believed-- and thus, they needed to be pursued. The mysteries of life being fast, enormous creatures from the deepest recesses of one’s mind required that dedication.

-

17 Debdhill and 11 Bunting were these sorts of mysteries. While things seemed rather cut and dry at Debdhill, a run of the mill haunting that could hopefully be handled by their team of investigators, Bunting made Joanna’s head spin. The case accounts, at first glance, were enough to send a chill racing up one’s spine. Part of her was glad, strongly in fact, to not be on the initial teams sent to scope out the locations. There was enjoyment in it, at times, but she lacked the sensitivities of a medium or the hunting tactics of their ghost hunters to make a judgement that wasn’t based on records and assumptions. Her style of empathy was to the builders, the architects, the contractors; souls who did not know what their designs lacked, or what they held, to exacerbate spiritual activity.

Though, in truth, Joanna would never fully understand it. She’d pick up pieces here, more than interested to hear someone’s take on the matter, but it was too much for her. A couple of decades ago and she would have had the ability to bounce right back after hearing about a murder staining a home’s tile red, but now it simply ached to think about. Staying at the office would keep her heart rate down, until needed of course-- and if she did feel so agitated by something, or upset, she knew exactly who she could bother to feel a bit better.

With an armful of books, shoved into her raincoat under her arm, and a briefcase that held a plethora of paperwork about the two lots, Joanna made her way to the company’s building with the rain’s sharp intent against her cheeks as her face braved the way. She longed for a warm tea, boiling even, as even the light rain managed to chill her to the bone. She always held chill, Joanna finding that even balmy days could send gooseflesh up and down her arms. Rain was no better, with the way that water tended to soak even in its most gentle of drizzles. Hood up, though it did little to contain her dark curls that had already begun to frizz a bit from her hot breath lingering back against them, she turned the street corner and bee-lined for the front doors.

Seeing a familiar car, with its familiar driver, Joanna peered through narrowed eyes, though was a bit dismayed to see that Grover was busy on his phone. Driver for the day, it appeared, she hoped to wish him well with the group’s scouting, but settled with heading in before she began to lose the books she held, elbowing the door open with haste.

Taking a moment to fix her grip, balance and whatever manner, she flicked her neck back and let the hood finally fall back. Joanna disliked the feeling of damp hair, often the tiny ticklish strands, licking her face and forehead. Smoothing it all away with the back of her hand, which was also still a bit cold and damp, she slowed a bit now that she was in a place warm and dry.

She’d walked, opting not to drive, having found that the drizzle had been quite refreshing at first. Though she’d called ahead with both to request taking out the documents, in order to copy them to the company’s records, they still ended up being far more than she’d anticipated. The books were additions, mostly from the library, that had been assembled years ago on 19th-20th century homes and their assets. These were facts that she knew, at a base level, but an educated professional knew when to consult the physical copies, newspaper duplicates and whatnot, for the cold hard facts.

Stumbling into the elevator, after jabbing the up button with her free knuckle, Joanna took the brief ride up to compose herself. Continuing to smooth astray hairs, to readjust the books in her arms (again), and to take a moment to lean back and take a few deep breaths, she mentally began to tack on sticky notes of what she’d need to look for first in all the records.

As the slight leap in her stomach signalled the elevator’s stopping on the second floor, she rushed out once more. Not so much in a dead rush as she was dead excited to start tearing the records apart, and to try bothering someone to make photocopies for her-- as she refused to interact with the damnable thing-- her boot’s heels made dull pats on the floor, Joanna did still like to make haste while the morning was still young.

Offering smiles and brief ‘good mornings’ to anyone that she passed, ducking into her office the woman finally felt some relief, depositing the books in a small heap on the empty corner of her desk. Her office was organised to be spacious, as Joanna found that having space to think was as important as space to move. Things were positioned this way and that, though her pride was in fact the standing desk she’d gotten put in.

Sitting was stagnant, and Joanna was anything but that.

Tearing her raincoat off, she patted her hands on the back of her caramel coloured cable-knit sweater, humming softly under her breath as she weaved about the room and began to lay out her battle station.

First things were first, however-- and her soul was yearning for a cup of tea.

Rustling through one of her drawers, where she kept personal tea bags and a few of her favourite mugs, she delighted in picking the one that Hannah had painted on for her in the third grade, yet still retained its quirk and surprisingly no chips. Broad red strokes were supposed to be ladybugs, with black pinpricks of a stabbed paintbrush to designate the spots. There were gaps of colour, where the ceramic’s pale skin peeked through, but was still called ‘the Ladybug mug’.

She recalled that Hannah had made a second one for Laurence, called ‘the Bumblebee mug’ that had a similar craftsmanship to it. Back when the young girl never coloured in the lines, who now was a flourishing young woman that prided herself on perfection. Little treasures.

It was a luxury to reminisce on those little things-- but it was rare to go beyond the odd memory that panged at the sight of an object’s history. Joanna could afford the plucked heartstrings from the ‘bug mugs’, but it was all she’d take that morning. It was enough to bring a smile on her face, tender and pocketed in her cheek, where her finger brushed over the initials and date that had been scraped onto the bottom. H.H, 05/12/2013.

Letting the smile fade, but holding the mug tightly to her chest and plopping her teabag in, Joanna strode across the floor of her office and out the door, anticipating the electric kettle that begged to whistle.
 












ridley murdoch

on the radio: Fell In Love With a Girl - the White Stripes


mood

Sleepy and anxious



location

Ridley's car / Talulah's address



interactions

Talulah cadence cadence



mentions

Charlie Ha_lfLife Ha_lfLife




Ridley had always been a bit of an insomniac.

It had been worse when they were younger, then waned in their teens and early twenties; now it seemed to come back with a vengeance. They weren't particularly shocked by the development- considering the occupation and the Charlotte in proximity -but it wasn't exactly welcome.

So stopping for a Dunkin' pick-me-up was a given necessity. Thankful for the permitting weather, Ridley smoothed a hand down their grey trench coat and plucked idly at their eggshell blouse that was currently unbuttoned a few too many buttons to be business appropriate. They'd fix that when they needed to be client-focused. It was a small blessing that the culture of the office allowed them to shirk a lot of the expected femininity inherent to their job. Maybe they weren't the happiest at Ackehurst, but they supposed it also wasn't all bad. Just mostly. Though that had less to do with the company than the very nature of their work.

Ridley's nighttime restlessness always seemed to increase when they took on a new house, but before they had actually visited. By the aforementioned nature of this god forsaken job that Charlie had roped them into, none of the houses were particularly comforting, but she thought that maybe her mind was better at conjuring possible terrors than reality was. Once Ridley was able to step physical-foot into a home, and to see and feel it for theirself, there was always a grounding, relieving breath to be had. Nightmares were to be whisked away to be replaced by the real terrors. The tangibility of the real ghosts was, however backwards, a comfort to Ridley. Because when it was real, and not just a constantly shifting amalgmation of her mind, she could actually do something to fix it.

But that didn't stop the things she thought she saw in the dark while sleep deprived and riddled with paranoia. And it's not like she had anyone to pass the time with, either. No friends, no significant other, and calling Charlie was obviously off the table. It was- if she dared to admit to herself -a terrifically lonely existence. Just theirself, and the dark, and a soulless apartment. And Ridley may have admitted it to themself, but that didn't exactly solve the situation. They were not about to succumb to some silly feelings of loneliness when there was work to be done.

And wasn't that the most beatiful thing for someone like Ridley? There was always work to be done if they stuck their nose into just about everything.

Coffee in hand (and a small box of donuts because they got worried it would be rude to show up with something for theirself and no one else), Ridley headed off to the address they'd been given yesterday to pick up their coworker, and Charlie's new best friend: Talulah.

Now, Ridley harbored no hatred for the woman. But disdain might be accurate. Or rather, skepticism. No, no, not about the psychic stuff (well maybe a little about the psychic stuff), but in regards to her behavior. Watching someone ruin their life was never something Rid could sit idly by for, but at least they would only be affecting theirself. But Talulah had to go and affect Char, too. That was not something the elder Murdoch could ignore so easily.

To put it simply, her and Talulah were not on what one would consider the best of terms. Though Ridley thought they were doing a pretty good job at keeping their nose out of her hair thus far.

They weren't so sure how much longer that would last.

They leaned forward against the wheel at a red light, calloused fingers twisting the volume knob to blast their playlist of early oughts punk and alt rock. A small, private reprieve before the inevitable strain of the day was ready to fall like thick ash.

The wheels of the black Ford Explorer crunched pavement underwheel as Ridley rolled to a stop in front of Talulah's (supposed) home. They grabbed their phone and checked the address to make sure. Then they double, triple, and quadruple checked, because a person could never be too sure. Confident now, she pulled up Talulah's contact (Psychic Sweaters Girl) to send off a quick message: Waiting outside.. Ridley hesitated. That sounded so dry, surely they should at least try to seem friendly? They could imagine Charlie making fun of the text sounding like a robot, or perhaps an incredibly middling Uber driver, and quickly added: Also i brought donuts ; )




/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 
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louder than god's revolver
and twice as shiny
Devin Murphy
LOCATION

acklehurst real estate office (break room)

RADIO

renegade-kavinsky

MENTIONS

grover, ridley

INTERACTIONS

joanna

TAGS

BELIAL. BELIAL.

It was a beautifully gloomy fall day, the gray skies and wet pavement making the orange leaves on the trees pop appealingly, and Devin was pleased that the weather was like this on a day he'd have to go visit a small town for some paperwork. His squirrelly little Evo X longed to skid and slide across the rain slick streets, and Devin wished that there was less traffic, because he rather would have liked to let it. But traffic laws existed for a reason, so he kept the Evo on its best behavior as he finished making his way to the office. House music blared over the growl of his aftermarket engine and turbo. He had a few things to gather before he headed out on his little errand, and as he pulled into the parking lot he found Grover's car already there. Devin backed into a spot next to Grover and slid out, pulling the collar of his coat higher up around his neck. The big black peacoat was slightly too warm for the autumn weather, but it kept him very dry.

He considered stopping to say hello, but the ex-priest was texting with the air of someone who had just spilled soup tomato soup on their favorite white shirt, so Devin simply scooted on past into the building, pausing at the door to look back and admire his awful little Hot Wheel of a car, a pop of blue in the black and gray of the urban parking lot-scape, and continued on up the elevator, brushing rain out of his hair on the way. The house on Debdhill Road was in a town that had made it extremely easy to get a hold of all its zoning laws--its website didn't have them, but a phone call had gotten him a cheerful and competent secretary who emailed him everything within a half hour of hanging up with her. The house on Bunting Lane was another matter. The town website clearly hadn't been updated since 2007, and had very little information that wasn't related to the town's annual pumpkin festival, and the phone number listed brought him to voicemail hell, so to the town hall itself he was bound.

Ridley had once practically begged Devin to let them help him organize his office, but unfortunately Devin knew himself well enough to know that he could not function in a tidy office. He had his L shaped desk arranged in the middle of the room, shelves of books and binders on the far wall from the door. He had a single window, the rain pattering against the glass cozily as he entered and slid past the two chairs facing the long side of the L and the piles of papers and books on it, to move around to his chair and two computer monitors. He set his big iced coffee down and flipped through the pile he'd left for himself last night.

There was art on the walls and on the shelves, scattered in with the thick law texts and binders full of zoning codes and poorly written but deeply earnest books on local history and hauntings, and a pothos slowly colonizing most of the shelves, and it was a space Devin was very pleased with. He had a tank on the long side of the L with a tank for his betta fish, stolen from a coworker's desk when he'd left his last job in a tiny, trendy tank. The little white and black fish now lived in a ten gallon jungle of a tank, and he swam over to flare at Devin until he received breakfast.

"I did not forget you," Devin assured Oaxaca. The fish made a go at his fingers before scooting away under one of his hides.

His phone vibrated, and Devin fished it out of his coat pocket. It was a text from Julie, the fifteen-year-old half-leasing his pony. permission to steal the beast on the 14th for dressage rally bossman?

aren't you supposed to be in class right now? he texted back.

teacher's sick, it's a bonus study hall (: pony?? please???

sus. pony granted. put it on the calendar

(: (: (: (: thanks!!!

Devin rolled his eyes, but grinned. Julianna Knockwood was the sort of scrappy and fearless rider that he had yearned to be at fifteen, and who now regularly gave him heart palpitations at thirty-two, but she was talented enough that he'd never regretted sticking her on his opinionated little pony. He'd have to check in with her zaza if they would need him at the rally to hold horses and hunt down shipping wraps, but that could wait until later today. Instead he returned his phone to his pocket, tucked his things into his bag, and left his office.

On his way out he passed the break room, and slowed to peek in the door to find Joanna making tea in her charmingly awful mug. "Morning, Jo," he said. "What's up?"


code by ditto (head empty go bonk)​
 
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LAURENCE HARDCASTLE ⁠— the office manager
tags: BELIAL. BELIAL. wickedlittlecritta wickedlittlecritta ; location: ackehurst real estate office (break room) ; interactions: joanna, devin

What rain was or was not, in greater literary means, earned little deliberation from a rather sodden Laurence. It dampened his shoulders, bleeding through the thick fabric of his winter jacket at a slant; rendering what umbrella he’d selected nigh unusable. Granted he thought a walk would do him good, the mundanity of public transport compared to lining up in traffic for a chance to gun it past pedestrian lights always blinking red always proved a preferable alternative⁠—if one was accustomed to the morning rush of black suits and statement-piece ties. Polished Oxfords cleaved puddles with a splash and ripple, briefcase tucked up under Hardcastle’s arm to avoid letting his papers soak in the same vein as his own, unfortunate white-collared uniform.

Laurence’s preference for an active commute in-amongst New England rabble and delayed rail services was set in the simplicity of the chance to relish a sense of self-agency. That morning in particular, however, started with it’s deadly sense of over-forty complacency—it began with the annoying trill of an alarm and followed breakfast picked up from a local newspaper stand which sold decent coffee and stale pastries, tabloid gossip emblazoned across every spare surface that you almost knew what season it was by the scandal. At least here, the homesickness was curbed by an awful sense of weather proffering greater insight to the regional name by its settlers. Or rather, greater embarrassment at their lack of ingenuity.

Soil thick with leaf rot and petrichor, sharing a sharp, acrid overtone of petrol and tarmac felt as if the prerequisites for half-fumbled urban planning, trying to make spaces greener in a twisted mockery of weeds fighting from splits in the pavement. If you weren’t being killed by the remnants of 19th Century leadworks bleeding into the water supply, it’d be getting mowed down by a wayward jalopy after inspecting a dandelion’s poetic licence for thriving in the worst conditions.

Making it to Ackehurst unscathed, a greater feat than one might imagine, Hardcastle noted a handful of morning arrivals⁠—from Devin’s dubious mode of transport parked up, to that of Grovers⁠ old reliable—which still retained it’s driver, peering down into a small blue screen, far warmer than Laurence was and it appeared in this instance, far more sensible. Without time to pause on a routine banter, escaping the drizzle Laurence took the steps up in a half-skip, sprightlier than assumed from age alone.

Shirking the lift and taking the stairs, a choice he’d made since first employed by Ackehurst, preluded by an ominous drip of water from the umbrella he shook in a series of flicks, Hardcastle consistently looked slightly askew those first moments of entering the office. Heat flaring through his numb hands until they itched, features growing slightly flush in comparison to the washy blue of his gaze⁠—landing a briefcase on his desk in a flat thwump, tugging his slightly damp suit until it sat better on the breadth of his shoulders.

This small oasis away from fellow co-workers represented Laurence in his worst traits; organised within an inch of its life from A-Z to numerical filing systems, a cable-phone which had seen better days, and a series of half-ruined stress-geared balls and gadgets that stopped him from picking the paint off the walls or pacing until he wore a hole in the carpet. It was, what Hannah had joked from this habit of his, a red flag. He’d argue the maritime meaning and she’d make that small face of pity most youth do upon realising their parents' generational dissonance.

Work, nevertheless, postponed itself to have his second and most necessary drink of the morning, hardly glancing into the conference room nor his schedule to see who was in or out, traipsing around haunted properties. Haunted⁠—a word that indicated unsolved water damage and structural decay in his outspoken opinion of spirits, ghouls, and ghosts. The navy instilled some superstitions, of course, but the nature of the sea was far from that of real estate properties. One had the ground beneath their feet to forgive any fall, whilst the idea of being lost in the cold Atlantic to the whims of currents struck any man insane enough to start praying upward, downward, and to those which had sailed those paths once before.

Sauntering into the break room to be greeted by the vision of Joanna and Devin’s unruly expressionism, Laurence gave pause to incline his chin, “PTA meeting?” He remarked wryly in passing, retrieving a particularly misshapen though complementary mug of black and yellow design from a small, cream coloured cupboard; 2013 had been an auspicious year in particular for that of the bug mugs. Even where the paint turned a strange green with messy fingerprint smudges and heavy glaze, they were a reminder of a greater tie between two old flames.

Hardcastle observed both for a short, near-irritable eclipse of someone, who in all regards, began welcoming the speed in which age wanted to seize his last remaining decades. Throw it aside for an extended retirement in solitary confinement with outdated issues of the Daily Mail, blood-pressure prescriptions, and a straight jacket. At least, it'd been popular in the older circles last he'd seen.

“Debdhill or Bunting for either of you? Office bets to see which haunting is an oil tycoon villain in a mask."

 
A.J. Axtel
the contractor
17 Debdhill Road
inspecting the wiring
First floor & Basement
Carhart jacket & jeans
interactions

erzulie erzulie Texted Monique


The antique red truck growled to a stop in front of 17 Bedbhill accompanied by the sound of crisp brakes on gravel, the muffled sound of heavy metal from the cab, and all the tools and supplies in the truck bed going clink cha-chunk. The engine stilled and went ping pop as it colled in the autumn drizzle. A.J.’s truck was not subtle. When it arrived you knew. The great big dog nestled in the truck bed popped her fluffy head up and sniffed the new location as the drizzle clung to all her fur but otherwise looked on at the old 1900’s house with impassion. She had seen a lot of weird houses and she liked the ones with porches she could get under best or children. The driver meanwhile squinted out at the old house through the windshield in the sudden quiet of his cab. To him it was the kind of old fixer upper that might have excited him if it hadn’t been Ackehurst who had contracted him.

He sat and drank his dunks about it.

When he was ready, which was about ten minutes after arriving and about four minutes after finishing his coffee, he hauled let the heavy truck door swing down and poped himself out with care. He rounded to the tail gate, and greeted Jelly bean as he collected things into his tool belt and methodically explained; “So I’ll go get electrocuted and your gonna guard the truck, Okay. That’s the plan.”

He closed the tail gateback up with a thunk and repeated, "That's the plan. So don't mess it up."

Jelly bean agreed to this plan by licking his face and putting her paws and her whole self up on the tailgate like she was liable to hop out after him. But she knew the drill and watched him go expectantly like she was pretty sure he’d change his mind any second and stared diligently up at the house. Any second.

The front had a good straight cement path and four steps to the porch and the front door. He took a hard exhale that puffed up his cheeks a little as he stood there with bucket of his tools and knocked. And thankfully this time, the homeowner knew he was coming. And he didn’t have to explain himself beyond his name and that he was the contractor working for Ackehurst. She stuck to the script even; And when she asked him how he was doing he got to say Good n’ you, and that was always the best case scenario in these kinds of interactions.

He pretended not to notice as the home owner peeked after him as he began seeking out and testing outlets. Poking around the walls and furniture looking for outlets like he was a truffle hunt. The first one was a dud, the connection was no good and he marked it with a red grease pen on the face plate. The second one was about the same. But the third one, no current at all. And when he unscrew it- it was just the face plate of an outlet. And he was left holding it in his hand and looking at the brighter rectangle of wall behind it and then back at the plate in his hand.

Very quietly and with a lot of feeling he mouthed; what the fuck.

Some of outlets were real. About fifty fifty. But when they were real the connection was shit, the wires thread bare or put in backwards at best, his testing equipment was telling him low voltage and flipped breakers. And every time he had to kneel down and discover a fake plate or mark a dud he shook his head. For the sixth outlet in the down stairs roomshe had to move aside a table kneel down low, to wear it was instlled in the mopbaord. And when he discovered yet again, the outlet was a decoy he decided to stay there kneeled on the ground for a long long moment as if in thought, meditation, staring into the middle distance.

He untucked his android from his pocket with suden brisk motion as if he'd made up his mind all at once in a hurry and texted Monique:

The wiring here is bullshit.

and attached a photo of the fake outlet.

It was while he was frowning at his phone, hoping for a quick response that his eye were drawn to the old horse hair plaster ceiling and how it hung like a laden animal, smooth and bulging.

“Oh fuck me running,” he said as he realized this room was awfully big for the time period. Some one had knocked down some walls to update the claustrophobic little rooms the people of history seemed to favor to get…what ever the hell awful great room he was in now. That was not going to pass code. And it was going to cost a pretty penny for Ackehurst and he would hate it the whole time. Structural work always made him nervous. He wouldn’t text that to Monique. That would be a whole sit down conversation.

He hauled himself up to his feet and tottered only briefly before he went to find out what the hell did work. And that turned out to be the kitchen; the oven, the fridge, the microwave, and a few outlets scattered through out. One of the spare bedrooms was completely out of luck.

He needed to look at the breaker.

He did not want to look at the breaker.

When he asked, the home owner showed him the expected narrow door in the kitchen that smelt of the underworld, mildew, and damp. The walls were lined with shelves for canned goods that hadn't been moved in fifty years and the wood stairs were slatted and narrow. When he tugged the string the single light bulb flashed to light and then died with a pop then flashed up again with an unreliable flicker. the deep shadows beneath the stiars spun in time with the lightbulb's circular wobble.

A.J. made a sort of sour faced sucking sound that would have deeply activated his dog if she’d been around to hear it. He waited for the light bulb to still and the shadows to still before he heaved a sigh and pulled the mag light off his belt and made his way down carefully, one step at a time, one hand against the wall. Thankfully did not break his neck. at the base of the stiars he swung his flash light around the dirt basement and its dry-fit stone foundation with a critical eye. And when he found the shadow of the hulking oil powered water boiler in the far corner, fitted up like an er patient with copper pipes and solder marks all over and goddamn near 70 years old he said;

“Terrific.”

And made his way to the breaker. Which looked like it was also from the 1950s with its big chunky switches. It was satisfying in a turning off all the fences in a Jurasic Park kind of way to flip through and turn each breaker off with the clack. And when he’d flipped them all and even the little flickering bulb at the top of the stairs slowly faded out. He decided to check his phone in the dark before ascending and to take a picture of the breaker and the boiler, and to snag model numbers before he left- just so that he wouldn’t have to come back down.

He was making his way back up the slatted steps, careful to not over shoot over the edge of each, or knock anything off the shelves when-

The breaker box below thumped, then one at a time each breaker went thunk. Thunk. Thunk, Thunk. Each switch popping back to the on position in the same slow methodical order he'd turned them off, followed by the high pitch zing of electricity coursing back into the house.

The bulb above him struggled back to life with a pop and a flicker and A.J. Startled by holding oh so perfectly still and silent. Like he'd never went to all the trouble to shut it off at the source. A breaker tripping then turning off all at once was how the device was supposed to work. But resetting on its own?

God he hated when all the Ackehurst employee yatter about ghosts started looking plausible at a joint. He did not look behind him. He did not make make a peep. But hustled back up into the kitchen, clomping up the stairs as fast as could with out falling. His face was doing nothing in a very drill Sargent trained way when he finished his own personal obstacle course from hell and came into the dim morning air of the kitchen. He took a couple steps clear and then looked at the still open door for a long long long moment, the dorway dark and yawning but disgorging nothing.

Satisfied and comforted by the rain patter on the windows and the general silence of the house he astutely bent his head to his phone to google; "Breakers switching back on" while standing in the kitchen. He knew he wouldn't find anything. But he needed to do something with his hands while his brain decided how he was gonna write a quote for this.

coded by natasha.
 
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  • filler tab! ignore
















  • h


















the feels



introspective. also hungry







where u at?



in hadeon’s car







the fit



rumpled warm clothes







interacting with



hadeon (his roomie)







tagging



N/A, open








Ghostman








nine lives

 
Last edited:
Clairabell Geiger
Location: Home > Office
Interactions: vaguely speaking to Jo, Laurie and Devin.
Mentions: Waved to Grover



Clairabell awoke a few moment later than usual. Regularly on time, when she finally glanced at the clock she sprung out of the comfort of the many comforters layered over her bed in a mild panic. Before getting ready she did her usual weather check. Rather than looking at her phone or just peeking outside she slid her bedroom window open a few inches and stuck her arm out. The cold drops hitting their skin making their face scrunch up in disapproval. “Yeesh..” she muttered as she pulled the appendage back in and latched the window shut.

Clomping down the stairs she adjusted her outfit, making sure everything laid correctly. Today it was a high waisted full tweed skirt in brown plaid, a white blouse and a mustard colored wool sweater along with her usual low pumps. Clair headed right into the kitchen where the sound running water and metal on ceramic overlapped the low rumble of her partners voice. They hurried past the kitchen table where their daughter sat, an almost empty plate in front of her. The young girls wide eyes watching her mother as they pulled a thermos from the cupboard before turning on the kettle. Clair then turned to her family with a bright yet still tired expression on her face. “Morning loves.” They stepped over to the sink where their partner, Ezra, was hunched over washing the dishes from that mornings breakfast and grumbling under their breath. Clair craned her head and on her tiptoes gave them a peck on the cheek which silenced her grumbling.

“Hey, Nan’s going to be here in a few to pick up Ren. Sticking around?” They asked without pausing. Clair tilted her head. “Oh I’d love to but, I gotta get going I’m already going to be running late.” As if on cue the kettle came to a boil and Clair hurried back over to it. Plopping a tea bag into the thermos before pouring the water over it. “I’ll tell her you said ‘Hi’.” Ezra replied. “Don’t get haunted or whatever.” They chuckled. Clair laughed in return then as she went by stopped at the table by Renee. Holding out her fist. The child looked at her, looked at the fist then bumped hers to it in return, making the smile on Clair’s face widen just a bit more. Touch wasn’t something Ren was fond of, so hugs were a no go. “Have a good day with Nana. If you go out please remember your coat.” The girl let out a sigh but nodded. She wasn’t much of a talker either.

Before Clairabell could leave Renee got up from her chair, following her out. As Clair turned around to say goodbye the girl held up her favorite plush. It went everywhere with her. The almost black, purple plush fabric looking a bit worse for wear but still holding together. Clair leaned down, and gave it a little kiss on the head. Making the young girl give them a toothy grin before running back off. Clair chuckled as she grabbed her umbrella from beside the door and called back into the house. “See you all tonight!” which got her a faint goodbye from the kitchen. And with that she closed the door behind her and went off down the driveway to her car.

Once parked Clairabell noticed a few other cars already there. And one still inhabited. Stepping out into the rain she unfurled their umbrella and walked by. Lightly tapping on Grover’s car window and enthusiastically waving to the ex-priest before hurrying inside. A drive by hello.

Entering the door to the building she hustled up the stairs. They did this every day. Not really sure why, but they had to run up the many steps. It was an odd habit, maybe just so she didn’t have to go through complaining while walking up slowly. But it was distinct any time Clair was arriving anyone in the stairwell could hear the loud TAK TAK TAK of her heels. At the top she stopped to catch her breath, letting out a huff before continuing into the office. The recognizable click of her heels continuing though not quite as loud as she went towards her desk, though the murmur of voices from the break room she couldn’t help popping her head in and giving another grin and a wave to the trio standing about.

“Morning! Any news from the Boo crews or is it still too early?” she piped in. Clair’s opinion on the reality of spirits could be described as, believable but humorously skeptic. Regardless she was more interested in potential interior photos than the actual paranormal activity levels.



Clairabell Geiger​
Location: Home > Office
Interactions: vaguely speaking to Jo, Laurie and Devin.
Mentions: Waved to Grover

Clairabell awoke a few moment later than usual. Regularly on time, when she finally glanced at the clock she sprung out of the comfort of the many comforters layered over her bed in a mild panic. Before getting ready she did her usual weather check. Rather than looking at her phone or just peeking outside she slid her bedroom window open a few inches and stuck her arm out. The cold drops hitting their skin making their face scrunch up in disapproval. “Yeesh..” she muttered as she pulled the appendage back in and latched the window shut.

Clomping down the stairs she adjusted her outfit, making sure everything laid correctly. Today it was a high waisted full tweed skirt in brown plaid, a white blouse and a mustard colored wool sweater along with her usual low pumps. Clair headed right into the kitchen where the sound running water and metal on ceramic overlapped the low rumble of her partners voice. They hurried past the kitchen table where their daughter sat, an almost empty plate in front of her. The young girls wide eyes watching her mother as they pulled a thermos from the cupboard before turning on the kettle. Clair then turned to her family with a bright yet still tired expression on her face. “Morning loves.” They stepped over to the sink where their partner, Ezra, was hunched over washing the dishes from that mornings breakfast and grumbling under their breath. Clair craned her head and on her tiptoes gave them a peck on the cheek which silenced her grumbling.

“Hey, Nan’s going to be here in a few to pick up Ren. Sticking around?” They asked without pausing. Clair tilted her head. “Oh I’d love to but, I gotta get going I’m already going to be running late.” As if on cue the kettle came to a boil and Clair hurried back over to it. Plopping a tea bag into the thermos before pouring the water over it. “I’ll tell her you said ‘Hi’.” Ezra replied. “Don’t get haunted or whatever.” They chuckled. Clair laughed in return then as she went by stopped at the table by Renee. Holding out her fist. The child looked at her, looked at the fist then bumped hers to it in return, making the smile on Clair’s face widen just a bit more. Touch wasn’t something Ren was fond of, so hugs were a no go. “Have a good day with Nana. If you go out please remember your coat.” The girl let out a sigh but nodded. She wasn’t much of a talker either.

Before Clairabell could leave Renee got up from her chair, following her out. As Clair turned around to say goodbye the girl held up her favorite plush. It went everywhere with her. The almost black, purple plush fabric looking a bit worse for wear but still holding together. Clair leaned down, and gave it a little kiss on the head. Making the young girl give them a toothy grin before running back off. Clair chuckled as she grabbed her umbrella from beside the door and called back into the house. “See you all tonight!” which got her a faint goodbye from the kitchen. And with that she closed the door behind her and went off down the driveway to her car.

Once parked Clairabell noticed a few other cars already there. And one still inhabited. Stepping out into the rain she unfurled their umbrella and walked by. Lightly tapping on Grover’s car window and enthusiastically waving to the ex-priest before hurrying inside. A drive by hello.

Entering the door to the building she hustled up the stairs. They did this every day. Not really sure why, but they had to run up the many steps. It was an odd habit, maybe just so she didn’t have to go through complaining while walking up slowly. But it was distinct any time Clair was arriving anyone in the stairwell could hear the loud TAK TAK TAK of her heels. At the top she stopped to catch her breath, letting out a huff before continuing into the office. The recognizable click of her heels continuing though not quite as loud as she went towards her desk, though the murmur of voices from the break room she couldn’t help popping her head in and giving another grin and a wave to the trio standing about.

“Morning! Any news from the Boo crews or is it still too early?” she piped in. Clair’s opinion on the reality of spirits could be described as, believable but humorously skeptic. Regardless she was more interested in potential interior photos than the actual paranormal activity levels.
 



Monique.





































  • mood



    slighty nervous

















“I’m sorry ma, I’m just too busy right now.” With her phone pressed to ear Monique tried to navigate the road and the conversation going on with her mother. Her nerves had began to shake once the caller ID let her know who was trying to reach her. It was really sad. She was a successful woman, a pillar within the community some would even say. So why was it that her parents, especially her mother, still had the ability to bring out the child that feared them? It was amazing how a simple phone call could turn her whole morning around. Monique swallowed a lump in her throat, the breakfast sandwich was forced down despite losing her appetite all of a sudden.

“I’m just saying, you should meet this young man. Your cousins are all getting married and having children. You aren’t getting any younger Monique, there aren’t too many men interested in a woman after a certain age, especially if she’s so focused on her hobbies.” Each word was like a knife to the heart, twisting deeper as her mother continued on. Monique said nothing, lips glued tight with the memory of how children were meant to be seen and not heard. The steering wheel cover squeaked under the tightness of her grip. It was her only outlet to release how she was really feeling.

Monique stared ahead, listening to her mother but also zoning out. A conversation with her mother never failed to have her shut down. It was the sound of Siri's voice that snapped her out of it, the AI reading the text for her. Now was her chance to escape. Monique spoke up finally, a voice a little too pleased. “Sorry ma, something’s come at work so I’ll have to talk to you later!” With that she tapped her AirPod and ended the call. A deep sigh of relief left her. With a quick word to Siri she was letting Alexander know that she’d be pulling up shortly.

Driving through the neighborhood had lifted Monique’s spirit somewhat but that was only because she truly loved her job. Before long the lovely little house was in view. The Victorian styled architecture was sure to bring in history buffs while the close quarters of the neighbors would appeal to those who favored a close sense of community. Goosebumps began to appear on her flesh without her noticing. It truly was a gorgeous property, but she could only hope that it was…normal. Monique swallowed as she stepped out of the vehicle and went inside. She breathed a little easier once she noticed Alexander’s truck.

Stepping inside Monique immediately began to look around for selling points while shaking off her umbrella. The click of her heels echoed throughout the space. Her exploration eventually led to the kitchen. With a smile on her face she approached Alexander. “Good Morning Alex. You’re already hard at work huh? Have you found any other problems besides the wiring? And do you have a plan for fixing them.”

































holy



jamila woods










♡coded by uxie♡
 


𝕁𝕆𝔸ℕℕ𝔸 ,, 𝔻𝔼𝕊𝔸ℕ𝕋𝕀𝕊 ❜ ─ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 ─ ❛
tags: idalie idalie wickedlittlecritta wickedlittlecritta ClownPope ClownPope ; location: ackehurst real estate office (break room)
interactions: devin, laurence, clair ; notes: n/a

The timed arrival of Devin managed to elicit a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement from Jo, her gentle hands prodding at the kettle to whip it toward the sink. Peering in, on pure instinct, she saw little to no water left; remnants, then, from someone who hadn’t filled it up once they were done. At home that sort of action was excusable, but in a workplace it felt like good manners to do as much. Some days she felt the only soul who could say no to a cup of coffee, as the acidity and bitter taste oft left her feeling nauseous and her mouth drying out. Tea, at least, felt more like a portion of the day’s water intake. Coffee just ran through the system, and the quick snap of a caffeine high was not Jo’s favourite. She’d gone through late nights at university already, swamped with assignments and projects, having then relied on the coffee. It didn’t take long to realize the addiction had swept itself fiercely beneath her feet, pulling the rug from beneath Jo and launching her into a withdrawal full of headaches and lethargy. This was some years ago now, and the transition had gone rather smoothly.

She now crafted these teas, taking advantage of the small plot of garden she’d cultivated at the back of her property for herbs and spices. It was one of the stipulations in the place that she’d bought, a remodeled farm home of its own type-- having needed the gentle hand of a fixer upper’s spirit-- with a spacious ground floor and plucky loft space. The back of the lot had been overgrown, but beneath it there were remnants of wooden slats, with vine and grass grown between and around their rectangular formation. A little of trimming later and they’d been right as rain, with dirt beneath that proved easy enough to work with. While she wasn’t a gardener much herself, and her green thumb was closer to a burnt shade of orange, there was some nostalgia to it. Her mother had had a little garden, carved out on the back patio where the brick of the next building stood tall by the fire escape, where they’d cut their basil and rosemary and all manner of fragrant greens. In the essence of it, it was formulaic for Joanna, and it just felt right.

Fall did threaten to wash away the garden, so she’d had to resort to hoarding what was left into her tiny tea bags. She drank them so frequently the supply was dwindling, but work was a necessity to keep them for. Today’s brew, from what she could recall from the coloured label on the tea bag’s string, was a lemon zest, ginger and cinnamon combination. The zinger as she called it.

Though as her mouth opened to address Devin’s ‘what’s up', it was the sudden appearance of Laurie, seemingly filling in the space with a suitable enough response in Jo’s opinion. Giving Devin a raised eyebrow and a fleeting grin, she raised a free hand and gestured to Laurence. Her action seeming to say, ‘well, that’s answer enough, isn’t it?’

Laurence’s brand of humour, offensively English, had once upon a time brought belly-aching laughter out of Joanna. It was not unlike her father’s jokes, as he himself was one of those stiff-lipped Italian men, drenched in his family’s culture, that was harsher to most than to those who knew it well enough. Laurence was never mean, something that Joanna would recall. Not unless he wanted to be. Though perhaps it was from their toughest times, but she’d been hard pressed to find a laugh in what he said for a while. For the first few years, at least, after the divorce. All of it was a reminder of what was once good, and reminiscing that did nobody good. At least, now, with the past so lovingly far away, she could appreciate it once more. It was a rhythm of understanding and aggravation. It was a benefit of having worked together for the last eight years; most, if not all, of the unnecessary anger-- at least-- had been pressed into the sidelines.

“Debdhill or Bunting for either of you? Office bets to see which haunting is an oil tycoon villain in a mask."

“Oh, yes,” she retorted quickly, having already moved to put the kettle on its electric stand. Clicking down the handle, she turned, still cradling her mug with her hip pressed to the counter’s edge. Raising her eyebrows, her gaze caught the bug mug in Laurence’s hand. She withheld the urge to smile, though it was nice seeing it out every so often, as she knew Laurence often upheld most of their kid’s gifts and art projects as museum worthy. If there was one thing she knew him to be exceptionally careful of, it was those artifacts. Remnants, maybe, that never even caught dust. “Been up late listening to your radio dramas again? The day an actual oil tycoon fakes an actual haunting to get actual insurance money, Laurence, then I’ll pay you a whole year’s subscription of Audible, I promise.” She’d wanted to add darling to the end for an added dose of sarcasm, but recalled that she’d not used that decorum in too many years to feel comfortable doing so in front of coworkers.

“But, both, if you’re really asking. You know how it is. Wide net, narrow comb-- pass off anything that needs a second look or better eyes. I’ve got a lot of pouring over to do, but that’s the fun part anyway.”

This smile was warmer, more genuine, as she did fondly look forward to the rest of her day. Even if nothing interesting were to come of it, the preliminary research was always interesting. Joanna liked the fundamentals, and how you could build a whole house from pen on paper.

At the presence of another arrival, Clair, Joanna kept her smile and threw another wave. She enjoyed the interior designer, finding both their fashion and their positivity to be rather infectious.

Still waiting for the pot to warm, she threw a shrug at Clair. “I think they’re just heading out. Grover’s just waiting out front, from what I last saw of him. Everyone else, well, fluttering about here or there. I’m sure we’ll all get the buzz if something comes up.”

It seemed solid enough of an answer. Joanna figured they’d not get much of an update anyway, or anything at all, if it were not somewhat important. Though she did know that based on the geography of Bunting, alone, that if the dreary day was as much so out there as it was in the city, that those woods could become darker than they appeared in the day. It was a slight worry, but she had hope enough that no one would trip and break something.

Though she made a note to hound Grover for updates on the group there. For her own sanity; a maternal worry that she felt too embarrassing to admit to.

 


ＧＲＩＦＦＩＮ ＶＡＵＧＨＮ❜ ─ the psychic ─ ❛
tags: elytra elytra ; location: company
interactions: Grover ; notes: n/a



It wasn’t a car day. Maybe it was the overcast skies he’d seen out of the corner of his eye as he headed into his apartment, or maybe it was the fact that the elevator broke the second he approached it and headed back to his studio. Either way, the call from Ackehurst asking for help looking into a house made him sigh and glance out through the window. The overcast skies had brought with them a drizzle of raindrops, fogging up the view of the city as he let the curtain swing back into place and contemplated his options.

“Do you need a ride?”

Griff looked up from where they had been locked in a staring battle with the keys sprawled across the countertop of their kitchen. Taunting him. Maybe he should throw them in the garbage dispenser? His nephew stood in the hallway, rubbing their eyes from the early morning, and yawning as they repeated their question. Most likely having been woken up by the racket Griff had made when he had come back and got called to Ackehurst right away.

“Do you need a ride? Staring at the keys won’t make them drive you.” As if uncertain if Griff had registered their question, they moved across the living space and picked up the keys before jangling them in Griffin’s face. “Earth to Griff. Uncle, oh my goodness, come on Dad.” They drew out the assortment of names they had called him in that sentence.

Griff blinked at him, pulling himself back to reality, “New hair again? It’s nice.”

They scoffed, but it was lighthearted and ran a hand through the ruffled strands sticking up everywhere that were currently neon green. “Ya think so? I dyed it last night after exams. Took a minute but it came out hella nice. Come on, I’ll drive you or you’re going to be late.”

They turned to head toward the door with the keys before stopping, and calling over their shoulder. “Ah, there’s a package on the couch for you. There was a sale at work.”

The package on the couch had ended up being another sweatshirt. Griffin glanced down at the new clothing item again, sitting in the car that he had nearly exchanged for the use of public transportation. Not that being stuck in a larger piece of metal was any better, but at least if he was going to die it would be with company. With the holidays around the corner, Hugo kept bringing more and more outfits home, certainly ensuring that the both of them were dressed to the nines. This time around it had been another black hoodie with the thoracic cage depicted on it, pairing the hoodie with a long black raincoat. They were stopped at a stoplight, the droplets smashing across the windshield and being pushed off by the wipers when Griff tapped one of the bones on his hoodie, frowning and muttering under his breath. “It’s in the wrong place.” It helped to focus on the white bones across the front of his chest instead of the fact that someone definitely just ran a red light. Not that Hugo noticed, considering they were at that moment glancing over at Griffin. "Keep your eyes on the the road." Griffin reprimanded his nephew on autopilot.

“What is?” Hugo listened thankfully and looked back at the road, blowing out the hair from their face. Any more color changes and it would be fried beyond belief. Then they would just shave it off and repeat. At this point Griff was surprised they hadn’t dyed their hair rainbow yet. Maybe that was the next color after his weekly breakdown in the kitchen paired with ice cream and movies. He’d say that the kid stressed him out with his ever changing majors and disputes at the university, but it was better than a quiet studio.

“This rib. It should be attached to the sternum, not the costal cartilage. They miscounted at that too.” He explained, gesturing at the clothing even though Hugo was no longer looking, doing his best to drive the two of them as carefully as it was physically possible. It was never enough in Griffin’s opinion.

“I’ll let the manufacturer know.” Hugo shot him a bright smile, and Griff gave a small nod at the offer of ensuring the image would be corrected. “Thank you.” For some reason his nephew’s smile faded, but then it was replaced with exasperated amusement as he pulled up near the office.

“You’re here, Dad. Don’t scare off your coworkers or the ghosts. Or do. I don’t care.”

Griff gave them a scathing look, to which they only laughed and shooed him from the truck. Thanking them for the ride, and confirming that they would ensure that the image would be corrected, Griff paused in front of the company. He’d seen the text earlier from Grover, and had no idea how to approach the car in which he could see Grover hunched over his phone screen. Tilting his head back, he let the droplets splash into his face for a second, the cold bringing mental clarity to his sleep-deprived brain.

Maybe he should just head back to work. Glancing back at the driver of the car made him shift again, cold seeping through his jeans and droplets sneaking onto the back of his neck even with the hood and making him shiver. Even after so many years he didn't know what to make of the priest, always feeling a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that they had interacted more in the past then he currently remembered. Yet each time he asked and probed the priest denied it.

Taking a few steps closer to the car, he tried to prepare a conversation starter especially since it was only Grover in the car. His hands clenched and unclenched as he mustered up the courage to actually get the man’s attention, slowly crafting conversation starters from ‘great weather today’ and ‘I attended a nice funeral the other day.’ For a minute he just hovered awkwardly outside the car and then moved close, tapping at the car window and pulling open the passenger seat next to Grover.

“Hey.” Off to a great start aren’t you Griff? Chiding himself internally, he slid into the front seat, tugging at his hoodie in an attempt to get over his stomach dropping from getting inside the car. It was the second car in the span of three minutes and six seconds and he would prefer that count was zero. At least he was certain that the priest’s car was blessed. “Nice weather today, isn’t it? It would be a good day for a funeral.” He decided to go with both ideas of his conversation starter, giving himself a mental pat on the back at how smooth that had come out. Griff let out a soft hum at the thought, trying to run through his memory of what his schedule was for the week. Didn’t he have one later this week he had to attend? An elderly woman who had fallen down from her bed during her sleep and passed away after rolling down the stairs. Hopefully it was still raining then, it would be a nice touch to the atmosphere her family wanted him to create. A good luck omen in his mind, ensuring that the spirit passed on easily. Unlike the ones at the house they were going to be driving to.
 













  • XI.
    the (ex)priest





    grover waycott.
    mood
    please don't remember me please don't remember me please don't--

    location
    his car

    interactions
    Clair, Griffin

    tags
    ClownPope ClownPope Sear Sear





designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ
 
A.J. Axtel
the contractor
17 Debdhill Road
reporting to Monique
Kitchen
Carhart jacket & jeans
interactions

erzulie erzulie talking with Monique



A.J. looked up from his phone and put int his pocket like it was burning his hand as Monique found him in the kitchen. He had been trying to figure out the right words to tell her that he wasn’t going back down those basement stairs. It was a speak of the devil kind of moment and it was a good thing because he was a drawing a complete blank on how to phrase his text and also a bad thing because he still wasn’t sure how to string the words together just right now that he was looking at her. It didn't help that Monique was beautiful in an effortless kind of way that could make sentences a little elusive on the best days. He attempted his best impression of a smile as she said good morning.

“Good Morning Alex. You’re already hard at work huh? Have you found any other problems besides the wiring? And do you have a plan for fixing them.”

He always got a kick when people called him Alex and he just never had the heart to correct her, it’d been too long at this point and well. Different names for different places and all that suited him fine. Made the smile impression have a little more kick than his other smile impressions.

“Mornin’ Boss,” he said on route instinct, “Yeah um...about that. Uh. No two ways about it, can’t sugar it up. wiring is wicked fucked, Monique, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. Half the outlets are fake and then half need to be redone. And uh, I know you guys at the agency joke that these old fixer uppers are haunted and stuff but Uh….I think the breaker box’s got a mind of its own?” He was more apologetic than anything as he spoke and this was more sentences than he usually liked to use in a row. So when he continued it was a bit of a rarity; “And...you know, can’t fix anything til it’ll stay off…..No idear how to quote for some shit like that. And uh, honest to god, its creepy down’in there.” His accent hit the word down like it was an explicative. He pointed at the still open basement door for emphasis.

When they had both taken the short moment to look at the door he added with much less inflection; “And don’t even get me stah’ted on the walls they knocked down’in the front room with the ceiling all sagging like a headline waitin' to happen- But otherin all that I’m great. How you doin’?” he added with heavy sarcasm and a sigh.

coded by natasha.
 
Last edited:













  • XI.
    the medium/psychic





    talulah “lou” winslow
    outfit
    a green corduroy jacket, a white turtleneck, beige slacks, brown leather doctor martens, and some emerald & gold jewelry

    location
    talulah’s residence > debdhill

    interactions
    ridley

    mentions
    a.j. & jellybean

    tags
    birdgeoisie birdgeoisie





designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ
 
louder than god's revolver
and twice as shiny
Devin Murphy
LOCATION

acklehurst real estate office (break room)

RADIO

renegade-kavinsky

MENTIONS

n/a

INTERACTIONS

joanna, laurence, clairabell

TAGS

BELIAL. BELIAL. , idalie idalie , ClownPope ClownPope

Laurence’s entry and pithy response drew a snort out of Devin. He sipped his coffee and watched the banter between the exes. They had, he was sure they would both be annoyed to hear, excellent chemistry, but he supposed that was only natural after however many years of being in a relationship, even if some eight odd years of that was being divorced. However, his parents were much less funny together, so he was never really sure what level of chemistry was normal and what was him being surprised that other married people still had personalities.

His only contribution to the Scooby-Doo conversation was to ask, “You guys are paying for Audible?” Devin swirled his iced coffee around in its plastic cup and continued, “I’m also working on both, but I’m taking a field trip by Bunting to face my archnemesis: small town hall clerks. I need zoning laws and their website only wants to tell me about their 2007 pumpkin festival. So off we go.” He paused to take a sip of his coffee, and then added, "Maybe I'll also get a pumpkin. As a treat."

He gave Clair a little salute with his Dunks at her arrival, and added, “You’re one of the early birds,” after Jo finished.


code by ditto (head empty go bonk)​
 












ridley murdoch

on the radio: Hertz - Amyl and the Sniffers


mood

Exasperated



location

Ridley's car --> 17 Debhill Road --> Debdhill kitchen



interactions

Talulah cadence cadence , Charlie Ha_lfLife Ha_lfLife , AJ TrashRabbit TrashRabbit , Monique erzulie erzulie , Enoch Walliver Walliver



mentions

N/a




Tapping out of the extremely sporadic message thread with Talulah (which mostly consisted of Ridley asking about Charlie's wherabouts in the earliest hours of the day), they stared down at their sibling's contact. They pecked a finger against the plastic case of the phone, grinding their teeth. They hated that Charlie had decided to work on the other house in the agency's current docket. A creepy house in the woods? It hit a little too close to home- literally. Even though she wasn't going alone, that nagging paranoia twisted its tendrils around her subconscious, and was swiftly creeping its way to the forefront of her mind.

Hey, don't forget to bring a phone charger with you. And don't wander off. Stay close to Grover. They frowned, scrubbing their palm at their nose. Nah, that was way too much like a nagging parent. Charlie wasn't that bratty little kid who scraped her knees at recess or a know-it-all teenager; she was a fully grown, responsible adult. Well, the responsibility seemed to come and go like the tides of the ocean, so maybe responsible-ish was a better descriptor.

They deleted the text, and were in the process of drafting a new one by the time they caught sight of their passenger ducking through the rain. Ridley let the phone ka-thunk into the drink holder, scrambling over the center console to pluck the donut box off the seat, as well as reach across and shove the door open. Talulah didn't look thrilled to be out in the rain, and Ridley didn't want to start off on the wrong foot, in case the day went longer than expected. And for Ackehurst, that was always a possibility.

"G'morning," they return, placing the donut box on the console with a small go ahead gesture. The moment the door had shut, Ridley could notice the new scents that accompanied the brunette. They held their tongue. Technically, the work day hadn't even started; they knew any comments were going to immediately send amicability straight to the bottom of the deepest social trench.

It didn't help that the smell of cigarettes was making Ridley's fingers itch to be holding one between their lips. Old habits die hard and whatnot.

Pulling out onto the road, they kept their mind busy on worrying about the house, rather than their passenger. At least until she spoke up.

"No Charlie today," they echo in a confirmative. The latter comment had Ridley's jaw setting, and a little nose-flaring huff escaping them. They weren't even shocked, really, but the nip of annoyance never dulled no matter how many times Talulah jabbed their buttons. "God forbid I worry about my sister," Ridley mumbled. Then, clearer, "I'm actually doing great, thanks."

Stopped at a red light, they took the chance to look Talulah up and down. She looked as put together as ever, which wasn't terribly much, but it was better than being piss drunk already. "Excited to see some ghosts, I hope," they said with a dry sarcasm. "Hope they're polite."

The drive to Debhill was exceedingly pleasent, present company excluded. Ridley loved the rain, and their surroundings were quaint and pretty. They were already creating a list of the area's positive qualities. It looked like it would be a nice place to raise kids. The ease of walking in town was a particular highlight. Gee, if only Ridley and Charlie could have grown up somewhere this nice.

Parking on the street, they picked up the donut box, retrieved their bag from the bag, and trailed behind Talulah towards the front entrance. They had to do a bit of a balancing act, but managed to tap away at their phone as they walked.

To Charlie: Hey, good luck at the creepy cabin in the woods. Text me when you get there. Hopefully there's decent service

Ridley gave Jellybean a quick head rub, striding past Talulah into the home with a mindless "thanks". Then quickly slowed to a halt upon spotting Enoch first, then Monique and AJ in the kitchen. They give a nod and weak smile in greeting, lifting the box up.

"Doughnuts, anyone?" They slid the box onto the nearest open surface. "How're things looking in here so far?"




/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

















Aleks has always hated the rain. Nothing against rain in particular, but when things get rained on, they get wet. He hated being wet. The feeling of clothes clinging to his limbs, socks not quite soaked but wet enough to make that stomach churning squelching sound when he walked– it made him feel sick.

He especially hated the lingering moisture in the air after a storm. It made his head spin, the way all the different smells got caught up in the humidity and were rolled into one horrible, overwhelming stench.

--

He was running late. In a rush, Aleks made breakfast for himself and Archie, stuck it in a Tubberware container, and started driving to school.

"— I mean, yeah, but that's, like- um- illegal, right?" Archie asked, shoving a bite of his breakfast in his mouth. Fluffy pancakes piled high with slices of banana and berries on top, drowning in an unholy amount of syrup with a side of eggs and vegan bacon.

"Well," Aleks started, thoughtfully tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, "Technically? I guess it could be illegal, just depending on if you believe in ghosts or not. Y'know, there's fake science or whatever, but it's not just ghosts. There's demons and- and, uh.. tormented spirits! Yeah, there's tons of those guys."

"So you're a fraud." Archie took a long swig of his apple juice. "I can't believe you, Doc. All these years, and you're not even a doctor!"

"I was never a doct–"

"I can't even look at you right now, I'm absolutely, gargantuan-ly flabbergasted at your consistent depiction!" Archie used just about big word he knew in that sentence.

"It's deception, and you'll live, Archie." Aleks rolled his eyes with a smile, "It won't kill you to stand me a little longer, we're almost at school." Seeing his old job everyday was bittersweet. He had to admit, as horrible as working in the hell that is the public school system and getting paid little to nothing for the amount of work he did, he loved it there. He missed his students, he missed his old office, and most of all? He missed not having to worry about being possessed every day.

As they pulled into the carpool lane, Archie pulled on his backpack. The car slowed to a stop.

He unbuckled, leaning forward to hug Aleks before getting out. Archie's arms wrapped around Aleks' shoulders in a brief hug. Archie grabbed his water bottle before opening the car door and hopping out. The door closed behind him.

--

Aleks totally loved being alone with his thoughts, and definitely wasn't to put on a podcast to keep out whatever horrible scenario his brain had cooked up.

He put on his headphones and turned on Deep Cuts: his favorite podcast. It was funny in the way he liked

"... I'm Dave Baker, ... and I'm Andrew Price. Welcome to Deep Cuts, the only podcast that walks you through the ins, the outs, and the nitty gritty of a chosen topic so at your next forced social function you can seem like an interesting and idiosyncratic person." He mumbled the words of the intro along with the podcasts hosts as he continued his long commute to work.

After about thirty minutes of driving and listening to Case File #115: MKUltra, he finally arrived to the house.

With a sigh, he grabbed his umbrella, his bag of ghost gear, what was left of his coffee, a pack of Marlboros out of the glove compartment along with a lighter got out of the car.

Man, did he hate the rain.














the ghost hunter






aleks.
















  • filler tab!










♡coded by uxie♡
 
Last edited:






XI.
charlie murdoch.
the real estate agent.














say so
doja cat


Mood
Irritated. Kinda hungover.

Location
Orange Line

Interactions
elytra elytra Sear Sear

Mentions
birdgeoisie birdgeoisie


designed by bad ending. & coded by xayah.ღ


(CW: mentions alcohol abuse)

Day to night to morning
Keep with me in the moment
I’d let you had I known it
Why don’t you say so?
Didn’t even notice
No punches left to roll with
You got to keep me focused, why don’t you say--​

“--HIPPO. HIPPO! PURPLE HIPPO!”

Let me check my chest, my breath right quick
He ain't never seen it in a dress like this
Heain’tneverevenbeenimpressedlikethis
Prolly why I got him quiet on the set like--​

“--MOMMY! WATERMelon hippo he eat HIPPOPOPPAMUS ... crayon MOMMY”

For Christ’s sake. Charlie squeezed her eyes together, though they had already been shut, hoping somehow that would help block out the blabbering. The iPad kid across the aisle from her continued on his sermon about something playing on his screen. His mom, probably, sat next to him enjoying the peace offered by sound-blocking Bose headphones. Fortune favors the ignorant, huh? Charlie lamented, cramming her AirPods deeper into her ears. She hoped that doing so would either dull the kid's rambling or at least give her enough ear damage that she wouldn't have to suffer anymore. Or, at least, that it would help dull the throbbing in the front of her head. The mother of headaches. It was of the variety that would benefit instantly from drinking plenty of water. But it’s not like she had any of that lying around the house. The light on her Brita pitcher had been blinking red for the past four weeks. Where did people even buy Brita filters anymore? That was the most recent excuse in Charlie's rotation for only drinking water once in a full moon. If someone pricked her with a needle right now, she’d probably bleed a pure stream of Mountain Dew. Or Monster. She had one of the latter with her now -- "Papillon Juice" -- a flavor that (kind of) resembled a breakfast drink, which surely justified slamming down a 20oz energy drink at 7:00 in the morning. This was actually her second one today. She'd shotgunned the first one outside the corner store by the station. Who needs water anyways? Science says that caffeine obliterates hangovers, right? Weren't you supposed to chug coffee after a night out? Or was that bullshit?

The robotic voice of Ms. MTA came on over the intercom, announcing the train's imminent arrival at the next stop on the line.

Please. Please, Jesus, get off at Tufts. Charlie silently willed the little terror. Let me suffer my last two stops in peace.

Aaaaand nope.

The kid and his mother stayed put when the car doors opened and closed again. The twerp started kicking his dangling legs back and forth in front of he seat. He was growing concerningly bored with the iPad and started making a series of atonal fart sounds with his lips. Charlie usually liked kids. Part of her felt like she could identify with them better than she could with people her own age. But even the comradery of youth had its limits. She closed her eyes again, rubbing her fingers against her left temple. A scene came pointedly to mind of Homer Simpson choking the shit out of Bart. She tried to spend the next few moments wallowing in misery, knowing the second she got off she'd have to full commit to pretending she wasn’t more hungover than a Catholic kid the Sunday after a Sox game.

Another interruption. The violent buzzing of her phone from her jacket pocket. She swiped open her messages to see -- ah shit. Shit, shit shit. Grover. Rocking and ready to go. Meanwhile, Charlie was still well over a mile away. Fucking MTA. If there hadn't been that delay at Mass Ave., she'd have been there by now. Okay, that was bull. Charlie knew damn well she couldn't make it to work on time if she'd had a rocket strapped to her back. This likely had something to do with the fact that she'd been making the same commute for 10 months, and had never really registered that she would need more than 10 minutes to get downtown. What she really needed was a car That would fix the transit problems in a snap. Sure, she could always bum rides off of Rid. but that came at the cost of having to ride with Rid - resident hardass and buzzkill. Some days, Charlie would wake up peppy enough to face that kind of shit. But today, honestly, she'd rather deal with iPad kid. Ridley could smell her hangovers like a bloodhound and Charlie didn't need the judgment this morning. She felt crappy enough. Besides, she and Ridley were going to different sites today. That was a rare luxury. Charlie honestly couldn't remember a time the duo had split up on the clock since Ridley started there half a year ago.

Another text. Speaking of ...

Hey, good luck at the creepy cabin in the woods. Text me when you get there. Hopefully there's decent service.

Sister Dearest. Charlie had been expecting at least something in the way of a concerned text from Ridley today. This was actually pretty tame. She'd half expected her older half to remind her to bring her phone charger or something (which, yes, she had forgotten at the house).

Chinatown. One more stop. Five more minutes of self-pity. She shot a quick reply back at Ridley:

105951036-1559761167164bigfoot.jpg
Already met my future husband
You're invited to the wedding :')

Charlie tucked the phone back in her pocket and pulled out a box of Tic Tacs. She poured out three and popped them back like cheap tequila. She'd brushed her teeth this morning, but she'd still felt gross. Like if she coughed too hard or sweated a little bit, her body would still expel lingering traces of weed and PBR. She'd showered, too. Charlie might not've had the greatest track record with good life decisions, but she knew better than to show up to a house tour smelling like the corner booth at Coyote Ugly. She was dressed to the nines today, sporting a fitted black turtleneck and slacks topped with a dark wool blazer. Her hair was still wet from the shower, the top half hidden by a knit beanie. If she could barely get herself to the train on time, she sure as hell couldn't pencil in the time to blow dry her hair. She'd nailed the professional look of the outfit, sure. It was the practical part that still could use improvement The total lack of raingear, for instance. It wasn't a habit for Charlie to check the weather. Well, she sort of did today. When she was walking down the driveway this morning, she noted the ominous gray loitering northeast over downtown. The shade of the clouds was dark enough to make her think "hmm rain?" When it came down to the choice of turning around and digging through her closets for an umbrella or to just take her chances, Charlie didn't linger long before making her decision. Carpe diem and all that. Well, surprise, Nancy Drew. It was raining after all.

When the train started to slow, she grabbed on to the pole next to her seat and pulled herself up with a quiet groan. Her stomach turned over dramatically at the sudden move and she had to steady herself for a moment to make sure she wasn't going to hurl. The little dickhead was ogling her now as she sauntered towards the doors. She gave him a tired smile and threw him a peace sign, deciding that that was going to be as much of a truce as she could offer today.

And out into the rain. She pulled off the blazer ducking her head and arms underneath it like a turtle in hiding. It was a quick jog down the street to Ackehurste, nausea notwithstanding. Grover's car was waiting, its headlights signaling a citadel of warmth and dryness. Seeing the front seat was already occupied, Charlie dipped in the back seat from the righthand side. "Sorry! Sorry, so sorry." Charlie offered before anyone else could comment. She checked her phone, still dry from her jacket pocket. Twelve minutes after Grover's text. Not her worst time. Certainly not the best. "Train was running behind." It wasn't.

She offered Grover a disarming smile, remnants of childhood dimples piquing at her cheeks. "Thanks for driving, Father," she offered innocently. She tucked the Monster can between her thighs as she busied herself putting the jacket back on and buckling her seatbelt over it. God, she loved calling him that. It made her feel like a bonafide Catholic. She wasn't sure if he hated the moniker or not, but he still spent half the time introducing himself as such with their clientele, so how much could he really hate it?

"Hey Griff." She winked at the shotgun passenger in the rearview mirror. "Cut anyone open today?" She joked, having picked up that he himself had a morbid sense of humor. Truth be told, the thought of a cold body on a metal slab made the nausea she'd been tamping down come back with threatening force. But despite her own unease, she had an obsessive need to make those around her like her. Even though Griff, with his cute Roman nose and bouncing curls, engaged in a profession as close to Charlie's personal fever nightmare as it gets, she still wanted desperately to make him her friend.
 
Last edited:



Monique.

































“I…see.” Her eyes cut to the open basement door, a chill going through her once again. Monique took a small step closer to Alexander and silently prayed that he wouldn’t pay too much attention to it. Then again he was likely used to it by now. Using him as a shield was a common occurrence for her. The more rational part of her mind convinced her that there was something perfectly reasonable about what he’d told her. The house wasn’t exactly new after all, old houses were always weird. Monique held in a sigh of her own. She knew the history of the house, how the clients parents had been murdered inside. The information had come to the forefront of her mind and was beginning to set her own edge. “I’m doing good, thanks for asking.”

Monique couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Alexander’s accent. The smile was soon wiped clean off of her face though. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a door suddenly open. She lurched forward, hands grabbing before she could even think about it. The yelp that left her mouth was less dignified than she would have liked. The agent froze, mouth moving to apologize but no sound coming out. Her embarrassment only intensified when Ridley stepped inside of the kitchen, box of donuts perched in their hands.

With a warm face she released Alexander’s arm from her death grip, ready to pretend what happened had not just happened. Monique shook her head, politely declining Ridley’s offer. “No thank you. From what Alex says things aren’t looking too good.” She cleared her throat. “It’s gonna take a lot of work to get this place ready but I’m sure that we’re up for it.”

































holy



jamila woods










♡coded by uxie♡
 
A.J. Axtel
the contractor
17 Debdhill Road
Donut eating
Kitchen w/ Moniqu, Ridley & Winslow
Carhart jacket & jeans

interactions


erzulie erzulie birdgeoisie birdgeoisie cadence cadence



If he was being strictly honest with himself, he had been hoping that Monique would something a bit more inspiring in terms of if he was losing his mind or not. Or at least how to write the quote for a haunted breaker box. But all that was interrupted by the bang of the front door-

-Monique yelped and grabbed his arm, and A.J’s other hand without thinking went straight to his right hip, but found only the dingy tops of his Philips head screw drivers tucked in his tool belt. Fingers brushing over them looking for a different more comforting shape, but in in walked Ridley with Donuts and Winslow in the hall behind her.

"Doughnuts, anyone?" They slid the box onto the nearest open surface. "How're things looking in here so far?"

“Hey Ridley, Yeah...I could use a donut,” He said as he gave Monique the honor of pretending that hadn’t happen. He looked at her reassuring, mistaking her fluster for embarrassment. But the touch starved little monkey that lived in his brain was going to know exactly where she grabbed him for the rest of the day. She was jumpy, and this wasn’t the first nor did he suspect the last time some loud bang or creak would send her into high alert, and he couldn’t hold it against her, not when he too was prone to startling. She activated in him a sort of haunted house mom friend override to his own PTSD startle instinct that made his own nerves feel more useful- even if he was only packing screw drivers. He let his hand trail on her back for a moment before moving away and in search of donuts.

Ridley was more the type of person he knew how to grok. Maybe it was because Devin was always dragging him to that one lesbian sports bars so he only knew how to talk with women who were butch anymore. He was certain he could say fuck with out repercussions in front of her and not worry about being to professional. He was always trying so hard to be professional when he had to talk to Monique and always he was failing.

Speaking of which, Monique seemed to be making a recovery, but that was very her being able to change gears so fast. It impressed him honestly. here he was still feigning interest over choosing a donut while the adrenaline slowly oozed back out of him. Monique said.; “No thank you. From what Alex says things aren’t looking too good.” She cleared her throat. “It’s gonna take a lot of work to get this place ready but I’m sure that we’re up for it.”

“Breaker box is haunted?” He added after Monique made her professional sounding recovery. He wasn’t very confident on that sentence as he shoved a Boston cream into his mouth as to avoid speaking further.

He caught sight of Winslow and gave her a small low wiggly finger wave, “Hey, Winslow. you're gonna love the basement."

coded by natasha.
 
















  • filler tab! ignore
















  • h


















the feels



excited







where u at?



debdhill property







the fit



rumpled warm clothes







interacting with



talulah, ridley, monique & AJ mentions







tagging



cadence cadence birdgeoisie birdgeoisie erzulie erzulie TrashRabbit TrashRabbit








Ghostman








nine lives

 


ＧＲＩＦＦＩＮ ＶＡＵＧＨＮ❜ ─ the psychic ─ ❛
tags: elytra elytra Ha_lfLife Ha_lfLife ; location: company - grover's car
interactions: Grover, Charlie ; notes: n/a



cw - death/murder/autopsy mention

The tension was - uncomfortable, to say the least. The question of ‘are you certain we don’t know each other?’ right on the tip of their tongue as he kept stealing glances at Grover. Thinking too hard on the matter only sent shooting pain through his mind, so he dropped the attempt to remember. It would come to him when it would. Maybe that would be tomorrow, maybe it would be in five years when it no longer mattered. Griff perked up at the agreement that today was a good day for a funeral, chuckling quietly at the joke. Or at least he thought it was a joke. “Ah, who knows. I’ve seen some with umbrellas. I’ll inquire next time.” Or forms of umbrellas - not all present in their hand, and instead protruding. Not all ghosts and spirits were appealing to look at. They didn’t think that any entities or ghosts could exactly get soaked to the bone, but who knew. No matter how much he interacted with them, sometimes, they weren’t able to communicate or unwilling. Or aggressive. Those were the worst, when he was forced to rapidly retreat or he was at risk of bodily or mental harm. “It would be disappointing if they were scared of the cold,” Griff pointed out, “Then our traipse through the woods wouldn’t yield results. I even brought camping gear. Just in case.” If there was an entity wandering through the woods at night or during the day, he was certain he would be able to see it. There was a ding - his phone. Pulling it out, there was a text on the home screen from his nephew.

hugs: z z z safe @ home. gl.

The message made him snort, before sending back a quick 'Thanks, appreciate it' and pocketing the phone again.

Another awkward silence. The question was back, and instead of submitting to curiosity - which. Curiosity killed the cat, did it not? Griff let out another hum, stared again at Grover for a minute, and then leaned over to dig around in the duffle bag they had lugged with them into the front seat. It sat between their feet, the usual necessities packed within it.

They dug around for a moment in their bag before pulling out his laptop and setting it on his lap. Hotspot, check. His notebook found a place on his knee, the two items balancing precariously as he booted his work computer up. It was a distraction from Grover, and the fact that he was in a fucking car. After a moment the computer screen flashed, and Griff began to tap away at his keyboard as he pulled up a wide assortment of obituaries and the records he did have access to - or forcefully obtained access to. People in the woods were too vague in his opinion when it came to entities. “I’ll take a look at the background on the deaths that occurred there on our way-”

The door to the car was pulled open and another coworker piled in - fashionably late. A quick look in the rearview mirror told him it was Charlie, saving him from torturing his neck with craning to look backwards at her.

"Cut anyone open today?"

That paused their typing, the interest in their work unexpected. Was Charlie interested in their work, or were they making polite conversation? Most did that around him, politely converse until they had the chance to slip away. Well. In a car none of them could exactly go far now, could they? He didn't know, and it made his fingers curl and uncurl hovering above the keyboard. Charlie speaking first did make the process of having a conversation at least easier in their opinion - especially with a topic that naturally he knew about. This way he didn't have to sift through conversation starters, or god forbid, google them. Although, the other one had functioned well? Thinking for a moment, Griff's lips curled upwards in a small smile and they resumed typing as they began to send the names of the previous homeowners through the database. “Yes actually.” The process was ongoing and he didn’t have much information to share even if he wished to. “Last night. I was called in to confirm the cause of a patient's death, which, it was gruesome to say the least. I sent the tissue samples for analysis so at this moment I don’t have confirmation of any of my suspicions.” A long pause as Griff saw the date in the bottom corner of his screen. “Oh, I suppose that isn’t today. Then no. I haven’t cut anyone open yet today.” Back to reading the reports on his screen, a small crease appeared between his eyebrows as he muttered. “I wish I could.” The reports weren’t looking good. If only he could get his hands on the bodies - then ah, shit. In the first place, the reports were too vague. He kept scrolling, the crease only deepening before it smoothened out. “Quite a few of the relatives have passed away. A penetrating head trauma in one, two, oh? Interesting. I imagine the current homeowner is next in line.” That would be a shame in his opinion if the current homeowner passed away before they put a stop to the haunting. Then Ackehurst would pile even more work on him, which, his schedule was busy enough as it was. “Would either of you like to take a look?”
 













  • XI.
    the intern





    puck desmond.
    mood
    :]

    location
    grover's car

    interactions
    grover, griff, charlie

    tags
    elytra elytra Sear Sear Ha_lfLife Ha_lfLife





designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ
 













  • XI.
    the (ex)priest





    grover waycott.
    mood
    pondering

    location
    his car

    interactions
    Griffin, Charlie, Puck, Jo (texting)

    tags
    Sear Sear BELIAL. BELIAL. Ha_lfLife Ha_lfLife hery hery





designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ
 
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