boxfullofzeroes | When hinges creak in doorless chambers...

hatchethanging posting in

boxfullofzeroes

Welcome, foolish mortals,
to the Haunted Mansion.

Watch your step on the way in, please.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

cookswithspite

Cameron must have lost track of the time.

That was all. It was the sort of thing Noah’s cousin did all the time, wandering off to someplace or somebody “interesting” and letting himself be distracted for ages until Noah inevitably had to snap him back to reality. This situation wasn’t that out of the ordinary it was just that, if Mali was to be believed, Cameron had decided to pick the local haunted mansion of all goddamn places to do this. And in November, when Noah could see his breath fogging in the evening air.

So, cold weather, and a spooky, gross old oversized house for Noah to squint angrily up at. Thanks, Cameron.

There was no sign of Cam anywhere on the grounds beyond his (empty) car being parked by a copse of trees just off the side of the road. Noah had chained his bike to one of the trees, imagining that he’d probably come back to see someone had stolen it and then Thanks Cameron x2, before slipping through the front gate.

When walking down the front path, glancing this way and that way through the bleak gardens, still failed to produce a Cam, Noah finally risked cupping his hands around his mouth and calling out:

“Cameron!”

Silence.

Followed by distant corvid noises.

Followed by more silence.

Noah lowered his hands and glared forward at the grand entrance. The door… definitely looked ajar and, okay, Noah considered himself too Sane And Rational to actually believe in ghosts, but that did not mean he was okay with the idea of Cameron wandering around in there. There was probably mold, and loose floorboards, and crap. Noah sighed, dramatically blowing clouds of white breath out, and headed toward the door.

“I cannot believe I am doing this,” Noah announced, as if God Himself might mistakenly think this was how Noah wanted to be spending a Saturday evening, and turned the handle.

From:

hatchethanging

The door swings completely open, easily and noisily. No doubt anyone nearby can here that screaming creak, hmm?

The majordomo of the Mansion most certainly does, all in spite of the fact another foolish mortal has been preoccupying him. There are dozens more happy haunts that can keep their eyes out, and so he excuses himself to the nearest spirits in order to check on yet another guest.

Above Noah, an ancient chandelier is lit with tiny, flickering flames. A few candelabras along the wall are glowing as well, as if for quite some time. It looks nearly welcoming with warm cream-colored wallpaper, if one discounts the natural filth that's accumulated over the decades.

There are a few doorways along the walls, though only the a far set of double are open. The rest are covered with curtains, which in turn are smothered in undisturbed cobwebs and dust.

Somewhere around those distant double doors, the Host calls out. "Welcome, welcome!"

From:

cookswithspite

Noah flinches at the sound of the door but presses forward anyway, only to stop short at the sight of the lit candles. “Who-?” His gaze drifts from the candelabra on the wall to the chandelier overhead. Did Cameron do all that? But why would he bother to go to that much effort?

He’s already thrown off by the lights in a supposedly abandoned building but the voice startles him further into a yelp. Whoever it is, they definitely aren’t Cameron.

“Sorry!” Noah says, automatically. “I mean- I didn’t know anyone was in here?” God, he hopes he isn’t about to be arrested for trespassing. “Uh, I was just looking for my friend, Cameron.”

Noah shifts his feet, shuffling further into the foyer, pushing the door shut (with more flinch-inducing screeches) behind him. “He’s about my age, blonde, kind of an idiot, probably flirting with someone he shouldn’t- Really, I’m not trying to trespass or anything. Uh, have you seen him?”

With all the other exits concealed Noah moves without thinking towards the source of the voice.

From:

hatchethanging

The voice, rather rudely, chuckles. "Not many do. It's very hush-hush."

Ah, this one shut the door. Perfect.

Far more quietly than the hinges, the Host makes certain it locks itself.

"Another lost soul has come wandering through a short time ago. At my suggestion, he was taking a tour of the place. This is a rather unique property, and I do so love showing off my hard work. You see, we don't get many visitors...quite like yourselves."

The season for the rare visitor is over, he had thought. The number peaks around Halloween, and then all the dull mortals keep away. This year, not even Halloween brought a fleshly fool all the way into the Mansion, stopping at the front door when it was clear there was no candy. Even he can't please everyone.

"But at last! Not one, but two adventurous spirits have wandered in. There's quite the perilous party just beginning in celebration of these old doors being opened again."

Above that doorway, the unseen Host hovers, taking this other mortal in. Around the room, despite the shut door and relatively intact windows keeping out the wind, the flames flicker and dim.

"Kindly step this way, into our ghastly gallery. For your own tour; I must insist. You'd like to find your fiend, and keep out of that weather, hmm? No need to catch your death of cold. Though your ghost could easily fit in, with all our currently empty rooms."

How clear had the skies been before? It doesn't matter. Now, the gentle hiss of rain begins, nearly drowning out a few distant chords of music.

From:

cookswithspite

Noah’s first thought about the “hush-hush” part is: Oh no, please tell me Cameron didn’t run off to some sort of illegal drug club. It definitely sounds like his cousin is here however, which means it’s still up to Noah to retrieve him.

He glances around the area, dubious- despite what the weird guy is saying about “hard work,” the place really is filthy. Noah’s tempted to poke at the walls and furnishing to see just how grimy things are, but he suspects if he did that his finger would come away practically black.

And as if to emphasize the seedy atmosphere, the lights start to flicker. It’s not enough to make Noah jump, but he does start fidgeting. “Oh,” Noah says. “A party, yeah, that sounds like somewhere Cam would be.”

(From his position above the doorway, it won’t be hard for the Host to get a good look at Noah- a tallish young man with fair skin and messy dark hair, and a hoodie thrown over his normal work clothes. And of course, looking confused and unnerved like the foolish mortal he is.)

There are a lot of questionable things in what the weird guy is saying but the first thing Noah narrows in on is “The weath-” before faltering in his speech. That is definitely rain he is hearing.

“Oh god damn it, I left my bike out there!” It wasn’t even forecasted! Noah scowls and takes a hurried step towards the front door, but thinks better of it- it’s probably as sheltered as it’s going to get under that tree and he still needs to retrieve Cameron. He’ll just hope it doesn’t take so long his bike gets rusty.

With a sigh, Noah turns around and obediently walks into the gallery. “Uh, look,” he says, “I’ll just find my friend and then we’ll be on our way, don’t worry about it. Uh...”

Noah pauses, again, glancing around. He thought the weird guy would just be hanging out in the next room (probably with a gun or something, knowing Noah’s luck) but he... actually still doesn’t see anyone.

“Where even are you?”

From:

hatchethanging

The more mortals that interact with the current residents, the greater their ability to stick around more actively grows, or so it seems. The Host is still pondering this theory. Is it number or longevity? This is going to be his best chance to test it.

What an odd gallery it is. An octagonal room with only four pieces of art, mounted high on the striped walls: one a fetching young lady with a parasol, two with men staring dourly forward, one with an older woman holding a rose. All of their frames are flanked by leering gargoyle candleholders, every two points of light illuminating each face somehow less than they should. While the eyes are unmoving, the sensation of being watched is still quite present. It seems a few ghosts who decided to abstain from the party--or perhaps who chose to follow him back--are resting in those painted places.

"I haven't a single worry, I assure you! Perhaps you're the worried one, wandering after your friend into such an...unsettling estate?" the Host's voice asks, somewhere above Noah's left ear. "You have good reason to be. And the answer in relation to myself, my dear guest, is up. If you can dare to look!"

If he does...there is, of course, no person to see--but the walls, the paintings, the entire room is stretching with the sound of highly protesting wood.

"Welcome to the Haunted Mansion. I will be your host--your Ghost Host, let's say!" Yes, that phrasing has a good ring to it! "There will be little trouble for either of you...so long as you kindly listen. No running now...though, hmm, have you noticed? It seems there isn't anywhere to go!"

Just as the Ghost Host says, the doorway Noah stepped through is as if it never was, and the room's groans are drowned out by echoing laughter.

Breaking decorum in front of guests when he had a heart that to beat was an indulgence he never allowed himself. All these years of charming lifelessness later, startling guests can never fail at giving him a spine-tingling rush.

From:

cookswithspite

An odd gallery indeed- Noah tries to repress the inexplicable sense of revulsion at the portraits. They’re just tacky pictures in a creepy house, that’s all, and he’s uncomfortable enough as it is thanks to Weird Omniscient Voice Guy Squatting In an Abandoned Manor. And that said guy is cheerfully pointing out Noah’s obvious discomfort.

Noah’s shoulders tense and he hastily shuffles to the right. What does this guy mean, up? With an irritated frown, Noah takes a look.

“What are you-”

The ceiling is too high. No, not just that- Noah’s stomach lurches. The ceiling is growing further and further away from him, the room and the portraits all shifting before his eyes, making a wretched noise as they do.

“What the hell?!”

Noah squeezes his eyes shut and stumbles back, hitting solid wall behind him. Haunted? Ghost Host? He can’t be serious, but when Noah opens his eyes again he’s still in the freakish gallery which, as the Host oh-so-kindly points out, is missing any visible doors. Noah scrambles forward, twists around, and even though he already felt the solid wall- seeing it makes Noah go deathly pale.

“Oh no no no no no no- This can’t be happening!”

Noah reaches out, smacking his hand against the stretching wall. The sound of the Host’s laughter drowning out all coherent thought, Noah clumsily starts to run, circling around the room, fumbling to keep his hand on the walls.

From:

hatchethanging

"And here," he continues conversationally, "we can also a few of our residents, painted as they appeared near the end of their existences in such...corruptible mortal states."

The paintings fully reveal themselves: the young lady is in a fraying tightrope above an alligator, one of the men is on the back of three in quicksand, another is (bizarrely) lacking pants on a barrel of dynamite ready to be lit, and the older woman is sitting on her husband's grave (which is complete with a bust and a hatchet in its head). The Ghost Host doubts the scurrying rat below is in the right mindset to appreciate it.

"Logic says that this must be mere hallucination. Yet you can feel it for yourself--there are no doors in this chamber. No matter how carefully you examine, there's absolutely nothing! How, then, are you to face the chilling challenge of getting out? Well..."

The Host sinks, settling in the dead center of the room.

"There's always my way!"

All at once, the candles blow out. The room is plunged into utter darkness, no door's outline appearing to give a single iota of light. The house stops groaning. There is, somewhere, the rain. Quiet.

Thunder shatters it, lightning splits through the darkness where no windows allow it--the ceiling is mysteriously missing. In the flashes a corpse, all bones and old rags, can be seen hanging from a taut rope beneath the rafters high above.

The lightning calms, the room goes back to being black as pitch.

Next comes a splintering snap of wood; the sickening thud of something heavy hitting the floor above.

The candles flicker back to life, one by one.

"...Oh, but we didn't mean to frighten you so prematurely. There are plenty more chills to come later. Step lively! This tour has only just begun."

No matter which way he finds himself facing at this point, the doorway reappears on the wall behind Noah's back.

Edited Date: 2018-12-17 10:06 am (UTC)

From:

cookswithspite

Still running in circles, Noah slams a fist into the wall a few times. Indeed, he isn’t in a fit state of mind to appreciate much, but he knows damn well that he’s being taunted and that’s almost worse than the fuckery happening to the room surrounding him.

Then the lights go out.

“Ah!”

Noah stumbles in the sudden darkness, coming to a halt on his hands and knees. He breathes in and out, the rasping breaths doing little to calm his hammering pulse. He doesn’t have enough time to even begin to calm down before the lightning flashes, drawing another yelp out of him. He crawls hastily backwards, glancing up towards the source of light.

This time, a proper scream is ripped out of him, long, loud, and piercing. A few words, mostly oaths, attempt to sputter out of him but die halfway out in favor of raw noise.

By the time all the lights are all finally back on Noah is sitting on the floor, partly curled up with his eyes shut and his hands pressed over his ears.

It takes a few moments for him to cautiously open his eyes, move his hands, uncurl himself, and actually register what the Host is telling him. But then he twists himself around, finally spying an exit, and wordlessly bolts out of the horrible gallery.

He doesn’t go far, just enough to get out, before grasping the nearest solid surface and attempting to address his host.

“Not- meaning to- What the fuck did you mean then-” Noah tries to spit out the words, inject venom into him, but his throat is now too hoarse for him to manage much.

From:

hatchethanging

Laughter, laughter, following hot on Noah's heels. This one's friend hadn't been a quarter as terrified. And so few mortals dared follow his voice into the Gallery in the first place! This is truly shaping up to be a most splendid nightmare of a night.

Where the foyer once lay is replaced with, seemingly, the rest of the gallery, lit by small lights in floral shapes. Paintings hang along one side of the wall, the precise opposite of cracked and web-smothered windows still flashing with the violent storm.

Here, too, the lightning reveals something different to each: a respectable ship on the sea revealed to be a ghostly one with tattered sails, a young gentleman's portrait aging until nothing but a skull staring forward, a lounging lady shifting to the shadowy form of a panther, a prince on horseback who flash to bones--and finally, another portrait, one of a pleasant young woman becoming a stony Gorgon, afflicted with her own curse.

"Dear me, I really must learn to tone down the dramatics." If it isn't clear, he will do no such thing--unless the young man finds himself curled up on the floor again. Perhaps there's the barest hint of guilt weighing on his neck? And of course the tour can't move if the tourist firmly keeps to one place. He is a Host as well as a Ghost. "Remember, I said no running. Every consideration has been made for our comfort, and the majority of us have no need to confine ourselves mortal rules...such as keeping to the floors. Please, watch your step."

To prove this point, not far past where Noah's stopped, his voice continues near the ceiling. "Our next destination is the Library."

From:

cookswithspite

Even in a frazzled state, the insincerity in the Host’s comment is exceedingly obvious. He does have to take a moment to catch his breath but Noah’s finally able to retort with a short, sarcastic “You think!?”

Noah stays sullenly where he is for another few moments, listening in a distant sort of way to the Host. He does not want to keep moving. He does not want to have to watch his step for ghostly surprises. He does not want to go see the goddamn library. But his thoughts do clear enough for a few things to occur to him:

First, there’s no guarantee what the Ghost Host will do if he stays in place and doesn’t cooperate.

Second, he can’t exactly stay there for the rest of his life anyway.

And third, Cameron’s still somewhere in the mansion.

“Fine, okay. I’m coming.” With a heavy huff, Noah lets go of the end table he was clinging to and starts down the gallery hall, lurching a bit at first before settling into a more steady walk.

Not that going down the hall is exactly soothing, even if it is an improvement over a room with growing walls. Noah watches the portraits uneasily, occasionally making a quiet groan whenever they show something particularly gruesome.

From:

From:

cessation_rites

...Why had she applied here again?

Actually, while Rute didn’t specifically remember sending her CV in, she could make a pretty good guess as to why, which was likely something like “skimmed the ad, got the impression it would be sort of similar an after-school job or two she’d had before, and added it to the list of umpteen other places she was desperately throwing herself at because damn it, they all needed money ASAP between their own living situation and the problem going on with Babs, Al, and their kid, not to mention paying for Rute’s own appointments, medication, and then there were college applications to worry about and yeah, at this point we have completely forgotten about the start of this explanation.”

Point is, she hadn’t really expected to get a response, let alone a summons to the “servant’s entrance,” of a mansion in the resort district alongside a few other prospective employees. She had considered turning back once she actually saw the place, but decided against it- maybe it wouldn’t be so bad on the inside, she’d already spent the subway fare to get there, and whatever, she might as well see this through.

Which is why she’s now here on a Sunday morning, in a slightly bare back room coated with dust and cobwebs. (Evidently cleaning isn’t very high on the staff priority list.) There are two young men also waiting with her, although after exchanging a few “Heys” and the smallest of talk the two guys have settled into conversation while Rute is occupying herself with admiring a random spider hanging out between the wall and a vase.

From:

hatchethanging

There had been plenty of poltergeist-style puns and haunting turns of phrase included, though in the end it had certainly been indirect. The ad had been edited down to essentials, indeed, mainly being entrusted with watching over certain areas of an oft-toured building, just a touch of guiding, and keeping it clear of undesired debris.

The Ghost Relations Department is being unnecessarily cautious. Troublesome applicants will take care of themselves in time! They always do. Mortals are so easily deterred by the unsettling and inexplicable.

Rute might hear one of the young men muttering to the other about a sign he'd seen about ghost applicants on the opposite side of the house on his way there--though it isn't long before the door opens. The spider is content to stay where it is despite the rush of chill air that follows.

An older and somewhat disheveled man enters, clad in a brown coat and scarf, several papers held in his slightly shaky hands. He wastes no time in calling out the names of the three people in the room in a high, reedy voice, plus one more, and only seems to notice after the fact there aren't as many as there should be.

"Tsk. Another no-show," he mutters, re-shuffling the papers. "So many irresponsible people these days. I'm Mr. Silas Crump, the Caretaker," he adds, belatedly, peering up at the three over the papers' edges. "I caretake the outside of the Mansion, around the back. I'm only here to lead you to a better place. Part. Better part of the Mansion to be properly interviewed. Come here, come here." He holds the door open and does, indeed, lead the three down a narrow and badly-lit hallway.

When one of the doors opens without anyone to do so, he twitches and looks at his papers again. Perhaps...not a no-show after all. Perhaps only an invisible one.

He doesn't say a word about it, only hurrying his fellow mortals into rooms further down. He doesn't expect them to stick around, they all seem too nervous, and none of them have ties like he does. He's likely doomed to take care of the Mansion as the sole living figure, along with his poor, far-too-loyal dog.

"Miss Fernandes, you'll be in the Servant's Quarters for yours," he says, ushering her into a small room with dozens of bells hung along the walls. "Please take a seat. The Host will be with you shortly." There's a round table in the center of the room with only a single chair, though at least both are kept more cleanly than the rest of the place seems to be.

From:

cessation_rites

The rush of chill air makes Rute jerk upright, a shiver going down her spine. What on Earth? It’s almost June! Did someone just crank up the air conditioning to kill? She stares at the older man who enters the room, briefly brushing some of the hair out of her eyes to get a better look. He’s in a coat. And scarf.

She at least remembers her manners enough to say “...Hello,” despite some unfortunate phrasing on Mr. Crump’s part. Rute is aware she should probably be trying harder to keep a poker face. As it is, she can barely tamp down the urge to comment on if they get a lot of no-shows.

But she’s already come this far, hasn’t she? Rute bids a quick mental farewell to the spider, her dearest companion this past ten or so minutes, and follows obediently into the hallway. Even though it’s even more dubious looking than the previous room, and she’s all set to judge the heck out of the wallpaper when the door opens.

Mr. Crump flinches. Rute almost jumps, and she makes a startled noise that is definitely undignified.

“Um…”

No, he’s not going to say a word about it? Okay then. Rute glances at the other applicants- one of them looks about as unsettled as she does, although the other shrugs. “I expected as much,” he mutters.

By the time they reach the end of the escort and are being ushered into their respective interview rooms, Rute’s already somewhere between “rattled” and “unsettled”- until Mr. Crump properly addresses her.

Miss! That’s still a novelty, and Rute visibly perks up despite the… weirdness.

“Okay, thank you,” Rute says. She gives Mr. Crump a demure nod as he leaves, before glancing around- she’s not familiar enough with fancy, old style mansions like this to immediately figure out what the heck is with all the bells, so her gaze lingers there- and is relieved to see that her chair isn’t gross as all get out.

Although… Rute hesitates. Where is her interviewer supposed to sit? Is this supposed to be some sort of manners test? “Oh, you hogged the only chair so you’re clearly not the best fit for this company?”

Oh, whatever. Mr. Crump had told her to take a seat, so she pulls it out and plops down. She’s not unused to having to be on her feet for long periods of time, but it’s still nice to have a chance to settle down.

From:

hatchethanging

Most of the bells have spaces where labels should be, though only a single bell seems to have one (entitled "Master Gracey's Bedchamber"), and it's worn nearly to illegibility. Only cobweb or two, at least, on the highest ones.

The chill that followed the old caretaker in follows him right back out. The Host, naturally, had been drifting along behind his back the entire time. It's helpful to get a good look at new mortals and their reactions, and he had easily waved the single haunt to wait. 'Miss Mirabelle', no last name. The caretaker should well and truly know by now single-name applicants aren't ones he particularly has the skills to deal with in this capacity.

After all are settled in to wait, the Host begins at the start, and the young lady ghost passes with flying colors. (Not that it's difficult for the dead--a few questions to be sure they don't utterly despise mortals, a check to be certain of if they've killed another human before and if a victim is already housed within, and a chat about eras and previous life/hauntings to be certain settling in isn't going to be a total shock and to anticipate whether or not they could fully pass on before long.)

It's barely over a quarter of an hour later that he moves on to the next: one Rute Albuquerque Fernandes. He doesn't have the highest hopes, but he's been proven wrong before. She appears young, but most living beings do to his eyes. Some are unsettled by concern of mortal axe-murderers and shrug spirits off easily. Some. Her jumpiness could be that sort.

Two smart knocks announce him before the door, once again, opens. There's a paper hanging in his hand--in midair, to mortal eyes.

"Miss Fernandes," the Host's voice begins in the doorway, "Welcome! Welcome to our most Haunted Mansion. And don't worry, I don't require shaking hands." In either sense. Panic isn't entirely helpful here, no matter how fun, and some job seekers attempting to be brave don't know quite where to put their hands in the first place.

He allows the door to shut behind him before he continues, floating until halting on the other side of the table, allowing the paper to gently fall onto the dark wood. "I am the majordomo of this Mansion, the Ghost Host, the one in charge of the various butlers and maids, living and deceased. You did apply to the, ah...'guiding maid' position, didn't you? They do change that title every so often in the adverts, I fear."

From:

cessation_rites

It’s a pity there aren’t any noticeable spiders or other critters to distract herself with, but Rute entertains herself by trying to work out what the single, solitary label says until, maybe twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. Rute rises from her chair, just in time to see the door open, revealing nobody there and a sheet of paper hanging in midair.

Rute doesn’t yell, at least. She does take a rapid step back and almost trip over her chair and the ‘NOPE’ is written very clearly on her face, but at least she doesn’t yell.

“Oh,” she says brightly. “Good!”

Her eyes track the path of the paper through the room and then onto the table, leaving Rute not entirely certain where she’s supposed to look. Eye contact is difficult when one of the participants doesn’t have them. She settles for sitting back down, folding her hands on the table, and looking straight ahead.

“Good to meet you. And they kept it this time,” Rute says. Which they did, she’s about 99% sure- she remembers the ‘guiding’ part and the ‘maid’ part, just not the ‘Halloween Mansion attraction is very literally haunted by at least one ghost’ disclaimer. Was there even one? At least it doesn’t sound like the Ghost Host is entirely familiar with the advertisement either. “That part was straightforward enough.”

From:

hatchethanging

The lack of shouting, denying, or completely bolting are points in her favor. 'Wandering souls are dangerous!' 'Ghosts don't speak to people!' 'Ghosts aren't people! Not anymore!' Cries of trickery and falsehoods, violent panic, etcetera. All that hubub kills the mood far too early for the Host's taste.

"Not completely what you were expecting, I take it," is his single dry allusion to her reaction. "The relations department is so very fussy about what outsiders are told."

He settles in a lounge, politely keeping around about where she's focusing on. Drifting and unexpected speech from all different directions is for guests, not potential staff. Not yet, at least.

"I'll ask you a few questions, and don't hesitate in asking any in return. While what you sent in gave excellent examples of cleanliness and responsibility, I haven't spotted any supernatural leanings. Am I correct in assuming this is your first proper encounter with spirits?"

Edited Date: 2018-12-28 12:05 pm (UTC)

From:

cessation_rites

Even Rute is impressed by how well she’s handling this! Maybe she’s just in denial. Or maybe it’s just that freaking out would be entirely unhelpful in this situation.

“Mmm,” she says, wondering who works at the relations department. Humans, like Mr. Crump probably was? Or were there a couple of computers somewhere within the manor, invisible fingers tapping out want ads on the keyboards?

“Um, yes, it is,” Rute says. The closest she’s probably come to the supernatural is participating in Eucharist and the like, which she’s pretty damn sure doesn’t count as tampering with the occult.

“I guess I normally try and avoid things like this? Abandoned places, anywhere that mysterious deaths happen, cursed locations, rumored portals to Hell- just how concerned should I be right now?” Nothing actually bad has happened so far although it’s only been maybe an hour total. “Is there anything here that might be riskier than, um, a couple of drunk guys?”

From:

hatchethanging

"I see. There's nothing surprising about that, and nothing wrong." It's the ones that do have much experience that come with more worrisome traits. Oftentimes experience is attempting to summon spirits for attempted bidding or in desperate mourning, or causing a general ruckus to see what haunts might scream back; none of which are particularly welcome in the Mansion.

"No, no, there's nothing to worry about for the most part. Certainly not in this room or the hallway outside, if that is your concern. While there are a few rooms that mortals shouldn't pass through without an ectoplasmic escort, they're all housed deeply within our halls, where the living staff almost never have reason to wander there in the first place outside of emergencies. You'll be informed most carefully of what can be dangerous if you pass muster. The Haunted Mansion is for spooky celebration and entertainment, not murders or curses." He sets his hands on either side of the paper, leaving the faintest impressions on the dark wood. "And if your fear overwhelms you during this interview, you are always fully free to leave. We're not desperate enough for mortal maids to press-gang you here, hmm?"

The circumstances are certainly frustrating, however. Some of the best workers are the sort with bravery and dreams--mortals that have hopes and aspirations elsewhere, and so have less reason to stay for long. The Host will take what he can get with mortals that aren't so foolish, even if they can't stay for as much time as he'd like.

"As the advertisement should have said, the general duties of our maids and butlers are to keep areas of the Mansion clean, and to keep guests on the right track. This is a space primarily for ghosts, so only a few areas will truly require attention of a caretaking kind; we prefer rather unlivable conditions, you see. We're having most unique tours! All for the living to enjoy a few jumps and fun, as well as giving the restless dead chances to socialize and--briefly--enjoy the easily-startled company of the mortals that choose to come in."

Edited Date: 2018-12-29 10:16 am (UTC)

From:

cessation_rites

It takes a moment before Rute notices the handprints on the table. She doesn’t comment on it but she does twitch. Oddly, despite how unnerving it is talking to an invisible, dead man, she’s not having any trouble paying attention to what he’s actually saying. Or maybe she’s listening out of sheer careful wariness. She definitely notes that some parts of the mansion are dangerous.

“Okay, I can think of a couple of questions right off,” Rute says. She starts counting off on her fingers, “So, first, what specific areas would I be working with?” In other words, where should she stick doggedly to, away from any of those vague dangerous parts.

“How busy are the tours on average? How long has this place been open for tours? What would you consider the most challenging part of the job?” (That last question she admittedly get off of a “what questions to ask at a job interview” google search, but it’s a sincere one.)

“And lastly, you mentioned emergencies? What would be considered an emergency in this...” Rute gestures at the area, attempting to indicate the Haunted Mansion as a whole, “...context?” This is at least partly her attempting to figure out if emergencies are common, not just if the Host means in the humdrum natural disaster sense or the supernatural disaster sense.

From:

hatchethanging

"Mainly, the stone path from the gate to the front doors, the foyer, and the hall out of the exit crypt--anywhere that has a chance of sun. It's to be kept clean of litter, handprints, forgotten items." Keeping track of their own things and keeping their hands to themselves, are not skills that many of the youngest seem to have mastered as much as the older. (Though teenagers are sometimes even more rambunctious.) And everyone makes mistakes. The age range goes far beyond what the Host had prepared for, so long it's been since he himself lived--so many children. The Haunted Mansion has few that died young as residents, and the majority of those passed within the walls themselves.

"The touring area through the Mansion itself is kept dark, and all that space will be dealt with by myself and a few fellow haunts instead. The one area of ghostly importance surviving staff interacts with often would be the stretching room, and the job is merely to keep your fellow living beings from touching the walls as they move. New blood are not stationed there, and some never work there at all." The startle of his own hanging corpse never gets old to the Host, and single touring mortals find it darkly humorous or no worse than anything else. Mortal cast members, however, can find themselves breaking down at once, or after repeated performances. It's important to keep an eye on effects.

The Host taps a finger on the table. "The exact number varies. We open our doors mid-morning, and our last tour is conducted around midnight, with the guests increasing throughout the day." He gives her a few examples. "We've been open for nearly a year now, though there was an attempt earlier in the decade. The tours were...troublesome. Incidents were avoided, but we found it difficult to keep mortals on track when they were determined to wander off. We shut it down and installed real tracks, and now the Mansion has little chairs to ride on and to keep mortals together."

He'll be just a little louder, slightly leaning his form over the table. "Now, a question for yourself. You speak multiple languages? Which, and how fluent are you? It's slow going, but as infamous premise is spread around, we're already finding visitors from near and far. Mortal and ghostly. In fact, we're still gathering residents. Any translation experience is greatly desirable."

The Host pauses as he considers. Challenges. "...The 'guiding' component--of the maids' jobs and my own--entails certain ways of acting. Affecting an unsettling aura and phrasing hauntingly is a large part of our presentation. I've had over a century of practice, long before the thought of tours were conceived; others have difficulty keeping the haunting mystique when guests react unexpectedly, or simply out of habit."

He's somewhat pleased. Many mortals don't ask anything at all until much later on, and this bodes better than most. And she's rather safety-minded as well.

Unfortunately, Rute will have to dig a little harder for ideas of supernatural threats. "It's unlikely that a fire will ever light here despite all the dust, though we've been sure there are many ways out for mortal safety. If an earthquake strikes, many parts of the Mansion aren't quite in your side of the veil." He chuckles lowly. "The inside past the Gallery will stay standing no matter how terribly the outside is destroyed, and we can 'evacuate' staff and mortals until outside rescue teams can dig through the rubble. Not to worry, the Mansion has yet to take much damage from even the worst of such, beyond a mudslide or two around the backyard graveyard."

From:

cessation_rites

Rute nods along to the Host’s explanation. Sun sounds good. And the duties the Host lists are very much already in Rute’s purview- possibly minus the ominous sounding stretching room, but at least that’s something she wouldn’t need to worry about for a while. (If she winds up working here, of course, which is surely doubtful for a number of reasons.)

The size of the crowds sounds a bit more intimidating. From the Host’s description, it seems like the Mansion is well on its way to becoming an absolutely booming tourist attraction, and Rute’s used to smaller scale operations. It doesn’t mean she definitely can’t handle it, but it’ll be a gamble, especially since Rute doesn’t consider herself a people person. (And that bit about “troublesome” past tours is getting written down in her mental notebook of “Suspicious Things the Ghost Host Has Said,” thank you.)

Rute stiffens a bit as the Host becomes louder- is he nearer or is that just her imagination?- but she answers promptly enough. “Just Portuguese and English. My parents were born in Brazil and we used to speak Portuguese at home most of the time, and I used it a lot when I was working at the Carnegie Street Bar and Grill, since most of our customers preferred it. I also took Spanish all four years in high school but I’ve never really used it outside of class so I can’t really say it’s stuck.” She punctuates with a shrug. It’s a pity on a sheerly pragmatic note, Rute knows, but she’d rather not oversell herself and wind up complicating things.

And on that note: “I’m not much of an actress,” Rute admits. “I can do ‘customer service mode,’ but that’s about it.” And even that level of skill took some definite work on her part. Just trying to imagine herself putting on a “haunting mystique” has her brow furrowing in doubt.

“My side of the- what?” And here, Rute’s lack of supernatural experience shows itself in full force. “How exactly does that work?”

From:

hatchethanging

"I must say, even that is far more than many can boast about." Absolutely the truth.

"As challenging as it can be, it becomes easier the more you allow yourself to enjoy it," he advises. "That part is more for those who work in the front besides. The exit crypt simply involves wishing guests farewell, and that we're always looking for new residents--my fellow haunts are there to enforce that at the same time. And it takes practice, naturally, as for any skill."

The Host settles back and higher, a little quieter again. "There are visual components to it--you aren't particularly intimidating, I'm unafraid." A terrible joke on multiple levels, enjoy. "Disheveled hair, some cosmetics to give the illusion of sunken eyes and an unhealthy pallor, a rather dark uniform--some find it easier to get into character once that's all made up."

Perhaps a feverish pallor would work better on Rute's skin instead of the usual pale-skinned grey. If this workds out.

Ah, one of these questions. "You see, Miss Fernandes, the living and the dead do not occupy the world in the same way. The term 'passing on' is an apt one; we find ourselves in a different layer of reality than your own, where oftentimes mortalkind cannot perceive us at all. Humans, mostly. A few animals seem to have a better time of it; we've found that for cats in particular." Hm-hm-hmm.

"I cannot explain the details precisely, as the rules of haunting are not perfectly consistent. As near as I can summarize, we ghosts are pieces of the past, like undead paintings or photographs (though we have plenty of those already). We cannot change much, and we exist even though another 'self' exists--as our bodies, or what may be left of them. The Mansion itself exists on a similar principle; there is the Mansion you can see, and the Mansion that exists as a piece of past that persists regardless! Most haunted locations in the world are incidentally this way. Houses, graveyards, sources of impressing experiences in the most literal sense; kept in a single form long enough that ghosts find it familiar enough to keep themselves there, even once the location may have mortal interference. Our Haunted Mansion is unique! Here, we keep it this way, instead of neglectful or mournful mortals." The abrupt chill that pulses through the room is more of a cool breeze, underscoring his words with gentle notes from the bells along the walls. (He carefully pins the paper down with a finger before it can skitter more than a few inches across the table.)

"With how many spirits haunt this place, we can briefly take mortals into this 'unliving photograph' if they are so willing to call us in return. We meet in a place...halfway, and that is a large part of the tour itself. If such an emergency occurs, then we can keep mortals inside for far longer than would be survivable if truly buried under wreckage."

Edited Date: 2018-12-31 12:58 pm (UTC)