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.
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syntheid
well good luck with that now buddy :D!
Date: 2018-12-16 06:54 am (UTC)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.