boxfullofzeroes | When hinges creak in doorless chambers...

Once the darkness lightens, the Host's footprints vanish. He doesn't allow Noah to believe he's alone with the eyes long, speaking up behind his back from the right way up (though still far enough for to avoid any ungainly flailing).

"Why, those are fellow residents! We find every last inch of this place delightfully unlivable, from creeping in the walls to the chills in the air."

There's a suit of armor standing in the corner not far ahead, standing guard at an intersection of halls with a dane axe held in its hand. The empty head turns to peer at Noah with mild surprise. He didn't know there was another mortal wandering about.

"You are not to go that way," the Host intones, and the armor hastily swings the weapon to bar access to one of the halls, the one with red walls. That hall continues on and on and on, far longer than even the Mansion should be wide, interrupted only by a floating candelabra a few doors down. "Instead, shhh. Even the ghosts who gracefully bowed out of the party are dying to meet you. Listen."

And there is plenty to hear. Indecipherable muttering, scratching and knocking--the doors down the permitted hallway are moving, some with the force of knocks, some with a force that for all the world seems like breathing, the wood bending in and out. On the other side, there is a coffin adorned with hundreds of flowers and wreathes, filling the air with the scent of a decay more tasteful than meat. The resident in the coffen rolls and presses up against the top, loosening where it had been nailed shut. It will take much greater effort to outright pries it open, though there will be plenty of time to try. "Hey!" the body inside indignantly squawks. "Lemme outta here!" The voice barely drowns out the croaking of a raven perched atop it, watching with eerie red eyes.

Pointedly ignoring this, the Host's gaze flicks between each door, and he muses about the possibility of something else to spice up the decor. Perhaps pictures. Simpler portraits, not haunted, but of haunts, perhaps. There must be painters within their ranks somewhere. Or...perhaps cameras? He has yet to encounter any of those, though he's distantly aware of their existence. It could be that ghosts can be photographed...

Edited 2018-12-21 08:48 (UTC)

“Ah.”

Startling as it is- Noah visibly tenses up when he hears the Host speaking from behind him- and as much of a huge bag of dicks the Host is as far as Noah is concerned, it is surprisingly reassuring to hear him speak even after his footprints vanish. Noah’s not sure how well he could handle this situation on his own, even if the Host is also the one responsible for it in the first place.

This does not mean he feels secure enough not to flinch when that suit of armor actually moves to look at him, let alone when the axe swings out, eliciting yet another jump and yelp from Noah.

“Gah-!” Noah’s hands shoot up in a gesture of surrender, but he slowly lowers them once he realizes that axe isn’t being swung at him. “Right! Ssssure thing,” he says, his voice lowering as the Host’s shushing registers properly.

The forbidden hallway wasn’t what Noah would call tempting (ominous wallpaper color, more poorly lit infinite voids) but admittedly, the one he is being directed down isn’t much better. Noah does attempt to listen but anything being actually said is indecipherable and frankly, he’s not sure he’d want to actually know what they’re saying. And with the way those doors are buckling Noah sticks to the dead center of the hallway, as far away as possible from them as he can get, thank you very much.

He does not appreciate having to walk towards an also buckling coffin but, like the Host, Noah is going to elect to ignore the probable flesh-eating zombie (and that creepy bird that is there for some reason?) as much as possible and hope that the lid's nailed on tightly.

A question manages to come to him. Between the eyes in the staircase room, the almost constant sense of presence in previous rooms, and then all the people Noah can hear in here-

“How many, uh, residents, even live here?” he asks, still keeping his voice low. It occurs to him that “live” may not be the most accurate phrasing but whatever, close enough.

"Currently, we're a trio shy of four hundred," comes the prompt answer. The Host keeps very careful track. The desire for more members has yet to be sated, though he isn't overly concerned; there isn't exactly a deadline. "We have space for more than double that number, however, and more frightful dead flock to room here every month." It's only a trickle, which is far from surprising. Most life-dwelling dead have attachments to a single place or person, and wandering alone seems to leave them more insubstantial than normal. A handful of haunts even dissipated after arrival at the Mansion, unable to stay shackled even in such a happy place. A pity.

"And there are plenty left who we haven't had a chance to encounter properly. Madame Leota has--"

A pun involving disembodied summons is cut off, same as every other sound, all at once.

A shuddering wind hisses from their destination, the end of the hallway with a door half-open into darkness.

As much as neither of them would come remotely enjoying it, a chill claps down on Noah's shoulder, roughly in the shape of a hand. "Stop." The Host's ever-present (and, more importantly, ever-audible) smile has dropped. Something has gone horribly wrong. Truly horribly, in a way that must affect even the ghosts within, which is more than uncommon. He withdraws his hand as quickly as Noah stops. "...It seems we have a delay. Wait here." A few long steps from the doorway, in front of another door that had suddenly stopped its rattling.

The door creaks open at the Host's will, showing the barest flashes of more musical instruments hanging in the air. "Madame," he asks quietly from the frame, "I apologize for the intrusion, and I've found anoth--"

"I know what you have found!"

An older woman's voice rings out, sending the instruments into a spin. They're orbiting a séance table, and more specifically, a green crystal ball also floating above the séance table. Of course she knows, and the Host had no doubt of that for a moment; he was merely trying to give her a chance to recover cue. That it was rejected so soundly only reconfirms the gravity of the situation.

"Enter, the both of you," demands the crystal ball. The head in the crystal ball. It seems the clouded mist inside is, instead, a woman's wild white hair. "Host, you fool. You've made an error worse than grave, and you are part of it, little mortal," she says, deeply disgusted.

Four hundred ghosts- or, three-hundred and ninety-seven, technically-? That’s… a lot. Not more than the population of the town by any means, but a good chunk of it. What do they even see in this place? Being dead must really mess you up...

That train of thought grinds to a halt when the hall goes abruptly, eerily silent. And then he can feel the icy grip of the Host on him. Noah lets out a strangled gasp, and a horrible shudder goes through him, leaving him trembling for several moments. “...Okay,” he mumbles. The change in the Host’s tone of voice is almost worse than the touch itself was.

Noah gives a quick, nervous glance towards the suddenly still door, then to the coffin, but otherwise obediently stays put. He also squints, worriedly, at the glimpse of the room up ahead-

And cringes hard when the strange woman’s voice suddenly starts shouting at him. Them.

He has to force himself to look up again and see who it is; some sort of… telekinetic, musically inclined decapitated old lady head hanging out in a crystal ball like some sort of goth hamster. And she’s still yelling at him, causing Noah to turn bright red.

“Me!?” he says, stomping forward. “I haven’t done anything, except what this jerk,” Noah gestures wildly in the direction he thinks the Host might be, “Has been making me do!”

That head arcs through the air, halting only inches from Noah's face. (Close enough there should be a reflection of his face overlapping the one inside, and yet there isn't.)

"Yes, I am aware. And the distraction of this little tour left that Cameron you were calling after so loudly...utterly unattended." Fortunate for Madame Leota, having her likeness carved into her tombstone gives her literal eyes outside of the Mansion's walls, even during the hours where the sun is shining.

"Please, Leota, you needn't be so sharp. The boy hasn't tried to call a dance with our resident black widow, now, has he?" Now that would be a terrible scenario, second only to perhaps setting the Mansion itself alight. "Our ranks haven't risen, so he hasn't befallen our more...erratic etherealized souls," the Host adds, only partly to reassure Noah. It would leave quite the impact through the halls if a life was outright lost inside.

Her head swivels to Noah's left, eyes narrowing to slits. (Perhaps the sleeve of a greenish jacket can be caught in the reflection.) "No. But he has stolen my spellbook."

The already-chill space where the Host hovers is, abruptly, several degrees icier.

"He has what--"

Edited 2018-12-23 12:24 (UTC)

Leota will get a good look at wide, mismatched eyes and a few beads of nervous sweat on a paler-than-usual face, before Noah protests with a “H- Hey.” He takes a step backward, just to get the angry old lady head out of his personal space.

And at the mention of Cameron, Noah’s already nervous expression falls into outright dismay. His eyes flick to the side- resident black widow? And how does the Host know that Cam’s still alive?- and then back to the spirit he can actually see. So if Cameron hasn’t been killed, then what…?

Leota explains. And simultaneous with the Host’s outburst, Noah goes:

“He stole a-”

He proceeds to groan, not entirely surprised after thinking about it for half a second. “Look,” Noah says, lifting his glasses slightly to pinch the bridge of his nose, “How bad are we talking about here? Is this a ‘Your friend owes me thirty-five bucks for that’ scenario or a ‘Might trigger the Apocalypse,’ scenario?”

"He could do irrecoverable damage to our Haunted Mansion," is all the Host says, voice and chill abruptly on the other side of the darkened room.

"The book was penned as a guide to summon and interact with the dead," Leota says. "As the dead are already well active here, there is a high chance he will upset anyone if he attempts to recite the incantations. Akin to screaming in one's ear. Only instead of one, hundreds, and the Mansion itself may be disturbed. You!"

She swivels away from Noah as the door on the other side cracks open. The Host pauses.

"You're not leaving another mortal in my care," she growls. Invisibly, he just barely winces. "Leaving one alone caused this trouble, Host, and you chose this foolish path. You will continue together."

“...Oh,” Noah says, all insightful. He squints over at the direction he thinks he hears the Host in, even though he already knows very well that he isn’t going to see anything. “Uh. I don’t think he would have known that? Cameron’s an idiot but he’s not the type to just… just hurt people. Even creepy dead people.”

And when Leota makes her decree Noah also winces, far more visibly than the Host does.

“Wh- But-” Noah groans. Damn it, the lady in the crystal ball is probably correct. And at the very least he doesn't trust the Host enough to want him to take care of Cameron by himself.

Noah holds his hands up in a gesture of appeasement. “Okay, right, fair enough. We’ll just find Cam, I’ll tell him to give… Madame Leota, right? I’ll tell him to give her book back, and then the two of us will go and everything returns to normal. Can we do that? Does that sound reasonable to you guys?”

"Ignorant acts can be more harmful than malice--and he still chose thievery, which cannot be misconstrued as a simple mistake."

"Very well. Work quickly. Neither of you will enjoy it if my involvement must go beyond mere instructions." Madame Leota's crystal ball hovers back towards the center of her séance table.

Where only she can see, the Host gives a sardonic bow.

"Come along, then. The Ballroom is a reasonable starting point, and he hasn't left the premises." He doesn't check too hard--working out precisely where someone is, living or dead, is among his abilities; however, it involves plunging his being into the darkness of the Mansion. It isn't all that unpleasant for a ghost, but it's far too easy to lose track of time there.

At least it'll be easier for Noah to follow along--the Ghost Host is an icy vortex, leeching heat from several feet around himself.

The next room is the floor above the Ballroom, with a staircase descending in the center.

The ghosts on the floor below seem to have no idea of a potential predicament. A massive organ is being played on the left of the room, with formless ghosts swirling around the pipes. Half a dozen couples, far more human in appearance, are waltzing across the floor, ignoring the fact some of their routine leaves them stepping straight through a table. A few are sitting in front of decaying-food plates, chattering cheerfully among themselves, though there's an obvious empty seat (and dish) near the center.

The Host pauses at the top of the stairs, looking, listening. Though, naturally, one of the loudest sounds (despite himself) are the footsteps of his living companion.

Hmm.

"I never caught your name," he says. Despite the lingering chill in the air, his voice is calm, once again approaching conversational.

With the reflex of one who has been in the public school system, Noah says “Yes ma’am,” and hustles out into the hallway after the Host. (Noah again, wants to protest what is being said about Cameron but he… can’t, really. What the hell was his cousin thinking?)

It is, indeed, not too hard to follow the Host, although Noah keeps at a discrete distance, staying at the edge of the cold. Noah would like to ask the Host how, exactly, he knows that Cameron is still on the premises, but with the chill surrounding him Noah’s wary of testing the Host’s temper. So Noah settles into an uncomfortable silence, occasionally rubbing at his own arms and wishing he’d brought a thicker coat.

The organ music breaks the silence before Noah does, causing him to perk up a little. Not that the music isn’t creepy as hell, but at least it’s a sign of progress! He hustles into the ballroom- or at least the balcony floor above- and then, despite himself, slows down almost to a standstill as he takes in the sight of the party.

It’s possibly one of the most striking examples of unlife he’s seen so far, apart from Leota and the Host themselves. He tries to count the number of spirits he can see, but with the wispiness of the ones near the organ and all the movement, not all of which follows conventional means, it’s hard for him to keep track. (Noah wrinkles his nose when he notices the decaying food on the table. Sure, it makes a sort of sense, but also, ew.)

Noah’s mesmerized enough that it takes him a moment to (pointlessly) look up and register that the Host has spoken.

“Hm? Oh, uh, Noyle. Fuck, I mean, Noah Doyle!”

Noah buries his face in his hands. Great, apparently he’s even more frazzled than he already thought he was. “Same as Cam,” he adds slightly muffled. “The Doyle part. I don’t know if he told you. We’re actually cousins- not that there’s much of a resemblance...” Both Noah and Cameron’s fathers were fair-haired, but lacked the delicacy there was to Cameron’s features, and Noah’s mother had stamped the darker MacGowan genes very firmly into Noah’s. The end result was one cousin who looked like a prince out of a storybook, and one cousin who looked like, well, a guy who washed dishes for a living.

A thought occurs to him, and Noah removes his face from his palms. “...I didn’t catch your name either? Uh. Madame Leota called you ‘Host…’ Do you even have one?”

The blunder receives some rather soft chuckling. It seems he has toned down the dramatics now that there's a real threat about. "It's past the prime season where foolish mortals wander into here," he explains, "and the preparations for such a sudden guest were a little too hasty for full introductions." That Noah has gone so far to try finding Cameron instead of attempting abandonment is a fact more important than shared blood.

Hmm. A question that he wasn't entirely expecting. Not that it matters. "I do not. My title is a far better descriptor than whatever I may have been called in life, besides."

To avoid continuing too far down this conversational path, the Host stands himself on the banister and claps sharply for attention. "Residents! I see our mortal guest has gone astray. Despite your best efforts, I'm sure." His voice has an edge. There had been an ounce of trust in at least the Organist to pay attention.

It seems not. A few of the seated haunts seem a touch sheepish, while the others only seem to notice at the Host's own words. Muttering among themselves, the ghosts begin to look somewhat displeased. Murmurs of annoyance that the guest of honor walked away float up. A few of the dancers, now still, point up in Noah's direction.

"Yes, we've another. I regret to say the tour has been cancelled due to thievery." That garners a few double-takes and risen brows; finally, the Organist turns his head back (unnaturally far) to give the Host a look. "The summoning spellbook has been taken. Any surprise calling is to be ignored as best as you can manage. The mortal is to be gently confined into a single room if one of you find him before we do. I repeat, gently. Has any apparition perhaps seen where he may have fled?"

Against his hopes, a single haunt--one of the ladies leading the dance--points to the Host's left, down the hall. Where he prepared to be heading in the first place, but now...

His sigh sends the cobwebs twenty feet around into a shiver. "I see. Thank you." He will apologize to her at a later point for not sounding particularly genuine.

Turning back to Noah, his voice is grave. "No matter what we may find in the Attic, I warn you to treat the lady inside with the utmost respect. The both of your safeties may hinge upon it."

It might be less dramatic laughter than usual for the Host but it’s not helping the vivid redness of Noah’s face. At least it’s helping with the terrified pallor he’s been mostly wearing up until now! Unlike the increasingly apparent fact that the Host only sort-of knew what he was doing with the whole ghostly terrorizing thing- Noah could at least hypothetically have taken comfort in the idea that somebody knew what was going on, but no, Noah has to get the torment that was thrown together at the last second.

And Noah mostly doesn’t pursue the topic of the Host’s name- or lack thereof- either, beyond a muttered comment of “...You are incredibly weird.” Which Noah suspects the Host will probably take as a compliment.

(It’s a little hard to reconcile the idea of the invisible spook who’s been hauling him around with a hypothetical living man, so Noah just… doesn’t try to.)

The Host abruptly (from Noah’s point of view) and loudly claps, causing Noah to jump. “Wh-” he begins to say, before realizing the Host is addressing the tableau below them. Noah shuffles forward a little, because he would also like to know anything about Where Is Cam, and immediately realizes his mistake.

Noah freezes up. Oh god no. Everyone’s looking at him and they’re all creepy and inhuman and then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, some of them even points at him. If anyone tries to talk to him- if anyone so much as moves towards him- he is going to scream and scream and run and probably trip and break his neck and it is going to be so embarrassing-

The Host says something. Noah has to take a few moments to stare dumbfounded into the distance while he actually processes it. Something about a lady and respect and grave danger to his safety.

“Uh,” Noah says intelligently. “Sure. I mean, yes. Sir.” His gaze just keeps sliding back to the ballroom, (Is anyone still looking at him?) but he at least makes an effort to hold up his end of the conversation. “...This lady, who is she?”

Once they continue on, most of the dancers fall back into step, albeit not quite as in sync as before. A few keep watching the Host and Noah until the banister hides them from view before they disperse. A wandering mortal is a concern, and finding him and telling him off for messing up the party is time well-spent.

Why a few extra spirits rattled Noah so is beyond the Host's understanding. Something to think on for the future. If nothing else, this disaster of a tour is certainly a learning experience.

"Constance Hatchaway is the lady of the house, and for whom it was built. She is often reasonable...for who and what she is: a black widow. Or a serial killer, as I've been lead to believe is the modern term."

The Attic is deeply cluttered. Dozens of spaces between ancient wardrobes, rotting chests, hatboxes, dusty tables, wedding portraits, wedding banners hanging from the ceiling, piles of flowers strewn about, are all perfect for a mortal to duck into if so inclined. The Host hesitates a few steps in, asking the silent question of whether or not the other mortal is here. Sometimes, the Mansion can give an answer. The entire room, though unmoving, thrums with the sound of a heartbeat.

The nearest portrait is of a young bride and groom, with the fresh-faced young man wearing a bowler hat and seemingly uncomfortable with his suit. Before long, the head in its entirety disappears, leaving a gaping space in the suit's collar where his neck had been.

"Her husbands are still around, of course."

Edited 2019-01-07 13:52 (UTC)

Noah’s still feeling mildly ill after that attack of social anxiety but fortunately it seems the Haunted Mansion is just full of distractions. If he wasn’t in a hurry to find Cameron, Noah might stop and gape over this latest tidbit of information he has to put up with, but since time is of the essence he multitasks by walking and gaping.

“...And do we have to talk to this Ms. Hatchaway?” Noah is fully expecting the answer to be “Yes,” but hope springeth eternal, even as he heads up into a creepy-as-fuck attic and takes a look around.

And ohhhh he does not like this place, it looks like the sort of place where a machete wielding maniac will jump out of a wardrobe once you’re too far in to easily find the exit. And when did the sound of his heartbeat get so loud? Or is it… something within the attic making the sound? Noah’s eyes dart back and forth in a feeble attempt to figure out the source of the sound, before landing on the portrait.

There’s something weird looking about the people in it, and Noah’s not sure if it’s just the nature of old photographs or if it’s the unsettling truth he’s been told about it. But before he can mull it over much, the groom’s head disappears. Noah gasps, sounding far too loud to his own ears, and jerks back. Once he hears the Host, Noah hurries in the direction of the man’s voice.

“As in here, in this attic, or just. More ghosts?” Noah whispers.

"A complete conversation may not be required. Ignoring her entirely, however, would be rather more rude than necessary or sensible."

There is, indeed, a presence in this room there should not be. The reversal of a mortal sensing a ghost; warmth instead of chill, breath in place of whispers. His voice lowers as he follows it. Like anything in the Mansion, it isn't an exact science.

"Why, both. They come and go as they want. At least two are here now; particularly the one whose once-living visage you were just admiring." Around that portrait, an invisible Ambrose Harper gives a soft, tired-sounding laugh.

The next figure they come across is not a husband, a bride, or a lost mortal. A be-hatted and rather skeletal gentleman steps out of the woodwork (not quite literally), tapping over the wooden floor with his cane. This earns a small noise of pleasant surprise from the Host. "So you've decided to drop in again, hmm?"

The Hatbox Ghost offers a nod in return. The sight of Noah catches his interest more than the Host's words, and his head vanishes with a flicker of spectral smoke from his shoulders. He isn't a tall spirit, forced into a slight stoop, and he lifts his hatbox higher just to get a better look.

"Yes, yes, I invited him in. You haven't seen another mortal nearby, have you?"

The Ghost Host is probably correct but Noah still privately likes his own idea of not talking to a serial killer. He won’t ignore her if they run into one another, of course, but he’ll still cherish his dreams of not having to meet her at all.

“Oh.” Noah glances briefly back at the portrait, wondering if he should say something (“Sorry about your head?”) but he can’t think of anything that seems not-stupid and then it’s out of sight again as it’s back to picking his way through old furniture and wedding paraphernalia. Hopefully the erstwhile husband isn’t offended.

When the next ghost shows up, Noah actually notices the sound of the ghost’s cane tapping before he actually sees the spirit, which helps him keep his surprised noise at a reasonable volume. (Albeit considerably less pleased than the Host’s.) He tries to correct himself by greeting the new spirit with an oh-so-polite “Hello- gaaaaah.”

Can nobody keep their head on their shoulders up here? Noah’s almost tempted to keep a hand on his own head, just in case it starts to vanish.

Still, Noah perks up a bit when the subject of Cameron is brought up. “It, uh, any help would be appreciated,” he says, seconding the Host’s question. “He’s my friend.”

It's just so easy to lose one's head in such an unusual situation.

The Hatbox Ghost's eyes narrow with a hint of derision. Mortals. So meddling and cowardly. He doesn't know why the Host wants to bother with them in the first place.

Perhaps he would've kept glaring for long enough to become outright awkward, but the Ghost Host is in a bit of a hurry. At an invisibly impatient gesture, a skeletal hand lifts the cane and points with the end of it.

"...Thank you," he murmurs, softer than he's been so far.

The thieving mortal's gone towards the way to the balcony. The balcony where Constance tends to keep herself, surveying the grounds and the spirits that celebrate there. With pride or jealousy, the Host doesn't know, and will likely never ask. There is no guarantee she's there, but he knows better than to be hopeful.

"This way," he says grimly, and once again leads Noah onward.

Brief as it is, Noah swallows nervously under the weight of the Hatbox Ghost’s glare. Damn it, he’d been trying to be polite. Why is he always so bad with people, living or dead?

But at least the ghost has answered their question. Noah gives him a nod and hurries in the direction indicated- the Host doesn’t need to tell Noah twice to get a move on!

...Of course, it would help if he actually had a bit more to go on than a single direction, cluttered and unfamiliar as the attic is. He can’t go fast without risking knocking over a table full of flowers or a stack of gift boxes or tripping over a piano. And it’s dark, and the dust makes him sneeze a few times. Once again, it’s reminding himself that somewhere in this mess there’s Cameron that keeps Noah from doing what he really wants, which is to curl up in a ball and whimper.

Needless to say Noah doesn’t talk much, except for the occasional quiet question-slash-comment like “This way?” to make sure he’s not getting himself lost. Or been left alone up here.

Eventually the moonlight on one end of the attic starts to properly filter through the junk and then, quite suddenly, Noah can see someone standing in a doorway.

“Hello?”

Someone tall, fair, holding a book open in his hands but peering warily out into the gloom of the attic.

“Cameron!” Oh God, the sight of him makes Noah almost cry with relief. Forgetting the presence of the Host or anyone else in the attic for that matter, Noah hurries forward. Cameron clasps one hand on Noah’s shoulder (the Host might notice he’s still keeping the book open with the other hand).

“Noah!” Cameron looks startled, definitely, but not upset. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t show up after work, and you weren’t picking up your phone, and then I ran into Mali and she said you’d gone here, so I went to find you, but then I ran into this ghost-” Noah breaks off, embarrassed at his own rambling and the inanity of what he’s saying (even if he’s reasonably sure at this point that Cameron won’t disbelieve him), as well as it occurring to him that the Host might want to get a word in edgewise.

“Anyway,” he finishes lamely, “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am. Are you okay? You sound terrible.”

There he is. Cameron, the cause of so much trouble!

...Yes, very much in the works next: a plan to keep better track of multiple guests. And for more reasonable specters to keep an eye out.

Noah is drawn to Cameron; the Host is drawn to the book. No matter how touching a reunion this could play out to be, he has greater responsibilities to focus on. For the Mansion and these foolish, foolish mortals.

"Mister Noah is right as rain," he says from his new place directly above Cameron's head. Frigid air crashes down onto them both, rattling flowers in their vases and those vases on their tables. "Or he was near enough--'til his cousin decided to play petty thief, hmm?" He so punctuates this by snapping his grip around the edges of the book and yanking straight upwards.

Noah yells and flinches, bringing his arms up over his head at the blast of cold. At the same time he feels Cameron’s hand slip from his shoulder, leaving an immediate sense of bereftness. The sound of the foliage rustling and furniture rattling in the gust rings in his ears. Damn it, he was hoping they could just talk this over-

And then of course he hears Cameron, speaking almost as cheerfully as if this was just an everyday meeting.

“Oh, it’s you! Sorry I didn’t say hello but-”

Noah lowers his arms just enough to squint at his cousin from behind his own swishing hair. Cameron’s smiling, utterly serene except for the alarming death grip he has on the spellbook that seems equally determined to shoot upwards.

Noah’s stomach lurches. “Cameron-!” he tries saying, but Cameron is still ignoring him in favor of wrestling with the Host.

“I didn’t-”

Noah tries again: “Cameron, what are you doing?”

“See you-!” Without sparing his cousin a glance, Cameron adds. “Noah, I’m a little busy right now!”

And all Noah can do is stand uselessly on the wayside, torn between the instinct to help Cameron and his feeling that doing so would be a terrible idea.

"I need no greetings," the Host returns, cold in tone and physicality. "Only stolen goods returned." There's no strain in his voice--moving physical objects as a spirit is unlike muscles of the living--but the book isn't being torn from Cameron's grip as easily as he could. He doesn't want to damage it more than it already has been, age and now oily mortal fingers taking its toll on the pages.

He doesn't want Noah to get in the way. Or to grab the spellbook himself. Yes, stay there, please, and the air picks up into the start of a whirlwind around the battle of the book.

Shivers run up and down Noah’s spine as he cowers off to the side, battered by stray flowers and bits of paper, unable to tear his gaze away from the bizarre game of tug-of-war going on in front of him.

“Well that’s unfortunate,” Cameron says simply. He shifts his feet, keeping his grip stubbornly on the book- for a moment, his sea green eyes glint in the moonlight and then he takes a quick breath and begins to recite:

“By the power of earth, by the power of air, by the power of fire, by the power of water,”

Noah gapes. Oh God, why is Cameron suddenly babbling nonsense-?

“By the life in the blood that liveth,” Cameron continues, “Be thou host-spirit stopped!”

Then Noah puts two and two together. It’s not nonsense that’s being babbled, it’s a spell. Cameron’s actually reading from that damned book.

“Return thy evil to whence it cometh, have thy words and deeds return to thee, as thou-”

Noah isn’t what anyone would call spiritually adept. No second sight to speak of- his first sight is poor enough to need glasses- no interest in the occult and before today, no belief to speak of. But despite this, he’s sure that no good can come of Cameron completing that spell, and so...

“STOP IT!”

...and if the sudden shout from the previously silent Noah wasn’t enough to interrupt Cameron’s reading, the way Noah clumsily throws himself at the book, between the two fighting over it, certainly is.

Hellfire--the Host's been so out-of-touch with literal mortality, worry of banishment hadn't struck him as a possibility.

And now it is. Greatly. Literally. For the first time in well over a century, a weight slams into his chest, grows inside him, his limbs, his--his bones, a horrific sensation of solidness. It's pain that keeps the book in his grip after, memory of muscles convulsing--

Noah's unexpected interference is enough to knock the book away from the Host's hands.

Spell interrupted, the wind reaches a crescendo, and the heartbeat of the room is drowned out by a howl of agony wrenched from the Ghost Host's being.

There’s a horrible moment where Noah can’t stop his own momentum and he tips partway over the railing. An expansive graveyard and the distant black grounds of the mansion fills his vision, just at the same moment that the agonized howling of the Host splits through his skull like a hatchet.

Oh God, Noah thinks, I’m really going to die here.

But before he can make the fatal drop a pair of arms wrap around him and Noah is hauled backwards. He stumbles to the floor of the balcony, legs buckling into an ungainly heap alongside Cameron. And the Host is still screaming.

Noah slams his hands over his ears, barely noticing when Cameron lets go of him in order to retrieve the spellbook and slip it into his jacket.

By mutual unspoken agreement, both of them scramble to their feet and run like hell.

It shouldn’t be simple, the place is dark and cluttered, but somehow adrenaline and terrified instinct keeps them moving through the dusty furniture, and then up and down random stairs and passageways, darting through doorways and abandoned rooms. At some point they grab one another’s hand and Noah can’t remember if it was him or Cameron who reached out first but he’s glad of it, in spite of the slick sweat on their palms.

No matter how far away they run he still feels the Host’s screams ringing in his ears.

The Host sinks to the floor. Through the floor. Into the Mansion's darkness.

The mortals flee where no mortals should ever be.

The corridors are smothered in cobwebs to the point of hiding doorways and windows. Almost no candelabra passed is lit. The air is damp, heavy, smothering. Lacking in portraits and sometimes wallpaper, eyes still flicker to life and follow their wild path through the Haunted Mansion. From the Grand Hall even now, strains of the Organist's tune echo from unexpected twists and turns.

Of all things, it seems to be raining again. At least, that's probably what that distant drumming coming from somewhere above them is.

Sooner or later, they'll strike a dead end. A bedroom, in fact, domineered by an oak bed with ragged sheets and a dusty vanity.

When hinges creak in doorless chambers...

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spell nabbed from some random wiccan angelfire website

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We open the curtain on Act 2 with: words words words words

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