When hinges creak in doorless chambers...

[hatchethanging]

 
 

 

 
 







Welcome, foolish mortals,
to the Haunted Mansion.



Watch your step on the way in, please.

 

Comments

well good luck with that now buddy :D!

[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.

[UPSET NOAH NOISES]

[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.

ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

[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.

[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.

[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."

[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.

[hatchethanging]

"One would think you aren't enjoying your visit," the Host sardonically observes.

There are, at least, no portraits in the library. This doesn't mean nothing is watching--on the contrary, amid the dozens of shelves and thousands of books, there is a break every so often to reveal glaring busts.

"Our library is filled with priceless first editions. Only horror, of course." The Host runs an invisible hand over the spines of those in the top row, pauses in his narration. That isn't quite true. They're all, indeed, ghost stories, but some keep away from horror closer to humor, and that genre is fairly broad besides. Not fitting enough. He'll need to reword it. "And marble busts of the greatest ghost writers the literary world has ever known!"

Those busts are watching Noah, no doubt about it. Their eyes don't move, their necks don't swivel, and yet they continue to face him as he walks past them.

"They've all retired here, to the Haunted Mansion. Actually, we have hundreds of happy haunts here, though we're always taking applications." The Host, once again, drifts to speak by his guest's ear. "Could you or your friend be interested in a room? If you stray and stay alone, perhaps that will be taken as a pointed volunteer!"

[cookswithspite]

Noah pointedly ignores the Host’s sardonic little comment. He’s capable of not rising to the bait, thank you very much. (Sometimes.)

He dutifully examines the books and the busts, albeit without much enthusiasm, especially since the constant weight of spectral stares pressing into him is actually making him a little nauseous. Although Noah does briefly stop at the crack about ghost writers to aim a flat look in the rough direction he can hear the Host in.

“Are you serious.”

And then when the Host speaks right by his ear, the Host gets rewarded with a little jump and another yelp: “Gnh-! Don’t do that!” Noah’s arms flail a bit, defensive, as he speaks, and almost knock into the nearby shelves.

Afterwards Noah has to take a moment to gather his composure, and his courage, but his voice is surprisingly steady when he next speaks.

“...Where’s Cameron?” Noah asks. “What did you do to him?”

[hatchethanging]

Another breath (or the equivalent) of laughter. Yes, he was serious. Yes, it is ridiculous, and he greatly enjoys that.

The jump is appreciated. Noah's flailing means an arm goes right through him, likely experiencing a brief chill to the bone, and that is very much not. The Host just stifles any sort of sound from escaping, though his response is, indeed, from slightly back (and, naturally, higher above) than before.

"I? Nothing more than what I'm doing to you. If you so wish to hear me say aloud...I swear, upon all my ethereal being, harm is hardly my objective. There is no falsehood in this: my desire is to show this old mansion off to new eyes, doubly so for such trusting mortal ones. If you choose to stay, we would be glad of it. If you do not, then you will be able to leave, the pair of you." His voice drops. "After we conclude this tour. If you find yourselves dallying, or wandering where you should not? The other spirits that call this place their home may try to trick you far worse than what I am allowing."

The Host pauses to give his grim words time to be fully appreciated.

"--But your friend should be in the ballroom, a few minutes up ahead. All of the swinging spooks there want to do nothing but enjoy the music and chat, and they seemed to be having quite the time of it conversing with him. I'm certain you'll have some fun if you try! Though perhaps, hmm..."

The Host slams the door at the end of the Library, only a few shelves away, wide open. A few notes of clumsy piano-playing float in through after the echo fades.

"You may wish to get a move on instead. They'll surely like you better--your startle reflexes are far more entertaining!"

[cookswithspite]

“...”

Noah’s mouth is set in a firm frown, but his forehead is wrinkled with anxiety. It’s hard to fully trust someone who only has an ethereal being to swear on, let alone someone who admits that harm is still a very distinct possibility if you don’t follow the rules they’re setting down. But what else can Noah do but accept it?

So he doesn’t say anything, just gives a slight nod, acknowledging that the Host has spoken.

And when the door slams Noah jumps, yet again. At least he doesn’t shout this time!

“Wow, thanks,” he snaps, once the “compliment” registers. But perhaps surprisingly, Noah actually does hurry forward. He can hear the music (lousy, but hey, who knows what sort of thing evil spirits enjoy) and even back before the Host threw an actual corpse at him, hadn’t the Host already said something about Cam being at a party...?

[hatchethanging]

The next room holds a few dozen instruments strewn about, smothered in dust and cobwebs. The music comes from the piano in the center of it all, planted in front of a massive window.

Surely it isn't late enough to be dark. Yet clearly, all that's visible are the outline of trees beneath the massive glaring moon--at least it's stopped raining?

Though perhaps the piano's barely-tangible player is a greater point to focus on. The shadow of the rickety stool (not a full bench) shows a figure seated upon it, pressing the keys, in spite the being itself is impossible to see.

The Host is quiet for a time, shifting attention from the mortal to his fellow haunt. It isn't wise to disturb a spirit following its desires, though this one doesn't quite fit in this space with their awkward playing.

"And here, you'll find that our instrument collection is unmatched. Though...hmm, my mistake. Perhaps a few items are missing. These are all only musical instruments."

This space doesn't fit at all, really, lacking some of the unsettling aura the rest of the area has. There may be another piano in the attic where they can be relocated, and the room itself can be eliminated for a time. Despite the implications, there aren't actually many instruments of torture or of surgery anywhere in the Mansion, and the Ghost Host does hate lying outright.

Of course, he could be planning this in too much of a hurry. Constance may not approve, and even now, he doesn't dare risk upsetting her. Her ire is still terrifying, and his status as her servant still holds power, if much less than it once did.

Though his approval is important as well, he thinks, nearly matching pace with Noah. Not on the matter of more visitors in the indeterminate future; on what his guest is deciding to do. Don't think he can't tell the difference between rushing to see the rest and rushing to get it over with.

"Are we a rush? Don't forget what I said before--watch your step!"

The music room opened into a hallway...and then it didn't. Stairs appeared instead, going up, going down, going sideways, going all the wrong ways 'round. Candelabras lit parts of the area, though not well--there seemed to be no walls, only darkness--and not possibly, jutting out straight and upside-down where the stairways made it so. Fire shouldn't work that way.

Many things in the Mansion do not care for 'should'.

"Now, be sure to follow me," says the Host from a set of steps, directly above. For once, there is something visible of him: the shape of his footprints, faintly glowing green. It leaves him hanging upside-down, and the sets that Noah will have to use in order to follow will be confusing, therefore all the more amusing. A handful of other invisible ghosts are making their way across other stairs as well, though many pause to either watch Noah or to give him a chance to walk by without intersecting.

[cookswithspite]

Despite the Host’s opinion of the room, Noah actually does pause for a few moments to gawk at the shadow and the piano. The playing may be poor but it’s probably the most definite sign of activity that the Host hasn’t been directly involved in. Though he tries not to linger too long- not only does he still have his goals of escape firmly in mind but he’d prefer not to draw the unnerving figure’s attention.

Noah also debates whether or not to roll his eyes at the quip about instruments, but decides against it just in case the Host is entirely serious, and resumes hurrying along.

“What noooowaugh?!” Noah stumble-skips back, his jaw drops, as he gapes at the sudden expanse of space and bizarrchitecture before him. Staircases are all tangled like a spiderweb over what appears to be an infinite black void and of course, it is very poorly lit by impossibly angled candelabra.

Oh hell, the Host can’t expect him to go out- No, he does. Of course.

Once he’s able to pick his jaw up from the floor, Noah blurts out: “Why would you build a room like this?” Noah thinks about it for a half-second more and adds, “...How would you build a room like this?”

Nevertheless he follows, albeit gingerly. If the Host wanted him to stop rushing, he’s sure getting his risk- Noah takes every step with the not-entirely-rational fear that the next one won’t actually be there, only speeding up whenever he glances over at the Host’s footsteps and realizes he’s falling behind. (Something in the back of his mind idly notes that the Host has big feet.)

It still manages to go straightforwardly enough, until the first time the Host walks out over empty space, whereupon Noah immediately panics and blurts out:

“Wait- wait! I can’t go that way!”

[hatchethanging]

The Host is tempted to ignore this. The unknown inspires fear, and is that not the point?

Another quiet moment of consideration gives second thoughts. There isn't an answer that is truly an explanation for a mortal. There is plenty more to come as well, and why not give this life a brief moment's rest, travelling through the darkness?

"Who says someone built it? This Mansion is more than a mere building. Few involved in this place can be quantified as 'living', but the Mansion itself qualifies as something close. Undead, perhaps." He chuckles darkly. "There was nothing like this when it was being built. If you so desire, you can ask it about why it makes such choices for us, though I doubt you'll gather an answer in your lifetime."

This is less of a threat and more of a fact. Mortality gives less of a time frame than can be optimal to decipher what the house desires. It was an embarrassing day the Host realized it enjoyed keeping the dead inside over the living, far too many decades after he placed the noose around his neck.

"There's always a path to the other side," is the Host's enigmatic answer. He slows, but does not stop, not even to look back (or so it seems. He can turn his head around somewhat more than is natural, and it wouldn't do to let this mortal fall to his doom so easily). "Recall what I've said, several times now."

Most certainly there is a way, though doubling back is necessary for one who cannot float.

Noah may spy the eyes in the darkness before he notices the end of the staircases and room itself, glinting and glaring. They continue to watch, blinking and following, as it transitions into dark purple wallpaper instead of the abyss.

[cookswithspite]

That would be… a surprisingly candid answer if it wasn’t also deeply weird. And yet, thinking about it, Noah finds he sort of believes it? As much as he hates remembering the stretching room, the way it grew and shifted definitely wasn’t anything a normal building would do. Although as for the exact “how” and “why” it sounds like even the Host isn’t sure.

(And Noah certainly isn’t going to try asking the Mansion any questions- even if the Host had said “Oh sure, it’ll answer you immediately,” he’d just feel like too much of an idiot for talking to a building.)

He mostly puts it out of his mind once the problem of actually following the Host is there.

“But-” Noah cuts himself off. He can’t think of any objections to what the Host says beyond “But I would prefer to be in a normal building,” or “But I don’t believe you,” neither of which seem likely to change his situation. And what has the Host been saying…?

“...watch your step!"

“If you find yourselves dallying...”

“Remember, I said no running.”

“Step lively!”

“No running now…”

“Kindly step this way…”

...No running, but no stopping. At least, Noah thinks that’s what the Host is getting at.

Right. Noah takes a steadying breath and another tentative step forward, but this time he tries to really look at his surroundings, not just timidly creep after the footsteps. (Even if the abyss makes his stomach lurch.) He’s still not in the best frame of mind for this- it takes him longer than it maybe should to notice the routes that aren’t directly in front of him, but the Host may be gratified to see Noah does keep moving.

Of course, he nearly freezes up the first time he he has to double back, and then he wants to bolt forward so he doesn’t lose track of the Host. But he manages to force his shaky limbs into a more or less even pace, albeit with a lot of focus.

Because of that, Noah stays very quiet for a good portion of the room, but as enough time passes without him falling to his gory death he calms down enough to glance at the Host’s footsteps, and gesture with a thumb in the direction of the creepy eyes.

“What are those?” he asks, in a quiet, nervous voice. “...And please don’t just say ‘eyes’ because I can see that much for myself.”

[hatchethanging]

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...

[cookswithspite]

“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.

[hatchethanging]

"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.

[cookswithspite]

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!”

[hatchethanging]

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--"

[cookswithspite]

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?”

[hatchethanging]

"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."

[cookswithspite]

“...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?”

[hatchethanging]

"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.

[cookswithspite]

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?”

[hatchethanging]

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."