|
"Paranormal"Written By: The Plotting Housewife Disclaimer: Gundam Wing belongs to Bandai, Sotsu
and associated Parties. This work is written for pleasure not profit. Rating: R Warnings: Humor, crack, ghost hunters, AU Pairings: 1x2, 3x4, 5x6, 13xUne, RxD Summary: The gang gets together to investigate
a haunted house. The ghosts are ready to scare them silly. Too bad
they don't know who they're dealing with. "Paranormal "
The long-dead spirits of Treize Khushrenada's ancestors had been in a perpetual state of boredom lately. The last time anyone occupied the old estate, it was their own descendant, Treize himself. That was how long ago? They really didn't have much use for clocks in this plane of existence, but it was too long as far as any of them were concerned. Treize spent a few days and nights there while he went over the financial paperwork of the estate and tried to decide if he wanted to sell it, or pass it on to his daughter, Mariemaia. He'd concluded that the house belonged within the family. He hired one broker after another to come and meet with him to finalize the documents, and one by one, the brokers all ended up running from the house, white as sheets, screaming in abject horror. Treize stood at the open door, confused, shouting after them. It wasn't until the next day, when the agency refused to send out any more brokers, that he'd begun to realize something was up. Treize called them in a moment of weak desperation. "Find some other fool with a death wish to help you with that mad house of yours. May God have mercy on your soul," the director of the agency said, a little melodramatically, in Treize's humble opinion. As someone who was well-versed in melodrama, he threw the phone against a wall, watching with sadistic satisfaction as it shattered into dozens of pieces. Oh, but the spirits of the house had fun with him that night. From the rhythmic pounding on the walls, to the suspiciously red colored water that shot from the faucets, to footsteps, and finally, the yanking of his bedding as he tossed and turned, trying to ignore the mysterious activity. He never really believed in a god, or an afterlife. He'd always thought when that was it, that was it. Lights out, no one's home, case closed. The idea of a ghostly version of yourself floating around in some otherworldly realm once you passed on from your body was a ridiculous one. Absurd. And he told the ghosts so, loudly. Shouting into the empty rooms, banging his fist on the walls. The ghosts had a field day answering his banging fist with their own bangs and laughing when he jumped back, eyes as big as dinner plates, his hair standing on end. He went to bed that night, muttering to himself like a deranged lunatic, and made a mental note to schedule a CAT scan in the morning. A few hours later, he'd been woken out of a deep sleep as a breeze that should not have been there, brushed across his face. He froze, fear seeping deep into his bones, as that "breeze" then proceeded to clamp itself around his nose, pinching his nostrils shut. He shrieked and reached up, grasping for an arm that wasn't there, sucking in frantic breaths through his mouth. He flew out of the bed as a disembodied voice whispered,"Treeeeiiiiize," in his ear. He raced down the long, winding staircase, his feet barely touching the floor, and ran out into the cold night in nothing but his silk boxer shorts. He hadn't been back since, much to the spirits' dismay. Though he had seen fit to hire a small crew to cover the furniture and close up the house. The crew never finished, chased out by a screech that could only be described as "demonic". One worker recounted seeing a tall, dark man in a long trench coat lurking in a dark corner of the parlor, with eyes that glowed "like the pits of Hell", and crossed herself with one hand while the other dabbed tears from her eyes. At the very least, the crew's foreman did think to lock the door behind him on the way out, though he also contemplated dousing the place in gasoline and tossing a lit match at it. There had been a few break-ins and attempted thefts as the house's furnishings remained in their places, much of it extremely valuable. The would-be thieves were thwarted by the blood-curdling screams, the shadows that lunged at them, the bleeding walls, and finally, the pièce de résistance: the touches. It really didn't take much. An icy hand on the shoulder, the brush of a cheek, a push against the back. Worked every time. The criminals would freeze in terror, their little hearts racing in their little criminal chests, eyes darting around for the source of the contact, followed by a muttered, "Fuck this," as each and every one left in much the same manner that they came. In fact, no one had been anywhere near the estate in ages. The spirits, trapped in the confines of the house, roamed from room to room, entertaining themselves by attempting to scare each other since there was no one else to play with. It had long since gotten old by now. There were eight total spirits residing inside the home. And they were far past the point of getting on each other's nerves. Metaphorically, of course, as they had no actual nerves to speak of. When it came down to it, they would have been on the verge of killing each other, if not for the pesky fact that they were already dead. The sun was just up over the horizon, marking the beginning of a new day. Just one of many endless days for the ghosts of the aristocratic Khushrenada family. Treize's dear old Auntie Mildred was currently in the front sitting room rigging a trip wire between one of the sofas and a table at the far end of the room. Cousin Jasper was going to have one hell of a surprise when he made his morning trek through the house. He followed the exact same path day in and day out, and Mildred had it memorized down to an art form. When Jasper's feet made contact with the trip wire, it would blow him to kingdom come. Mildred cackled, rubbing her hands together with unbridled glee. It wouldn't actually hurt Jasper, though it would take him the better part of a day to put all the numerous pieces of himself back together. They didn't possess bodies like they did when they were alive, but they were physical in the sense that their spirits manifested a projection of their mortal forms. They were far past questioning the reasons as to why things were the way they were. They just went with it, because why not? Mildred tied off the end of the wire and used her finger to test the give. It vibrated with a soft "biiiing" and Mildred nodded, satisfied. Perfect. She stood up and glanced out the large picture window, spotting a young woman approaching from the front yard. Ooh, what's this? She was pretty, seemingly delicate, as she waded through the thick grass. Mildred watched, a burst of excitement uncurling in her belly as the woman reached the porch and stepped up, sliding what looked like very heavy bags from her shoulders, then stepped forward and peered into the window. She was looking right at Mildred, but of course, couldn't see her. Mildred made faces at the girl, and a few gestures that were likely not appropriate for a woman of her status, but what the hell? "Cyrus!" She shouted over her shoulder. Cyrus Khushrenada, Treize's great, great grandfather, and the head of the house, was long-familiar with Mildred's antics. He sat in his favorite chair, neck lolling against the headrest, and groaned, "What, Mildred? What is is now?" She heard the telltale shuffling as he dragged himself into the foyer. Mildred's lips pulled back in a delightful grin as a second woman appeared at the edge of the property, also walking towards the house. Oh, now this was a treat! Two young women, carrying numerous bags. Guests perhaps. They looked like perfect suckers, too. Mildred steepled her fingers beneath her chin. She turned towards Cyrus, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Fresh meat." There was a loud pop and a splat behind her. Mildred turned to find Jasper scattered throughout the sitting room in multiple pieces. Ectoplasm was splashed all over the walls, floor, and furniture covers. Jasper's head rolled around on the stump of his neck in a gruesome attempt to right itself, glaring at snickering matriarch. "Goddamnit, Mildred!"
~ * ~ |
