Initially she doesn't quite believe it. One minute she is gazing wide eyed at Mrs. Langdon brandishing a pistol and the next thing she knows, she's on the floor gazing blankly at the ceiling. Moira blinks confusedly, slowly rising onto her elbows and glancing around her. She's sprawled on the floor of the entrance hall, maid outfit slightly eschew. Her eyes widen as she hears the hard sound of a shovel digging into earth. For some reason she is attracted to the sound, forgetting everything that she had just been worrying about. It's like she blinks and she is standing on the back patio. She sees Mrs. Langdon hunched over, doggedly shoveling dirt off to the side. She's digging a giant hole, Moira thinks numbly. But why? Mrs. Langdon is a Southern Belle who still wears gloves like she's from Gone With the Wind. There would have to be a good reason for her to-
And then she sees the body. Her body. She seems to float over to herself. It's so strange seeing her face gazing sightlessly back at her, one eye a bloody hole. There is an overwhelming numbness that fills her body and she is trembling a little bit as she takes a shaky step back. She stares dumbly as Mrs. Langdon persistently digs until the hole is so deep that her blonde curls barely peek over the top of Moira's soon to be grave. It is only when the other woman cruelly kicks her body into the hole and she hears the resounding thud of her flesh hitting the hard ground, that Moira realizes she is crying. She lightly brushes her fingers along her tear stained cheeks, examining the wetness almost curiosly. Moira O'Brien is dead. And no one will know it except herself and Mrs. Langdon, her murderer.
Moira wouldn't have considered herself a bad person. Sure she liked the feeling of flesh beneath her fingers and the sensation of lips against her own. She had found human touch one of the most comforting things in the world. Perhaps it had been because of the gentle touches and kisses from her childhood courtesy of her loving parents. When she was little her father would sit her on his knee and regale her with stories, one arm warmly wrapped around her middle. And her mother would always kiss her on the forehead or hug her close. So was it her fault for seeking that sort of tangible contact when she was older?
She was working as a maid in an upscale LA neighborhood because being just a school teacher wasn't cutting it for her bills. She didn't want to burden her parents with her daily expense either, with her father's bad back from the war and her mother's hands reddened and hardened with work. She hated being a walking cliche, with her maid outfit and her penchant for promiscuity. But she couldn't help the strong feeling of passion as she unbuttoned her black blouse and hands tore off her garters.
But she tried to curb her desires as best as she could. Of course when the dashing man married to the harsh southern woman had started giving her lingering glances, Moira could not help but let him drag her into an empty room when his wife was out shopping. The desire for the flesh was too strong for her to ignore.
If only she had known her last moment on this earth as a living person was being raped by that same man. Used like a possession for the pleasure of another.
Moira is a practical person. So she does not drive herself into a denial spiral like Nora did. She recalls her identity, almost with pride. It keeps her grounded in some sort of semblance of sanity. Sometimes she takes to gazing firmly in the mirror, studying her face with a harsh scrutiny and trying to commit every facial feature to memory.
"You are Moira O'Hara. You were born on November 10, 1958. You taught second graders at St. Roberts." She feels strength in that mantra. It is through those words that she can regain her humanity and sense of self, even after such a horrific death. Mrs. Langdon may have robbed her of her life, but she will never rob her of her dignity as a person.
Unfortunately, years of being in the house start to grate on her. As the house quickly passes from person to person she sees horrific death after horrific death. Seeing a mother kill her own children in a horrific blaze, or a son practically committing suicide as he is gunned down by a swat team break her a little bit.
Of course Moira tries to push away the darkness. But she cannot control the latent hatred and anger she feels. She did not deserve this fate! She did not deserve to die like this and be trapped in eternity, forever serving as a maid. And the frequency with which she sees Constance, always a cruel jab on her tongue, grates on her. So in order to keep some sort of humanity as new tenants of the house enter and leave, she resorts to the one thing that never fails to give her pleasure: sex. But the thing is, sex with men now leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. The first time she fucked a man after she died she comes with the thought of driving a bullet through his eye. Ah she realizes. She hates men now. Because she now knows what pitiful and awful creatures they are. Moira has seen their true nature.
So now the pleasure she gets is from using sex to destroy the men she now so ardently hates. Any new male owner of the house she is tied down to for eternity is inevitably seduced by her. And she uses this seduction as a way to feel power over the sex which always boasts of dominance. She totally destroys the men she beds with a flash of her eyes or a coy smile as she walks down a hallway with a sway in her hips. In a world so full of hateful fates and cruel demises she can only get happiness from bringing men down on their knees in pitiful submission. It is what they deserve.
These mind games and endless manipulations are the only things keeping her distracted from the horror of living in a house filled with ghosts like herself. She tries not to go into the basement if she can help it, and she desperately tries to avoid the ghosts she knows are more deranged and raving than even Mrs. Langdon. She was raised a staunch Catholic and this whole situation frightens her beyond belief. Eternity separated from her loved ones in a house full of malevolence. That was definitely what Father Joe had spoken about when he talked about life after death.
Sometimes she craves love and affection. But everything seems so tainted with hate now. Moira doesn't know if it's the house or her new cynical view on things. In order to keep herself somewhat together she'll go and do things with Elizabeth. It sates the cravings a bit and she can actually come without fantasizing about shooting the girl in the head with a pistol. When it's Halloween she has as much sex as possible. She'll crash her lips against as many people as she can get, desperately clinging to human contact and forgetting she is dead and loathing the cruel limbo she is stuck in.
She's giving Elizabeth a nearly perfect hickey when the other girl pulls away slightly, big doe eyes widening.
"What is it?" she asks huskily, annoyed at the interruption. She hates pauses during their interactions because she wants her moments of weaknesses to be over as soon as possible. Moira has come to hate the part of her that craves flesh and touching without manipulations or dominance.
"What do you think of him?"
Moira's face twists a bit in irritation. But the girl is gazing at her with those earnest eyes and she can't help softening a bit under the sincerity.
"He's another man, Elizabeth. An absolute scoundrel who would bed anything that moves if they so much as gaze in his direction."
The other girl frowns at the words and she drops her hands that were just tightly gripping the sides of Moira's waist.
"I do hope they move out soon. They seem like good people. I wouldn't want the house to do them harm too."
She sighs at the quiet words. Moira tries to shift her expression into the seductive look she has nearly perfected. She leans forward a little until Elizabeth is nearly cross-eyed and murmurs against the girl's lips
"No more talking. I have to strip the sheets before two."
When she watches Dr. Harmon building the gazebo over her body, she feels something die in herself. Well metaphorically speaking, she supposes. She had been so damn close to getting what she wanted. And now she was back to stage one. She would never get Constance exposed as her murderer. Moira's tears stain her face and she silently covers her hand with her mouth as she watches wood cover dirt, hiding her corpse further from the light of day.
Moira feels so lost. She finally is a ghost. She is nothing but a hollow and transparent version of herself.
A/N: I think Moira O'Hara was one of the most fascinating characters in American Horror Story: Murder House. Also Alexandra Breckenridge is an absolute dream.