It's been a while since I've written anything AHS related and in honor of the upcoming crossover, I present a little crossover of my own. This is a companion piece to my Misery series but you don't need to read those stories to read this one. Just important info: Isabel is Constance's fourth child. Her adoptive father, Derek, is dead.
Happy reading!
7 Days
The house stood in silence. No creaking doors or groaning floorboards; the Murder House was asleep, as was the owner. With a schedule filled with late nights and early mornings, one free day let Isabel crash. Even the smell of coffee and the knocking on her bedroom door didn't wake up.
Her maid and friend, Moira, quietly opened the door and saw Isabel buried underneath a mountain of blankets. She sighed, setting the mug of freshly made coffee on the nightstand and nudging the lump underneath the blankets.
"Come on now, Izzy. It's well past noon."
Immediately, a young woman bolted upright with her hair a wild mess and smudges of yesterday's mascara making her dark circles even darker. "Fuck, I'm up!"
Moira chuckled, shaking her head. "Relax, it's a free day. No appointments, no visits scheduled."
Isabel relaxed, laying back against her pillows. "Perfect. No need to be productive then." She grabbed the coffee mug from the nightstand and sipped greedily, letting the drink burn her tongue.
"Well, maybe you should be a little productive. At least enough to read this." Moira produced a letter from the pocket of her apron and held it out to Isabel. "It's heavy; made of parchment. From―"
"The Hotel Cortez," Isabel interrupted, seeing the return address. The initials in the wax sealed said "JPM." Pretending not to be interested, Isabel set the letter aside, returning her attention to her coffee.
Moira raised her eyebrows at this strange behavior. "You're not going to even open it?"
"Nope," Isabel answered, taking another sip of coffee.
Sensing that she ought to drop the subject, Moira let it go. "Would you like some lunch since you slept right through breakfast?"
Isabel shook her head. "I'm set with the coffee; I'll just wait 'til dinner."
Knowing full well that Isabel would be complaining of hunger in just an hour or so, Moira said, "I'll go prepare a snack." She gave Isabel a warm smile, which Isabel returned, and then left the room.
With a huff, Isabel let the smile fall of her face. It was replaced by a discontented look as she turned her gaze back to the envelope. She knew exactly what it was, and because of that she considered throwing it into the fireplace. The only reason she didn't tear it up as soon as Moira handed it to her was because she knew that there might be consequences.
Not many people refused James Patrick March and got away with it.
6 Days
Isabel stared blankly at her computer screen, the blinking cursor mocking her. It had been a few months since the release of her first book, and she was feeling the pressure of coming up with new content pronto. How could she be expected to write something completely new when her last work had been so exhausting?
Her first book hadn't even been her idea! It was just her father's idea, one that he never got to because of his untimely death a year ago. She had completed his unfinished work. Now she was completely on her own, and Isabel couldn't focus on her inability to ever compare to Derek Noble, one of the greatest writers of his time. Derek was a household name while Isabel was barely remembered. Her book
(his book)
about the Hotel Cortez had been a hit, but Isabel had a feeling that it never even would have made it to the shelves if Derek's name hadn't been on the cover as well.
Maybe it was this house. It was bogging down her brain. This was the house her father wanted to write about and fought so hard to buy. The other family who wanted to buy the place, the Harmons, had seemed pretty dead set on it was well because of how cheap it was. But Derek had wanted the history that was soaked into the polished wood.
This place was filled with the very essence of Derek. The only thing it was lacking was his ghost. It was sad, and stressful. Isabel was not her father, and she was painfully reminded of that every time she sat down to work on a new manuscript. She was not a literary genius, not like he was. She could embellish on ideas, but Derek had been selfish with creativity.
"Writer's block?"
Isabel looked up to see Tate leaning against the door jamb. His head was cocked to the side and his eyes were wide; Isabel was reminded of a puppy. Only puppies weren't murderers. Not that Isabel knew of, anyway. Perhaps that ought to be her next story?
With a heavy sigh, she leaned back in her chair. "Maybe I should quit this writing gig."
Tate scoffed, "Oh yeah? And what would you do instead?"
"Dunno… become a guide on the Eternal Darkness tour?"
They stared at each other for a beat of silence, and then both burst out laughing, knowing full well that Isabel could never do such a thing. She'd be absolutely miserable if she did that.
"Okay, I appreciate the company and all but I really need to focus on procrastinating."
"But I brought something to help you with that." With a mischievous grin, Tate held up a thick envelope made of parchment with a wax seal keeping it shut.
Isabel snatched the envelope from him so quickly that Tate almost didn't realize it happened. "Why the fuck did you go through my things? We agreed you wouldn't do that," Isabel snapped at him, shoving the envelope in the top drawer of the desk.
"I didn't go through your things," Tate insisted, unable to understand why she was suddenly pissed off. "It was just lying there on your nightstand. It looked important so I just picked it up."
Isabel closed her eyes and took a deep breath as her body tensed with irritation. "Get out," she muttered, rubbing her hands over her face and smudging her mascara.
Tate pouted, upset by the order and confused. What did he do wrong? It wasn't like he read the letter! He walked out of the room, swearing under his breath.
5 Days
Defeat weighing down her shoulders, Isabel made her way downstairs. Exhaustion had arrived with all of its luggage, storing the bags under Isabel's eyes. She had some twisted hopeful thought that exhaustion would inspire her. So far, she was wrong.
As she neared the kitchen, she could smell coffee mixed with cigarettes. She stopped in the doorway, knowing exactly who was in there without needing to look. "I thought we broke the habit of you just wandering in."
"It isn't wandering if you have intention, honey," Constance drawled, her words lingering with her cigarette smoke.
She was seated at the kitchen island with her back to Isabel, a stick of cancer held between two fingers. Without even looking at her daughter, Constance nudged a mug of coffee towards the edge of the counter. "Your drug of choice."
"Coffee won't give me lung cancer," Isabel said, staring at the cigarette.
Constance smirked, then held out the cigarette to Isabel. A second passed where nothing happened, and then Isabel took the offering.
She inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs and the nicotine fill her head. "Thanks," she muttered, handing the death stick back to Constance. As she did, she noticed the envelope with a wax seal marked with the initials J.P.M.
Isabel shut her eyes, exhaling heavily. She didn't question how Constance got ahold of the letter; she knew her mother had her ways.
"I'm not going," Isabel stated, picking the mug of coffee up.
"I don't think you have a choice." There was a long pause as Constance waited for the rebuttal, but it didn't come. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"It isn't something to brag about." Isabel spoke softly, her words getting caught in her throat. She gulped the coffee greedily in hopes that her guilt and frustration would wash down with it. No such luck. "I don't want to go…"
Constance scoffed at the declaration. Isabel saying she didn't want to go wasn't going to change anything. "And why's that? Because you can't admit to what you've done?"
Isabel glared at Constance, but she didn't argue because she knew Constance was right. Constance knew Constance was right, which was the most frustrating part. Isabel brought the coffee mug to her lips again, only to discover she had finished the drink off already.
Constance took the empty mug from Isabel. "Sit down," she instructed as she stood up. "I'll make you hot coco."
"I don't need coco," Isabel insisted, though she did as she was told and sat down at the kitchen island.
"Now I know I did not raise you, but you are still my daughter and I know when you need hot coco. So hush up; I will not hear anymore arguing."
4 Days
Her eyes and legs were sore, her back needed to be cracked, and her coffee had gone cold an hour ago.
She had been working all morning and afternoon, going through phases of writing paragraphs at a time, and then staring blankly at the computer screen. The result was five pages of content. It wasn't much, but it was the most she had come up with in months.
Chewing her lower lip, Isabel skimmed through what she wrote. She then highlighted everything and hit the "backspace" key.
Isabel stood up and stretched, the ache that settled into her muscles slowly ebbing away. She grabbed her mug and left the study.
The house was quiet, which was both very odd and a relief. Ever since the letter showed up, company was scarce.
The letter was on the fridge, held up by a magnet and still unopened. She dumped out her coffee in the sink, never breaking eye contact with the envelope as it stared her down, waiting for her. Well, she wasn't going to give in. The letter was just going to have to keep waiting.
3 Days
"Part of you must be a little curious as to what's inside," said Moira as she handed Isabel a stack of folded sweaters, freshly washed and dried.
"What makes you say that?"
"Because you haven't thrown it out yet."
2 Days
Isabel stared at the envelope, swirling the wine she held. She tilted her head back and downed the wine.
Licking her lips, Isabel took the envelope off the fridge and opened it.
1 Day
"I'm going."