The first few times were an accident.

Okay, maybe make that the first several times.

While the exact tally kept in Will's head wasn't significant, what mattered was, had he known it meant that he was inviting ghost hunting lunatics to forever barrage his home, he would've tried his damnedest to never, ever accidentally haunt his house.

Now it was do or die. He had unknowingly set a precedence. Once a house was rumoured to be haunted, it got a lot of unwanted attention. And Will had never been one to play nice.

He sat on the couch in the living room, absentmindedly patting Winston's head as he watched two men and a woman slowly make their way through the spaces of his home. Well, former home. At this point, Will wasn't quite sure who owned the house. Considering the fact that he was dead, the only certainty he had was – in the eyes of the state of Virginia, America, and the whole known world – he was no longer the legal owner. It saved big on taxes, but it had nothing on, well, being alive – even while paying taxes.

Kitted out in matching black Ghost Quest t-shirts, the three strangers claiming to be investigators stopped in the part of the living room where he once kept his bed. At the time of his death, most of the stuff that he owned went to charity, along with most of his estate, while all the dogs, save for Winston, went to the shelter. Since then, the house had changed several hands, and each time new furniture would be moved in and out. Currently, the owners were moving their furniture out.

In each of their hands they held a different piece of technology. Will supposed that he should be able to tell what each one was exactly, considering how often these kinds of people showed up, but he didn't care enough to know anything beyond one – it was a meter with a name composed of various letters of the alphabet and two – it was absolute nonsense.

Will scoffed as the woman – a short, blonde, and not unattractive woman – scanned the room with a heat-sensing camera. While Will was many things, he assumed like all of the ghosts before him, a living, breathing, heat-producing body he was not. He didn't know what she expected to capture, but as she focused the lens on the couch where he and Winston shared, he knew she'd never pick up his form that way.

The shorter of her two male companions set down one of his meters on the table across the room from Will. He was of indescribable age. Either he was an older man who looked good for his age or a very young man who had not aged well at all, Will couldn't tell. What he could see was that his calves were as thick as an elephant's foot. Okay, maybe Will was being cruel. After setting down the machine, on legs that were thinner than an elephant's, this man moved to the other side of the room to film it with what looked like a normal digital camera.

The remaining, beanpole of man made a show of turning on his tape recorder.

"William Graham. My name is Isaac. My colleagues here are Emily and Tyler," he said, speaking each word slowly with unusual gravitas.

"Hello Isaac, Emily, and Tyler," Will greeted in the portentous silence that followed. Of course, he wasn't heard by the Ghost Questers. Only Winston listened, and the whiskers of his brows moved as he eyed his owner. Winston whined faintly.

"We hear that you like to play tricks on the owners of the house. Slam doors. Drain batteries. Hide their things—"

"Did you hear that?" Tyler asked, turning to look into the dark kitchen.

Will wondered why they always investigated his house at night. He was here in the day too.

"Hear what?"

"I think I heard a cupboard door open," he said, walking to peak his head into the other room, "Er, no. No, I didn't."

Isaac nodded, "Right. Good, Ty. Debunked. Okay. Will, do you mind if I call you Will? The owners have also seen you standing at the foot of their bed. They claim you've locked them out of the house. Even pushed them down the stairs."

That was ridiculous; he never locked anyone out of the house. And he hadn't purposefully caused the incident on the staircase, when both he and one of the owners stepped onto the same stair at the same time. Reality then flickered for Will. He couldn't quite see anything, though he certainly felt nauseous despite not having a stomach to be ill with. When he blinked back to awareness, he found the man clutching at the bannister breathing heavily and calling for his wife.

"If you're here with us tonight, can you do any of that for us? To show that you're here?"

All three of them looked at their various equipment – all of which did nothing. Will sighed, lamenting the fact that people like this kept on living, while he was stuck, here… left to haunt this goddamn house for presumably all eternity. Will found that, in death, injustice had a salty flavour.

"Can you speak with us, say anything?"

Will stared.

"We spoke with your boss, Jack Crawford? He said you saved a lot of people when you worked for the FBI."

That was unlikely. You could call Jack a lot of things (and Will had), but chances were he wouldn't talk to three college students with a Vistaprint business card about any of his agents, dead or otherwise. Will got up to stand in front of Isaac, taking a closer look at his tape recorder.

Isaac shivered, "It just got really cold here guys. Like, all down my front. Right here. Can you feel it?"

The others moved in closer, encircling Will. They nodded in excitement, giddy with the change in temperature. Proof. Will grimaced as Emily passed a hand through his chest, feeling just a little bit violated.

"Will? Are you there?" The others started to chirp his name, choosing to mix it up with a few 'hello's and 'you can talk to us's.

Will didn't say anything. There was never much conversation between he and these types, on account of their inability to hear him.

He, on the hand, was getting real tired of hearing them.

Without moving from them, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to slip into focused concentration. This was a new practice. An ability found after death, it was born in a moment of pure desperation when the first ghost hunters invaded his space. Just like that first time, he drew all of his attention to his core, pushing and shoving and forging a great pressure within himself. It was the only time he ever felt some semblance of warmth, as he drew in the electricity of the room and into his being. It was like a caging a raging storm in his chest, full of crackling lightning and rumbling thunder. It was like trying to latch onto a tornado and shove it in a briefcase. He felt raw and volatile and like he might just split in two from the power of it.

Behind him, the machine on the table lit up.

"Woah! The EMF's off the rails, guys!" Emily said.

Will looked at Winston and touched the tape recorder with a single, bony finger, "Tsst."

He let go of the reigns and released the mounting pressure inside. The flood of sensations and the overwhelming relief of surrender to the tempest scoured his being with a heat unlike any other and shortened out his vision. The last thing he saw was the dawning look of terror on three faces. The last thing he heard was the beginning of Winston's fiercest growl.

Then silence and darkness.


"Fuck! Fuck, what the fuck," Emily screamed as they ran from the house. Sounds of rustling fabric and clunking plastic followed them across the front yard.

Isaac, with his long legs, reached their SUV first and jacked the handle, "Open the door, Ty. Open the door!"

Tyler stumbled while attempting to pull his key fob out of his khaki's pocket.

"TY!"

"I'm tr- fuck. I'm trying!"

The fob beeped. Isaac flung himself into the passenger seat, quickly followed by Emily who leapt into the backseat. Finally, Tyler jumped into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. They stared at each other wide-eyed and panting, until finally Isaac started to laugh.

"That was… Oh my god. Check the cameras. Check the cameras!"

Emily and Tyler fumbled with their cameras as Tyler rewound his recorder – each of them excited to finally, finally, after three long years of long nights, bad coffee, and absolutely no proof of the great beyond, finally they have one of the most epic pieces of evidence for a haunting – no, a poltergeist – ever.

The rush was dewy and made clumsy their fingers. They laughed as adrenaline coursed through their veins.

Emily was the first to frown. Isaac a close second and Tyler's manic grin froze in an awkward grimace.

"Wh-what?"

All of their equipment was wiped clean.


When Will came to, he was lying in the middle of the living room with Winston curled behind his knees. It lacked the heat and weight of when he would wake to find Winston sleeping with him in life, but the sensation carried the same comforting familiarity of a time before their deaths. Winston huffed and shifted closer, and Will knew it was a sentiment shared with his friend.

His nerves were a sensitive thing, enflamed and angry. He might not want to do that again. For a long time.

He didn't know how much time had passed exactly, but judging by the professional movers carrying a heavy mahogany cabinet up the stairs, he figured enough time had passed for the sale of the house to go through. In the interim, he knew of nothing, and the blank space in his memory was a disconcerting thing.

Pushing himself to his feet, he followed the sounds of voices into the kitchen on legs that were more fitting to a stumbling, newborn fawn.

"Alana!"

She didn't move from where she leaned against the counter, where she was speaking to another person the room. Her companion was a striking man in an equally striking, yet overly formal, suit. Will eyed the pattern for a moment and realised that both plaid and paisley were in abundance. He raised an eyebrow before turning his attention back to Alana. He was filled with such a sudden sense of longing he nearly swayed from the strength of it. It had been so long since he'd seen anyone important.

He stepped close to her and watched how the sun made her dark hair nearly auburn, the way the summer had brought out her freckles, the way a few lines that hadn't been there before crinkled at her eyes. He clung to these details, documenting each and every change.

Her voice, though unchanged, surprised him the most.

"I still find it strange – no, very strange that I'm even in this kitchen."

Her companion tilted his head, "You knew Will well?"

"Not very. I don't think any of us really knew Will. And I didn't want to try to know him at the time because…"

Will watched as Alana took a deep breath, gaze roving from lips to eyes. Finally, he wished that he could make contact – that she would just see.

The other man nodded. Will barely bared attention as he filled in the silence she gave, "By learning about Will you'd find yourself trying to diagnose and treat. It's the curse of the psychiatrist."

Alana pursed her lips to concede his point. Will hovered a finger over them, careful not to touch.

"I only ever came here once."

"And?"

She laughed, "There were a lot of dogs."

Will found himself smiling along with her, as he wiped a tear from his cheek. Winston bumped his leg as he catalogued the changes that occurred over the weeks, months, years since he last saw Alana.

"Just promise me one thing, Hannibal. Don't let any of those ghost shows in here. Will would've hated it."

The man smiled gently and tipped his head, "Alana, you know me better than that."

Will let go of the tension that had gathered while the man – Hannibal – chose to respond. Finally. A normal human being that Will could share his house with.


Perhaps Will had been hasty. Any man who spent that much time fussing about inconsequential interior design details wasn't normal. But he was true to his word. No ghost investigator, medium, or curious neighbour were humoured. Hannibal didn't even so much as mention the words "ghost" or "haunted" to any of the various technicians, contractors, and designers he had in his home. Even when they were the ones to bring it up. When they did, a strange light in Hannibal's eyes flickered and he shut down that topic of conversation with efficiency and grace.

He was so polite, Will sort of hated him.

But overall, he wasn't his worst roommate. Will's only complaint was the major renovations Hannibal made to his kitchen. Not because he couldn't agree that the finish product was beautiful, but because it took so long to meet Hannibal's absurdly high expectations. There seemed to be construction going on all the time. Frankly, Will lost track of it all, choosing to wander the fields with Winston while the contractors moved from the now theatre-like kitchen for the basement.


#Once the renovations were complete, Will was as happy as he ostensibly could be. Hannibal led a very busy life, and most of his time was spent outside of the home. When he was in the house, he was a near imperceptible presence – as ghostly as Will himself.

Will learnt that his houseguest was quite the gourmand, as he spent a ridiculous amount of time cooking. The meals he prepared for his dinner-for-ones astounded Will, who remembered all too often microwaving a boxed pizza and calling it a night. At most he'd over boil some green beans to go with a box of macaroni and cheese that was a side for the fish he caught himself.

He was also quite the musician. When he wasn't playing the harpsichord and some strange instrument Will had never seen in his life, he was listening to classical records. Actual vinyl records. Will found that compared to the sounds of TVs and movies that had filled his house when previous owners had their reign, he could get used to classical music.


Will didn't sleep. Didn't have to, after all, as there was no biological body that required the restorative processes of sleep. But he could drift in that liminal space between wakefulness and slumber – that hazy sense of floating that he used to feel before falling into a well-deserved nap. When he did, he always found himself standing in the middle of the stream behind his house. The water was always cool against his waders, but their currents were never strong enough to push him over. Winston would watch from the shores as he fished. He let himself fall into these fogs for long periods of a time, when watching Hannibal and walking his property with Winston became too much of a bore.

It was from this trance that Will was startled. The loud thump-thump-thump of something heavy being dragged downstairs awoke him. Beside him, Winston whined.

Did he miss a break in? Was his favourite houseguest being murdered in his own goddamn home? He shot up from the couch and rushed for the basement door. Maybe he'd be able to push Hannibal's attacker down the stairs. Or, he thought, he could try a hand a levitating an object. Preferably something heavy.

Or at least, he did, until he saw what was making that sound. It was Hannibal dragging a man down the stairs. What looked to be a dead man, limp and ashy. Hannibal, in a clear suit of plastic over his usual suit of plaid, looked for all the world as though he were dragging a bag of potatoes down to the cellar. Not even a hair out of place.

Dimly, he heard Winston growl behind him.

Will followed them down and immediately wished he hadn't. The basement had had its own makeover that transformed it from the country cellar he knew and loved to a murder dungeon he was unsurprised to find her hated. How did Will not notice it? What contractor would build it?

Creepy strips of plastic hung from the rafters, and there were various tables with different machines on them. As with other parts of his house, Hannibal had thought of everything. Not just a room with some sharp tools, the basement was a stylised workshop with obvious stations for each step in his murder process. Will was taken on an unwelcomed journey through homicide, as he watched Hannibal use each station with morbid fascination. First the gurney where he stripped the man of his clothes and drained and collected his blood. Then the chopping block where he disarticulated the limbs from their joints. Then the saw table to cut the separated limbs into smaller pieces. Then finally the block where Hannibal focused on the torso, removing the kidneys, liver, and lungs. There was even a table where all of his choice cuts and collected tissues were piled.

Will couldn't believe it. He was going to eat them. He didn't-quite-live with a goddamn cannibal. Hannibal the cannibal.

He had been so wrong about Hannibal, and though they had never spoken, Will felt betrayed.

With a hardening stare, Will made a vow. He was going to haunt the fuck out of this motherfucker.