Disclaimer: I am not the creator of American Horror Story or any of its characters.
Author's note: This is my first published piece of fanfiction so comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated :)
Violet was getting bored of her old Nirvana album. She tried, honestly, to enjoy its familiar guitar strums and the soothing roughness of Kurt Cobain's voice, but after having nothing else to listen to for 2 years she felt, with a bit of guilt, that she would rather listen to anything else. It was like this with everything lately, especially the simple things. She was tired of the clothes she was stuck with and the colors of the walls; even the view from her window made her feel trapped. And she knew that she was being melodramatic blah blah blah- but she couldn't help it. She missed being able to smell and taste home cooked meals, and having to shower, and slaving over homework. The soft morning wind that blew through her window reminded her that she couldn't feel any difference in temperature. She missed monotonous variety. She missed her life.
It was all very depressing, the whole ~being dead~ thing. She'd tried talking to Nora about it a few months before, asking how she'd been able to handle living there for so long. Nora's expression had grown bitter and her eyes distant, as if remembering every excruciating second that she'd been trapped in the house, and then turned to Violet, quietly whispering.
"There's nothing to do but handle it." And then she vanished, leaving behind a soft golden mist. Violet had just rolled her eyes and floated back to her bedroom, thinking that she should have known that Nora was too emotional and flakey to give her any real advice. Then she'd flopped onto her bed and reached over to turn on her aging iPod to blast more Nirvana, which everyone in the house was tired of listening to.
Now Violet took up her usual station on the windowsill, staring out into the neighborhood and wishing that the boundaries of her confinement were just a little bit bigger. God, I'm such a cliché ghost. She thought sourly. But I guess they're clichés for a reason: they're true. She was just about to turn away from the window to grab her favorite book, which she'd read countless times, when a car pulled up in the road in front of the house. This wasn't unusual, many people liked to check out the old "Murder House", but they normally just did the ~slow down to take some pictures then floor it~ thing, but Violet could see this car park and heard the distinct sound of the engine being shut off. Violet raised a suspicious eyebrow.
The car's doors popped open and out stepped a perky real estate agent, a severe looking woman who immediately lit a cigarette, a handicapped girl who tried to stay as close to the woman as possible, and a boy with messy blond hair who really looked like he didn't want to be there. Oh great, more people to terrorize. There had only been one family that had moved in since she'd died, a husband and wife and their four irritating kids who were clumsy and loud.
Violet hadn't been a fan of them. The youngest and most annoying one had gotten her room, and all he did was make a mess with his toys and cry when he had to go to bed. They didn't last very long, barely a month and a half before they decided that the house was "too dangerous" and "should be burned to the ground". Not even all of their boxes were unpacked before they decided to pack up and hit the road again.
There was an unspoken rule about anyone who moved into the house, and that was: scare them enough to get them the hell out of there. Sure, sometimes the resident ghosts enjoyed their jobs as real-life (death?) horror characters, especially when the house was full of brats, but it was really in the best interest for anyone living in the house. Those who stayed there too long had a tendency to become permanent tenants.
Violet watched as the group of people scooted around the car and the woman with the cigarettes offered one to the boy, who must have been her son. He refused it and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, looking around at the other houses on the street. Violet couldn't help but study him. He and the woman looked pretty similar, both blonde with sharp jawlines and sunken-in eyes, both beautiful. Their similar postures caught Violet's attention, very straight and proud, but somehow different to one another.
The woman stood with her cigarette hanging between gloved fingers, blue heels firmly planted on the cracked sidewalk, looking like she ruled the world and knew it. The boy was less showy, resembling more of a soldier than a ruler, but not lacking the same confidence. The woman flicked her cigarette into the street and said something to the real estate agent that looked along the lines of "If we don't start the tour soon, my next cigarette will be put out on your tongue."
The real estate agent chattered cheerily the whole way up to the porch, pointing out various things in the yard and gesturing broadly at the house, probably trying to make it seem more appealing than it actually was. No one looked interested in her "Oh the possibilities!" bullshit, so Violet thought it would be a good time to find a new place to conduct her investigation on this new family. She got down from her perch on the windowsill and floated down the hall and down the stairs, to the hallway leading from the front door to the kitchen. She sat down in the middle of the hall, her view of the front door straight and unobstructed.
She heard voices through the door before hearing the soft clicks of a lock and key, and it swung open, revealing the family and saleswoman. If from 80 feet away the cigarette woman looked menacing, she was absolutely terrifying this close up. She didn't look scary or abnormal, but her presence was just so… brutal. Unforgiving. Violet would never admit to being afraid of anything, but the smirk that grew on the woman's face as she looked around the hallway just gave her the creeps.
How often did the living make the dead's skin crawl?