Disclaimer: I own nothing, but this fic.
Rehabilitation
It's cliché to say she's not like the other girls, but he can think of no better way to describe her, this wild redhead who's driven him to the brink of stark raving madness in the course of twenty-four hours.
---
They met in the middle of the night and quite by accident. She managed her way passed the iron fence, having climbed and jumped over it, risking but not suffering broken bones and bruises, and after a few minutes of relentless pounding, kicking and screaming at the front doors, the locks gave and she stumbled into the vast foyer. It was dank and cool in the house, and it smelt strongly of dust and the ages, but she didn't let that deter her determination to spend a night inside Whipstaff manor and prove to her friends that, ghosts or no, the old house was nothing to be afraid of.
There was a gust of wind that picked up from somewhere upstairs, and it rushed passed her to slam the doors shut. Then came the cackling that seemed to come from everywhere.
"Well, well, well," one voice detached from the chorus of laughter, "looks like we got ourselves another tourist, boys."
"What ta do, what ta do," another replied in a nasally lilt, and finally the laughter came to a full stop. Yet Another, deeper voice hummed in thought.
The intruder swallowed once and fixed the foyer with a stubborn glare. This one wouldn't be scared off so easily. By now, most humans would have run away screaming, the fear from hearing disembodied voices a surge too powerful for them to conquer, but she had barely budged. She was going to be fun to play with, and they laughed again at her defiant sneer.
The first voice spoke again, and she swore it was closer than before. "We got us a trooper!" There was a cold pocket of air beside her suddenly, brushing against her arm. "Whattaya say we try t'break 'er?"
Another cold pocket on her opposite side, and something cold wrapped around her shoulders. Instinctively, she looked toward it – and she gasped when she found herself staring into a pair of pale brown, almost-amber eyes. "I t'ink dat could be fun," said the ghost, returning the intense, inquisitive stare before he looked to his cohorts as they finally showed themselves. She followed his gaze and recoiled from the thin ghost now in front of her. Beside him there was another, more rotund ghost.
"Losin' ya nerve already, meat sac?" the lanky ghost snickered smugly, cocking his head to the side as he closed in on her. The one with his arm around her shoulders released her and joined the other two before her. With the sensation of being held in place gone, she took a few steps back.
"No," she said flatly, in a tone that was almost convincing. They would have believed her, had it not always happened the same way, with near-convincing tones that crumbled when they applied just the right amount of pressure.
"Ya sure?" the one that had been at her side mused. "Ya lookin' a lil pale."
To their surprise, she rose an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest, fixing them with a stare that said she was none too impressed. "That's my natural complexion, idiot."
The three ghosts exchange looks, then turned their attention back to the human standing in front of them.
"Excuse me?" the thin ghost inquired with a sneer of his own.
"I said, that's my natural complexion, you idiot," she repeated her words, slower this time to ensure it all sunk in.
"Jus' who d'ya think ya are, talkin' t'us like that?" he pressed on, eyes narrowed and taking on a soft red glow.
"The girl who's gonna be spending the night, that's who," she retorted, still not showing any signs of intimidation, even as the tall ghost came as close as he possibly could to glare daggers at her.
"Is that so?" he mused.
"That's so," she told him stubbornly.
It had been a long, long time since humans had stayed in Whipstaff, almost ten years if Stretch recalled correctly. Dr. Harvey and his daughter hadn't been able to stay due to the expenses of the house; the heating bill alone nearly put the good doctor knee-deep in dept. After struggling for almost five years, James had broken the news as gently as he could to Kat and the ghosts of Whipstaff. Casper didn't think twice when Kat asked if he'd come with her, and the Trio had bid the Harveys and their nephew fare-thee-well with some reluctance. They'd never admit it out loud, but they'd grown attached to those obscure humans and the bulb-headed kid, and afterlife without them proved to be a very boring existence indeed.
And now this stubborn redhead with the faded black dye in her hair and abstract brown eyes was just begging to spend the night in their home. This was perfect; finally, they'd have some quality entertainment.
"That's so," the ghost murmured and grinned over his shoulder to the other two, both of whom were grinning back broadly. They nodded and Stretch snickered as he turned back to the girl, hooked an arm behind her and shoved her forward.
"Welcome t'Whipstaff, baby," he announced loudly, aggressively, ignorant of the fact she was glaring at him again.
"Don't call me baby," she muttered, brushing off her shoulders and arms as though he had somehow sullied her.
"Stinkie," Stretch said, and the nasally ghost came forward, saluting the oldest of the bunch.
"Yessir?"
"Show Little Miss Sunshine 'ere t'her room for the night."
---
"Ya got a name?" Stinkie asked as he led the stranger upstairs.
"Stephanie," she told him, dragging her fingers through the dust on the old banister. She made a face as she looked to the ghost just ahead of her. "What kind of name is Stinkie, anyway?"
He snickered. "Da kinda name dat implies da obvious, kiddo."
She cocked an eyebrow. "I don't smell – " She was silenced when he spun around, performed the ghost-equivalent of an inhale and then exhaled a pungent green mist that made her eyes water. However, she did not recoil. In fact, she started to laugh and wiped the water from her eyes.
" Now that's a stink!"
Stinkie stared vacantly at the girl for a few seconds. Was she not repulsed? Sickened? Even just a little nauseous? Apparently not as she finally caught her breath and then carried on upstairs, shaking her head somewhat.
"You coming or what? I don't know where I'm going."
"Y-yeah. Sure," he mumbled as he floated at her side now, eyeballing her curiously. "Dat – dat didn' botha ya at all?"
"Oh, don't get me wrong, it stunk to high heaven, but it was pretty funny if you ask me," she replied with a coy smirk and a sideways glance.
"Most fleshies faint from dat stink," he mumbled.
" Yeah, well I'm not mostfleshies."
"I noticed," he said quietly. They continued to the second floor, down the halls and finally to an empty bedroom. He went through the door and unlocked it before opening it for her and motioning for her to step inside.
"S'not da Ritz, but it'll 'ave ta do," Stinkie said, watching her as she walked around the room, then sat on the bed. Dust rose from the old sheets and the springs groaned in protest under her weight.
"Guess so," she shrugged. "I've slept on worse."
Fighting the urge to inquire about the supposed horrible sleeping conditions she'd endured, because asking too much would give him insight and he just didn't want to know, he rubbed at the back of his neck and asked, "so, whatcha wanna stay 'ere for, anyway?"
"People say this place is haunted," she said with a grin, and he matched it almost instantly.
"Seein' ghosts ain't enough for ya?"
She shook her head. "It's not that. I wanted to prove this place was nothing to be freaked out over."
"Fleshies like you are gonna give us a bad rep, yanno dat?" What were they coming to if they couldn't even scare away some kid with an attitude problem? Then again, with the way the world worked nowadays, with ghost-whisperers and zombie flicks and haunted hotel rooms for rent, maybe this was how it was supposed to be.
"Sue me," she chuckled.
"I would if I could," he said with a snicker.
"So, what's up with you three stooges anyway?" she asked a few moments later, cocking her head to the side. "Especially the skinny guy. Does he have a superiority complex or what?" she mumbled, whistling afterward.
"Stretch's always been a lil high on himself," Stinkie shrugged. "Don' mind 'im."
"Didn't plan to," she said wryly. "Ok, so what's your story? You don't seem so bad. I mean, you kinda reek, but other than that..."
Oh, Christ, he thought, he was turning into the next Friendly Ghost if all he came off as was pungent instead of frightening. If Stretch caught wind of that, he'd never let Stinkie hear the end of it. He'd have to change this kid's opinion if he valued his reputation, and the respect of their leader.
"I can be plenty scary when I wanna be," he muttered, and made a mental note to prove this to her one day.
She nodded, uncaring, disbelieving. "Sure. And the fat one?"
" Fatso's... Fatso," he said, skewing his face. The heavyset ghost was unique, that was for certain, and possibly crazier than Stretch. Idly, he wondered if he was able to acknowledge the fact the other two had lost a few marbles too many if that made him the sanest of the bunch. With only passive aggression under his belt, he figured he just may have been on the right track. But now was not the time to think of such things.
Now was the time to set this bone bag in her place – except he never had the chance. She started to speak before he could even open his mouth again.
"You know, if you guys really wanna scare me, I could tell you what'd do the trick."
Naturally, she had his interest. "Do tell."
"Put that Stretch guy in drag."
---
Surprisingly, they spent a few hours talking. She told him trivial things about her life, because those were the only details worth sharing in her opinion. Things like how she'd been kicked out of nearly every house she's lived in, and that she's now living with her best friend from grade school. She also shared with him the fact that, one day, she'd like to own an animal shelter, and she didn't know why.
He told her what little he could about himself; that he'd been dead for over a century, that he couldn't really remember if Stretch and Fatso were actually his brothers but it damn well felt like it on most days and there was a small, odd comfort in that. He told her about the Harveys and about Casper, how they may or may not have been his real uncles, and how things had been horribly dull since their departure.
It was close to three in the morning when she finally said she'd be going to bed. In jest, he told her she could get out now if she wanted to, since she'd spent the night. She'd grinned and told him good night before she pounded the dust out of the provided pillow and laid down between the old sheets.
He left the room, avoided Stretch and Fatso, and headed for the attic. The Trio had a lot of their own memoirs stored up there, in boxes dustier than Casper's old chests, older than J.T. McFadden's documents. Stinkie found one of his boxes and merely ran ectoplasm-fingers through the layers of dust, leaving streaks behind. He didn't have to look inside, he knew what was inside; doctor's reports, pictures, and a death certificate. He smirked inwardly, recalling snapshot-like memories of his final moments, how they were uncomfortable and he'd been exhausted and giving up seemed like the best option. And then there were memories of the things that came before – of drunken stupors and warm bodies next to his and the way the world just didn't care to slow down for a schmuck like him.
She made him feel all of those things again. Sick and tired and dazed and like he just couldn't keep up, even if he wanted to. He wanted to hate these feelings, but he couldn't bring himself to. Before he left the attic to join Stretch and Fatso, he concluded that this was one sickness he didn't want to be relieved of just yet.
---
"I'll be back tomorrow," she says before leaves. Stretch muses on how that sounded like a threat (and it had to have been, because "dames like 'er are always makin' wit' threats") but it sounds more like a promise to Stinkie. A simple, unabashed promise of her return.
He waits for Stretch and Fatso to return inside, then he smirks and shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "Dis is nuts," he mumbles before following after the others – because she's made him think up dozens of overused axioms to describe her (she's one in a million; she's salt in the open wound; she has him believing love can be blind), because she's made him remember the way a heart can knot up and a stomach can somersault and how a throat can run dry.
She makes him feel alive again.
He snickers to himself, the notion amusing, unsettling, but for the most part it's right on the nail (and there he goes again, using another cliché).
"Where's a shrink when ya need one? Da girl's drivin' me completely outta my mind."