A person's eyes over a lifetime are a host to so many events, the best of humanity, the capability for unhindered cruelty. Life is not that simple. It never has been. The afterlife is no different. The eyes in which Dennis scorns at are blank, flecked grey stone. They will never blink, never recall the things they've seen. They lack consciousness. They lack humanity despite the way the stone has been shaped to resemble that of a woman, youth permanently etched into her features.
Dennis has met people who lack humanity. He lives with a few. Despite the fact that spring is at its height, despite the happy couples now being wed at the house, despite the fact Alison and Mike are there, Dennis can't be happy. He's not allowed to exist in peace.
"I suppose that was your intention though, wasn't it?" He mutters to himself, not bothering to cover his mouth when he speaks- there isn't anyone here to offend with his damaged gums and missing teeth. He doesn't have to be understood over the strong lisp that he's mocked for. They call him 'Dennith'. He calls him 'Dennith'.
And when he even thinks about that nickname he can see the cruel grin, the canines of the smile filed down into painful points. That eye that's always looking the wrong way, the iris too large in comparison to the real eye. It's like Florence's eyes. It doesn't really see. It's an imitation of humanity. Just like the owner of the eye.
Dennis paces in front of the statue, bloodstained sleeves sticking to his arms, hands brought up to his chest- but not clasped together. The bruised tips of his fingers won't allow it. He's ached, winced and flinched his way through 130 years. He's been lonely for most of it. He doesn't have many friends because he doesn't trust anyone but himself really. Why would he?
"I don't understand how someone so wretched in disposition can have acquaintances. Somehow you do. You always wanted to be liked though. I think you were jealous-" Dennis mutters darkly under his breath like some sort of occult ritual. It was bad enough when it was just himself and Anton- he had a metaphorical punching bag. He'd come to hate the nervous entomologist, the pathetic way he was so easily upset, how he'd let his brother do anything, how much of a pushover he was. It was hypocritical of Dennis but sometimes men project their insecurities onto others.
Then he died too. And everything got worse. And then he made friends and they joined in. Now he knows how to tell one person's footsteps from another- from the hours of time compiled that he spent standing still like a fawn being stalked by a wolf.
"Getting old and the most you could muster was poking a dead squirrel with a scalpel at a presentation about botany. And somewhere along that path it was decided I was responsible? You were an embarrassment to our institution" The 's' noise was turned to a 'th', causing flecks of red spittle to fly from his mouth. The most he could do was pause, gingerly raise his palm of his hand to his mouth and swipe it across.
"You were an iconoclast to the scientific community. You know even your so-called friends would talk about you? The funny little things you'd do and say. You were a laughing stock, I think you knew that but perchance you did not realise quite how much" It was a cruel statement and it felt good to say aloud. Sometimes it felt good to be mean. There was a smile on his face now, but it wasn't warm. He shook a finger as if he were thinking, turning to face the statue.
"I remember feeling pity for you when dearest Anton died" He laughed as if it were a ridiculous notion. "Imagine your brother expiring in the icy depths of a lake- I did. It's called empathy. Do you feel empathy?" His voice was quiet yet cutting.
A few blossoms gently fell to the ground in the breeze, Florence's face unmoving in the purples and pinks of a setting sun. He was glad to hear no response.
"Do you care about anyone? I think you care about Anton- I want you to imagine something, I want you to empathise, for but a second if possible" He spoke dangerously gently, blue eyes staring intently at the face of the statue.
"Imagine someone blamed him for everything. He's the devil's incarnate now. He's not your innocent sweet brother, He's a Judas figure, the supposed catalyst for events perfectly in one's control" His tone was harsher, word beginning to cascade as he spoke. Dennis was never one for religion. As a child maybe but scientific theory of evolution- the mere existence of dinosaurs- in his logical mind meant there was no god. Maybe if there was he wouldn't be here anymore.
He'd be happy.
His hands were clenching into loose fists, still trying to protect his fragile fingertips. "Our 'Judas' is dealt with in a manner in which is deemed 'appropriate'- let's tear him limb from limb, let's cut him open and play inside, rip his teeth from his jaws, curse him, watch him suffer, slice his throat and watch him run dry- imagine that! Imagine someone doing that to dearest Anton!"
He was realising he was going too far, pushing himself as he tried to describe the events unfolding. Sometimes it felt like it was happening again- he could see it, smell it, live it all over again right from the comfort of his own bedroom. He'd get told the next morning he sounded like a girl screaming, if someone didn't come waltzing in to witness.
He sounds hysterical and that's because he is. He hates Anton and yet he feels distressed at the thought of someone doing that to another. He sniffs loudly and lets out a strangled chuckle. "It's a horrid image isn't it? It's an ode to the worst man can do to another" He pauses, sniffing again and realising that there are tears rolling down his face. He's looking down at his shoes and he can see specks of blood on them. A tear falls, soaks into the leather and disappears. It's all his own blood. No one else's was split that day.
He urges himself to stop, turn off the waterworks and get a grip. But he does that everyday. He swallows his panic, skulking around the house like some sort of rat, pretending to be more civil and more settled than he really feels. And truth be told- he's sick of it.
Gentlemanly etiquette doesn't matter anymore. Not here.
It's just him and the statue.
Him and Baxter.
"And yet, given the chance I'd happily watch it happen to you!" His voice breaks, he gives in and he clenches his hands into fists, his fingertips screaming for him to stop as he swings for the statue's face. If he closes his eyes he can imagine it's Baxter's- he can imagine the surprise of the hit, blood dripping down from his nose, into the crevice of a split lip, teeth- stained pink as they mix with saliva.
He can imagine hitting him again and again and again. He'd look just as inhuman on the outside as he did on the inside. That smile is a grimace, his teeth are missing, predator-like canines lie on the ground with remnants of gum at the roots. His clothes are red, his shirt soaked with blood, sticking to his arms and torso.
And he's crying. He's crying and it's such a sweet thing to see. He can beg for his freedom, he can beg for it to all stop and he can deliver. He'll end his miserable existence, he'll be doing everyone a favour. The world doesn't need Baxter Taylor Smith. He's not wanted, he's not cared for, he's unloved. He's evil and he deserves to suffer.
Dennis flails his limbs, kicking and punching blindly. The movement hurts his body, he can feel the way his torso is pulling that the wounds on his stomach are threatening to come apart. He's not heavily built, he's short and skinny and he doesn't even comprehend looking insane or ridiculous, because he's letting it out for once.
"I'd kill you!" He screams, not quite believing that the voice he hears is his own. It sounds horrid and ragged. He realises the rise and fall of his chest is rapid and it's making him lightheaded. "I'd...I'd kill.." He repeats himself, realising he can't breathe properly anymore. His fist flails again, phasing through the statue as he drops onto his knees.
Florence remains unchanged. Blossoms fall.
"Kill…" It doesn't really sound like he means it anymore.
The breeze is warm.
"I hate what you did today"
His voice is small and weak. Today's attack hadn't even been provoked, it just seemed to be one of Baxter's 'bad days'. On 'Bad days' Dennis would try and hide but he always found him. Dennis would always be his punchbag.
His glasses slide down his nose and off his face, hitting the grass and making a quiet clink. He feels exhausted, he always does but this is different. It's a dull and painful ache in his chest that he knows he can't dwell on it long because it's excruciating and he has no means to an end. He's trapped in a loop. A cyclical run of torment.
He kneels at Florence's feet as if kneeling before an altar to his pain. It's inhuman. She can't judge him, she can't laugh. She's a statue. An effigy to his unsung pain. He leans down further, clutching his sides and touching his forehead to the floor as if in prayer. He's not. He's closing his eyes for a moment, letting his guard down as he feels the earth against his skin.
He stays there but he's not really sure how long for, but when he looks up the sun has set and the daylight is fading fast. He hates the night, a constant battle between wanting to sleep, fear of being ambushed whilst asleep and what his unconscious mind will show him if he does settle down.
There are footsteps. His body seizes up like a rabbit does when it's about to run from a fox. He listens.
Light but not quick or purposeful enough to be his….not loud and rough Fraiser's. If he listens hard enough he can hear a third thing falling- a cane.
"Does that feel better?" A voice asks, slightly muffled behind the bird mask and round glass eyes. It makes Dennis jump and he picks himself up from the ground with haste, trying to make himself look more presentable. Not that he'll ever really look presentable again. It feels embarrassing, knowing that someone saw such an open display of emotion- it's improper.
He slowly turns and sees Aldrich waddling calmly across the lawn towards him, sky reflecting off those glass eyes. Sometimes if you looked close enough you could at least see the human eyes underneath, which is reassuring. Dennis' mouth is open as if he's about to say something but all he can muster is:
"I..I beg your pardon?" He stammers a little, one hand going to cover his mouth- he doesn't like people seeing his teeth. The other hand is raised so he can wipe his eyes on the sleeve. He figures the red blotchy areas on his face will give him away even if there aren't any more
tears, but he can try. It won't trick Aldrich.
"Does that feel better?" The plague doctor asked again gently, finally coming to a halt in front of Dennis and resting both of his hands on the cane in front of him. He's leaning to one side with his usual calm swagger.
The paleontologist doesn't know what to say. He could try and deny it but he's not going to blindly deny the truth, unlike some members of the household. His mouth opens and closes a few times, holding his hands at his chest (fingers not touching), his shoulders sagging, unable to look the doctor in the eye.
"Yes" Is all he can quietly muster, fearful of who else might have seen that. Rumours spread like wildfire in Button house and he's had his fair share of them be slanderous towards him. Certainly Baxter finding another means to relentlessly torment him.
He feels ashamed to admit it and feels bitter that he has to. In his mind he's trying to string together words as a form of half apology, half 'what on earth were you doing watching that display?!'
All he can really do is stare wordlessly down at his leather shoes, stare at the flecks of blood. It's all his own.
"That's good, a much healthier way to get it all out-" Dennis looks up as he's spoken to, eyes going wide as Doc's hand is about to meet his arm to give it a pat. He flinches, taking a step to the side and shooting him a venomous glare. Not very gentlemanly of him but a split second fearful reaction.
"Please refrain from putting your hands on me" The younger man mutters, hand subconsciously going to hold the place where Doc would have placed his own gloved hand.
And to his surprise the hand is withdrawn. "That's alright, I can respect that"
Surprise must have registered on his face because he caught a glint of pity behind those glass eyes. Normally 'don't touch me' was treated as a challenge, an invitation. Another way to hurt him, make him want to remove his own skin from the crawling sensation it gave him.
It feels strange for someone to listen to him.
But it's nice. And this time, he's not talking to something inhuman.
Hello! Been a long while since I last posted anything here, I'm not dead! This is my first time writing ghosts fanfic (granted it is of Ocs but shhh)
I haven't written in quite a long while so it was nice to give it a shot again. Reviews are appreciated!
Character credits/mentions:
Dr Dennis Hadley and Fraiser Cheshire (Belongs to me, my toyhouse is evilcatapparition if you'd like to know more about him)
Dr Baxter Taylor Smith and Aldrich (Belong to my friend Tiggsygoo on Toyhouse)
Anton Smith (Belongs to my friend InkedfurStudios on toyhouse) Please go check out my friends toy houses, they've both got really excellent ghosts Ocs!