A/N: I do not own these characters; they belong to their respected writers. I am merely a dreamer with too much time on their hands to piece this all together. Note: Tate Langdon is more than a school shooter in this piece of fiction - he's a serial killer. Hence why this is an AU we've been thrust into. Enjoy.
Chapter 2 – Intruder
The twelve-hour flight from Stockholm to Los Angeles gave Lisbeth plenty of time to read and re-read the documents Armansky had sent over the day before. With two stops in between, she was able to compose enough about the mysterious teenage boy with the little information that was given about him. She knew of his fear, his insecurities, and the anger that once ran through his veins; she knew because she felt it herself.
"Would you like anything, ma'am?" Lisbeth turned away from the window to face the overly cheery flight attendant. "Black coffee," she muttered, and with a nod she left Lisbeth to stare out at the vast ocean of clouds. Casually she wondered if Tate Langdon ever saw the sky like this, or if he was trapped in a world that he could not escape and found the only possible means of breaking out. The attendant came back with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a handful of sugar packets and tabs of cream. Lisbeth stuffed them in the small slit in the seat in front of her and drank the dark liquid.
The plane landed, the darkness settling in with the city lights blinking and glowing in the California sky. Her nerves set aflame, Lisbeth grabbed her backpack and shuffled her way through the thin line of travellers into LAX. The airport was alive with excitement as the young woman made her way through the crowd and towards the baggage claim. Finally making her way there, she waited for her suitcase to round the bend with the others, tapping the toe of her boot on the linoleum floor. Tired business men and women crowded around her, their eyes bloodshot from waking up from their long naps and some with bags under their eyes from the lack of sleep.
Grabbing her black suitcase, Lisbeth made her way out of the airport and into the warm LA air, the palm trees overhead gently swaying in the slight breeze that tickled the night. A line of yellow taxis waited for travellers to pick up their call, and Lisbeth made her way over to one, pounding on the hood of the trunk to signal for the driver to open it. When he did, she stuffed her suitcase inside and slipped into the back seat. It strongly smelled of curry, and Lisbeth wrinkled her nose as the Middle Eastern man turned in his seat to look at her.
"Where to?" he asked, his accent thick. Pulling a piece of paper out of her jacket pocket, she handed it to the cabbie who held it right up to his face. "Oh my," he said, handing her back the slip of paper. "Are you sure you want to go there?" Lisbeth narrowed her bleached eyebrows. "Yes," she muttered. "Why?" The cabbie revved the engine, blaring the headlights and putting the taxi into drive. He made his way away from the airport.
"That's The Murder House, miss," he said. "It's supposed to be haunted." Lisbeth rolled her eyes, looking out the window and watching the other cars pass her by. "I don't believe in ghost stories," she told the cabbie. He shook his head, making a left down the road. "I don't believe in ghosts either, miss," he said. "But this house is the exception."
The cabbie stayed silent for the rest of the trip, which much to Lisbeth's enjoyment wasn't long. "I don't want to park in front of it," the cabbie said, as he rolled up a block away from the house. "I don't want spirits entering my cab." Lisbeth rolled her eyes and stuffed a fistful of dollar bills at the cabbie. "Thanks," she muttered, and the cabbie popped the trunk and Lisbeth grabbed her thinks. She watched as the yellow taxi drove away and she made her trek over to the house.
In the darkness, she could see the dull red of the brick and the soft creams and tans the towers were painted. The iron gates were rusted over with vines beginning to creep their way between the bars. She pushed them open, a deep creak echoing throughout the night. Lisbeth looked up at the house, the lights diminished and the curtains drawn; there was no one in this house – it looked like it hadn't been lived in in months. Setting her suitcase down, Lisbeth reached into her backpack and pulled out her camera and began snapping a few shots of the front of the house.
It was the flash that stirred them. Hayden ran up the basement steps and into the front hallway, thrusting her brown eye into the circular peephole. Her pink lips turned down in a scowl when she saw the thin being flashing her camera at the house, her body covered in thick layers too warm from the weather.
"Shit," Hayden sneered, and she pushed herself away from the door and ran back down into the basement. Hayden was unsure of what to do – the house had been vacant for months and the spirits had settled themselves into a sleep where they avoided each other and the outside world. With someone about to enter the house, the whole peaceful order of things was bound to throw itself into a whirlwind of disaster.
Her mind went straight to Tate, whose emotions had gone straight to hell since Violet had decided she had enough with his bullshit. He had exiled himself from the other spirits of the house, and the heaviness inside seemed to have calmed with him withdrawing from the rest of them. But with this stranger stepping foot into the unknown, Hayden was unsure of the fate that would unfold for her or the residents of the house.
Lisbeth shoved her camera back into her bag and pulled the key Armansky had given her at the Stockholm airport out of her pocket and stuck it in the lock to the front door. It wedged itself deep into the cogs of the lock, and she struggled with turning it until finally it budged and the oak door swung itself in.
A crystal chandelier hung over her head, the rainbow encrusted jewels glittering in the moonlight that snuck its way through the stained glass windows. The reflections danced on the wooden floors, and Lisbeth slowly made her way into the house, her boots making a deep thuds as she took steady paces.
"Shit, shit, shit," Hayden muttered, chewing on her nails, the black nail polish that had painted on them beginning to peel off. Her eyes darted across the dark basement, her ears alert to the sounds of the other spirits. All she could hear was the stranger's footfalls upstairs, and if she could hear it, the others certainly could to. Why weren't they responding though?
"Did you hear that?" Vivien raised her eyes from the book in her hands and turned to her husband who was doing the same. With an eyebrow raised, Ben seated himself upright in the bed, listening to the soft noises coming from downstairs. "Wait here," he told Vivien, and he rolled out of bed and made his way into the hallway. Peering over the banister, Ben saw the black suitcase waiting by the door, and his eyes scanned over to see a pale figure reach their hand up to turn on the light in the kitchen.
Lisbeth flicked the light on, the deep yellow glow casting itself against the marble counters and the metallic appliances. She opened up the door to the refrigerator and noted the empty contents. "Go figure," she muttered, slamming it shut. She pulled a granola bar out of her backpack and sunk into one of the three barstools seated at the island in the middle of the kitchen. She peeled open the wrapper and took a bite out of the sweet, dry oats, her eyes staring blankly at the cabinets across from her.
"Get Violet," Ben said, appearing back in the bedroom, running to the closet and pulling out a tee-shirt. Vivien scrambled out of bed, throwing her robe over her shoulders. "What's going on?" she asked as Ben let the shirt fall over his chest. He looked at his wife. "There's someone in the house." Instantly, the couple's minds began to race, and Vivien ran from the room quietly towards the room across the hallway.
Crawled underneath the covers, Violet lay with her eyes open, staring at the lamp on her bedside table. Her thoughts were swirling with the images of the lost soul in the basement; his eyes, his laugh, the way his lips turned up in that breathtaking smile. Her chest ached when she thought of him, and her blood boiled she dove deeper into those thoughts and realized what a monster he really was. "Violet!" Violet jumped in her bed, pushing herself up to see her mother walking in her room. "Mom?" she questioned, as Vivien made her way in.
"There's someone in the house," she said, grabbing her daughter by the shoulders and leading her out of the room. Violet knitted her eyebrows. "What?" she said, but Vivien only shook her head. "I'll explain later," she said. "Right now we have to go to the basement." Violet's heart sank; anywhere but the basement. "What about the attic?" she suggested. "They won't look up there, will they?" Vivien stopped in her tracks and looked at her teenage daughter. She nodded her head.
"You're right," she said. "We can't stay there forever, but for now…" She knew why Violet was hesitant about the basement; he was there. But sooner or later, they would all have face the demon that lurked there. "Go grab your brother from the nursery," she instructed. "Take him up to the attic. I'm going to get your father." Violet nodded and Vivien made her way downstairs.
Violet slipped into the nursery, careful not to make any loud noises. The soft sounds of Jonah's breathing crept into her ears, and she envied the ghostly infant. Carefully, she picked up the small boy and held him in her arms. "Shh," she cooed, as she gently rocked him. He didn't move, and Violet made her way out of the nursery and towards the attic.
"Ben!" Vivien whispered, creeping her way through the living room. She saw the light in the kitchen make its way out into the hallway, and she heard the distant sounds of life moving about inside. Her bare feet carefully made its way through the house until she spotted her husband in the shadows, a finger to his lips. Vivien stopped. He pointed towards the basement door where it was cracked a bit. Vivien shook her head and pointed upstairs, and Ben raised an eyebrow at her. "Attic," she mouthed, and Ben responded with a nod.
Lisbeth stood from the barstool and stretched her limbs, her jaw opening in a wide yawn. Scratching the curve in her side, she turned the kitchen light off and made her way back into the hallway to grab her suitcase and explore the upstairs for a bedroom to crash in. Upon stepping out of the kitchen, Lisbeth felt a cold chill wash over her, and the small girl shivered. Instantly, her mind wandered to the cab driver and his theories on ghosts, but she shook it off.
"Fuck off," she said to the darkness, and she grabbed her suitcase and made her way upstairs, purposefully stomping her boots as she climbed them.
"If that's what you want," he said with a low whisper, as he watched her from the crack in the doorframe, his insides tingling with excitement as new energy flowed through him.
How he loved the smell of fresh blood.