Hello my lovely's i am so very sorry this update has taken me so long i have been very sick since i last posted. I have an immune disorder anyway which leaves me unable to walk and i am in a state of constant exhaustion (so i sleep a hell of a lot). Now i have also been diagnosed with being Bipolar as well. All in all i have a hell of a lot on my plate, i have been on the verge of hospitalization many times and so i have been unable to write a thing.
However here is the second half of the chapter of the chapter i owe everyone. Thank you for the reviews it's always appreciated and feel free to bug me about writing the next chapter, sometimes i need a little nagging.
Anyway enjoy and i send my apologies for making you all wait.
Months passed since Lydia Deetz had moved back into the old house on the hill that had been her childhood home. Not that you would recognize it now, the rather garish floral country-style décor was nowhere to be found. Even her stepmother Delia's monstrous taste in sculpted furniture had been banished from the house leaving it a blank slate for Lydia's artistic side to run wild.
She had converted the house into an art studio of sorts; the basement had been turned into a dark room for when she needed to develop her photos and the other rooms in the house had also been changed to suit her new life style. The so-called 'living room' had been turned into a model scene of a graveyard as she thought it was too ironic an opportunity to miss and she had painted a sign on the door which read 'The Living Dead Room'. The irony was even greater due to the fact that this had been the Maitland's favourite room in the house (besides the attic). It was also one of Lydia's favourite rooms in the house along with her bedroom which was relatively the same as it had been as a child, though now it was filled with 'grownup' things. Macabre art work lined the walls, giving the place a feel of dark elegance as if it belonged to a vampiric royal.
Yet Lydia soon began to forget why she had ever felt scared of the charming old house. The aged walls held a comforting warmth within its crumbling wall that made it strangely inviting as if it had been calling her name. She hadn't been able to resist its call for long as it was in a word 'homely'. Though she had changed many aspects of the house she still felt as if there was something missing, something that used to be there when she was a kid and wasn't there now. It had been a strange crackle of energy which could only be compared to lighting a match in a firework factory and staying to watch the utter chaos that ensued. Now, without it the house felt flat and lifeless as if someone has pulled the plug on the life support leaving Lydia with the awful feeling that she was for the first time in her life, truly living with the dead. Of course she had lived with ghosts quite happily for years but they had been always been quite animated individuals considering that they were somewhat living impaired. The hallways had always echoed with Barbra's almost musical laughter and the sound of gentle, slightly out of tune humming as Adam worked on one of his toy models. Every now and then the peaceful atmosphere was shattered by a scream as Delia unveiled her latest monstrosity if a sculpture but the constant changing ambience was what had made the place so special. Now it lacked a certain je ne sais quoi that no matter how hard she tried it could never be replicated. Especially now the hallways and large echoing rooms of the hose were silent, as if someone had muted the house's beautiful crescendo, with only the humming of the fridge and the slow clicks of Lydia's heels as she walked across the bare wooden floors to break the unbearable silence.
Of course she had attempted to liven things up with the occasional party and though her bizarre photo shoots did add a little glow of excitement to the place. It fizzled out all too soon like a sparkler dropped into a bucket of water. Once the drunken stragglers had made their way home in the dim morning light, muttering slurred goodbye's as they stumbled back down the hill, Lydia found herself alone again in the house. This time there would be no soft laughter to great her as she bounced her way drunkenly up to the attic, to be scolded and tutted at before being tucked lovingly into bed. Now if she ventured up those twisted stairs all she would be greeted by were piles of lonely dust sheets and empty paint pots so old that even the vapours have upped and left. The strange static energy that had once crackled through the house like a living pulse was noticeably missing and to Lydia, it felt almost as if the house itself had died.
A restless feeling took hold of her and it only got worse as the year went on and the house remained silent and still. The sense of anxiety only increased to a maddening level until it became an itch festering in Lydia's brain. At times she wished that she could saw open up her skull like she had seen in the more macabre cartoons of a childhood. She could just imagine it, her fingers eagerly diving into the slimy grey matter to scratch the evil itch residing deep within her brain. Yes she liked that idea, the thought of all the blood and puss really did it for her even if it was her own. Though the thought of a bit of DIY brain surgery was incredibly tempting it wasn't exactly practical and so she quickly put that idea to bed. Oh, she knew what needed to be done, whenever she started to feel herself slipping back into the haze of depression she needed to do something bizarre and unusual. Only this would break the cycle of self-destruction and remind her just how much she liked being in the land of the living. All she needed to do was find a project to distract her and soon enough she would become so focused on what she was doing that all thoughts of becoming a resident in the neither world evaporated.
Lydia found her project soon enough one rather miserable weekend when the rain rapped against the window making it sounds as if a small spider were tap dancing against the glass. She loved days like these, she wasn't sure quite why but there was something almost magical about them. The way the rain smelt as it mixed with the dirt as she trudged along purposely getting soaked to her skin. She found the frozen water amazing thrilling about as it stole all the warmth from her skin. It was comforting and arousing at the same time, for some reason it made her mind go into over drive until she was plagued by strangely sensual thought. Oh, how they tormented her and now matter how hard she tried to visualise her mysterious lover no images were produced just the same feeling. The carnal pleasure of a hand bringing a cold shiver up her spine before a pair of frozen lips hungrily caressed her neck. When those thoughts started to occur she quickly scarpered back inside to get changed into warm, dry clothes and thought she was warm soon enough she was still left with that haunting impression upon her skin.
Today, however, she decided to skip her usual rain walk as there was a thunder storm rolling in and with the amount of silver jewellery she wore she would be something of a lightning rod. "Is silver even conductive"? Lydia asked herself as she busied herself about the house trying to take her mind off the upcoming storm. She sorted out various boxes containing old clothes and more specifically her winter wardrobe that she hadn't been bothered to unpack after the move. It had been late spring when she had moved in so she had seen no need to clutter up the wardrobe with unnecessaries. Now however there was an undeniable chill in the air and she knew she would need it soon. Unpacking said boxes, she began sorting through them only to find that she desperately needed to sort through her wardrobe. Sighing she began throwing clothes on the bed deciding that they constituted what would essentially be the 'keep' pile whereas the floor seemed to be the 'heap' pile. It was only as she got about halfway through sorting the various garments that she realised that she still had her teenage clothes. It really should have been obvious from the start as they were taking up over a third of the small walk-in wardrobe, the cheap often scratchy material were a far cry to the clothes she now fashioned herself in. Now they were soft and elegant, consisting mainly of corsets, skirts, dresses and obscure designer pieces which were quite simply to die for. Though her new style and clothes were a lot richer in taste they were still of a similar in certain ways, dark and all together gothic. Though her new clothes tended to be more eye-catching, Filled with unusual designs and slightly more colour they had more of a punk rock feel to them whereas her previous style was a lot closer to Gothic Lolita.
She took out one particular dress and couldn't help but chuckle at it with amusement, the sordid little number had been one of her favourites just because it pissed off Delia. Alright not just because it pissed off Delia, though that helped quite a lot to secure it among one of her favourites. The garment had in fact been made by mother, her biological one. Delia was hardly what Lydia would call 'the mothering' type as the woman was as baron and harsh as the deepest crater of the sun. Hell, the woman couldn't even keep any plant alive more than a week, it was as if here mere presence made them wither and die. What chance would a human child have with harpy of a woman, who hardly compared to the loving warmth her real mother had radiated. She missed her mother more than anything, it was a hurt never went away though it wasn't as painful as it had once been. The pain in her heart whenever she thought of her mother's infectious cackle of a laugh, or her slightly crooked smile, had lessened over the years into something of a dull ache. It would never leave her, she knew that and it had shaped who she was today. Without it she honestly didn't know who she would be, certainly different. She certainly wouldn't be living here of all places, she would have been living in the city. Perhaps high in a gleaming silver apartment block that seemed to touch the sky, just like the one from her childhood.
She began to feel a dull, draining pang somewhere deep inside her, which she quickly pushed aside. There was no point in pining in things that might or could have been. It was that kind of thinking that would make her lose it for good, she realised that as she looked back down at the simple black dress in her hands and instantly knew couldn't bear to part with it. Yes, it was probably too small for her now, even though it has been more of a loose smock costume dress when her mother had created it. The dress had trailed on the floor all through what she liked to call her 'squirt' years. She had shot up like a beanpole since then and filled out in several areas since then, mainly her bust more than anything else. Sometimes she found herself wondering if the damned twins who she had affectionately named 'Morticia' and 'Wednesday' would ever stop growing as it felt like she spent an inexcusable chunk of her paycheck constantly going bra shopping.
Her fingertips caressed the delicate, fairy size stitches along the hems of the black shimmery organza her mother had lovingly stitched over the plain red material. The netting itself was rather unspectacular until you traced the netting along the left side of the dress where a ghastly looking but perfectly stitched murder of jet black crows flew across the fabric. At first glance, it looks as if the crows were in the air but upon closer inspection, it was evident that they were caught in a colossal spider's web that was spun in the most delicate silver that it looked almost real. Beneath the collar of the garment sat a black widow spider, her body fat and round from feasting on the ironic murder trapped in her web. Her crimson hourglass stood out particularly well against her spindly black body, highlighted by the red underlay that had been weathered by many a year to a dusky plum. The garment was delightfully morbid and dramatic just like her mother had been. The woman had possessed an elegance and natural grace which made even the tiniest action look précised and somewhat reminded her of how royalty would act in public. Evey movement a deliberate act; a carefully calculated move in a chess game played with a grace that only hours of etiquette training could teach. There really had been something magical about the way her mother had moved, so smooth and dainty that she looked if she were gliding even in the most deadly of heels.
"Keep," Lydia thought to herself carefully putting the garment into the keep pile. She would try it on later and even if it didn't fit her anymore she would never part with it, who knows one day she could even be giving said deliciously dark dress to a daughter of her own. She stopped and quite literally laughed out loud at the absurdity of that thought, her a mother never. For one she would make a lousy parent as she had literally no maternal instincts when it came to human children, animals and bugs, on the other hand, she felt quite a strongly for. Another very valid reason why the very idea of her becoming a mother was laughable was her state of being 'unattached and fancy-free' as her father liked to call it. She seemed to be permanently between boyfriends at the moment, not that she hadn't tried, she really had but they were never right for her. They were either always too hung up and self-absorbed with themselves or reeked of desperation, unfortunately sometimes this was quite literal. The few dates she had gone on over the years were flat and unproductive, having the amount of sexual allure of a deep-sea sponge. They had been mainly Delia's doing, though her dad hadn't exactly helped in the matter. A date every few years and then awful woman would pretty much leave Lydia to her own devices of which she was glad of. She sighed to herself, raking her hand through the loose curls of her deep ebony hair. At least she didn't have to worry about another date anytime soon and that was a weight off her mind. She hated having to make awkward small talk with a stranger who either hated being here as much as she did or was a just a tad too eager for her liking. She quickly put all thoughts of Delia's disastrous attempts at matchmaking out of her mind as she shifted her focus back to the contents of her wardrobe.
"Oh hello, what's this?" Lydia asked herself as she caught a glimpse of something strange hidden at the back of her wardrobe, nestled neatly behind the overflowing clothes rail. Yes, there was defiantly something there, a flash of dark silver hidden behind her mountain of clothes. She hastily pushed the remaining railed clothes out the way and reached up blindly to turn on the wardrobe light. She didn't dare take her eyes of the thing just in case she lost it under the clothes again and forgot about it. Instead, her fingertips groped the air frantically before tangling with the metallic cord; pulling gently until a small light bulb somewhere inside the wardrobe turned itself on with a metallic ping. "Oh my god I thought this had been thrown out years ago" Lydia exclaimed pushing a pile of clothes off the obscured object to reveal that it was, in fact, a beautiful black and silver French style dressing table. It was the one that had belonged to her mother years ago. She knew Delia hated the constant reminder of her husband's previous and late wife and Lydia had always presumed that Delia would have 'conveniently' forgotten it when they moved. Either that or she had chopped it into pieces and made it into one of her disgusting creations claiming that it was 'art'. It was never art with that woman, art was supposed to be beautiful, thought-provoking and poignant. Whereas Delia's 'Art' was more a butchery than anything else and left the viewer feeling slightly confused as to why they had just waited valuable seconds on whatever the indescribable thing was. Thankfully though the prised dressing table had been saved from her stepmother's claws and instead hidden away safely where she would never find it. "Nice one. Way to go dad" Lydia muttered to herself as she grabbed hold of one side of the table and pulled. Luckily the thing was empty and so was surprisingly light as it slid across the floor with a loud scraping sound as the metal-based feet fought against the wooden floor and won.
It was just as beautiful as it had been when she last laid eyes upon it. In fact it actually looked better than she remembered, if not a little bit smaller. Her fingertips traced the wooden moulding of the elegant table which was beautifully intact if not slightly distressed by the years of neglect. It actually looked quite good on the table which had been clean-cut lines of immaculately varnish and paint. Now, however, it was beautifully aged and had a character that was uniquely its own. The once bright white finish had yellowed until it became a beautiful aged cream. This was proof that her mother had immaculate taste in furniture. She had really been ahead of her time style wise as the dresser would now be called 'shabby chic' and Lydia believed that it was the 'in' style for home accessories at the moment. Well, that is what she gathered from the handful of conversations she had endured with her stepmother talking at her rather than too her. She tended to zone out and think of ink and photography though she did remember zoning back in when she heard about shabby chic and the whole upcycling movement. It was quite ironic that Delia was so excited about something that recycled what she perceived to be useless junk.
Lydia smoothed her fingers over the ornately carved table and couldn't help but draw comparison to some enchanted piece of furniture in an old storybook. It was stunning; each curve of the beautiful, dark wood was sanded to perfection until it was so smooth under the touch you would think it was made of stone. The elegant dresser was quite unlike the monstrosity of a dresser her stepmother possessed. She remembered spending hours, watching her mother sit at that table, applying her different powders and perfumes until she had looked the very picture of an exotic and dark queen. That is what she had thought her mother was in the naivety of a child's fantasy and of course Lydia had been the princess in said fantasy but she had been somewhat fascinated with mother at the time. No matter how much or how little time her mother spent getting dressed she always looked stunning even in her pyjama's, rocking full on bed head the woman had looked perfect. Especially in the reflection of the mirror, it somehow made everything look strangely real. She remembered her mother referring to it as her 'magic mirror' once or twice no doubt to humour her young daughter's fantasies. Now that she thought about it where was the mirror? There was a distinct lack of glass to the frame and now she looked at it the thing seemed a bit bare and lacking in personality.
"It's probably here somewhere" Lydia muttered as she dived back into the closet. Clothes flew out of the closet in no particular order as she searched the claustrophobic space for the slightest trace of shimmering silver. After several minutes of furious looking she flopped down onto the crumpled pile of clothes, letting out a sigh of exacerbation. After going through all the effort of hiding the bulk of the dressing table from his current wife Charles was unlikely to throw away the focal point of the entire piece. "Unless," Lydia thought "Delia had caught him in the act" she knew that this would have resulted in just one thing. Delia making it out as if he was cheating on her in a 'metaphorical way' or some shit like that, giving the man only one option. Smash the mirror into a thousand tiny pieces, in front of his somewhat vindictive spouse. The thought of this made Lydia's mouth feel strangely dry and her stomach feel as if it were being put on a spin cycle.
"Oh god" Lydia exclaimed, her hand rushing to her mouth in shock, a small part of her hoping it would somehow quell the increasing feeling of nausea she was suffering. Hadn't one of Delia's earlier 'creations' included pieces of broken glass as a focal point? It certainly sounded like Delia's M.O, taking something that held high emotional attachment for her 'daughter' and twisting it into an abhorrent mockery of its former self, all without Lydia knowing it? Yeah, that would be the ultimate one-up alright. Delia was always pulling shit like that, in a vindictive attempt to assert her dominance over her 'unruly' step-daughter. Yes, this kind of thing was indicative of typical Delia behaviour, cold and bordering on emotional abuse.
Lydia slumped down upon the pile of clothes she had been feverishly sorting through, feeling pissed off and deflated. Things like that used to happen all the time, Delia's little 'Fuck You´ moments really got under her skin to start with. However her dad tried his hardest to make the pair 'play nice' with each other, often going out of his way to avoid a topic of tension. Now she thought about it her father would do anything within his power to avoid conflict and that meant getting rid of various pieced from what Delia liked to call his 'former' life. Former as if he was a drug addict that had 'seen the light' and become reborn in the house of Delia.
Yes, the vindictive bitch generally told him to burn or destroy things, which her father obviously hated doing. So after a few heated arguments, the pair had come up with something of an uneasy compromise. Charles would give the offending items to a charity shop. It was something that Delia had considered a win-win situation on her part, she wouldn't be offended by certain things and giving vast pieces to charity would reflect kindly in her art career if you could even call it a career. Delia could often be found spouting some drivel about her being a great philanthropist even though Lydia doubted her stepmother actually possessed a single generous bone in her body.
Yes, the whole thrift store option sounded plausible, more than plausible actually. The more she thought about it, the more Lydia resigned herself to spending fruitless hours rummaging through other people junk. Not that she had a problem with that, she liked going to antique fares and bric-a-brac sales because you could pick up some really interesting things there. Delia had always called it a 'disgusting and unsanitary' pass time, which was ironic considering that most of her so-called art came from and then soon returned to the scrap heap.
Lydia liked looking at antiquary because of the object, whatever it was had real history behind it, a hidden story which one may never but that wasn't the point. The point of the things was that out of the history of the object Lydia would just be a little blip in its radar. She also loved the fact that no matter where these places where, there was always a box of old sepia dog-eared and warn photos hidden in a corner. She loved to leaf through them and take the obscurely old photos and imagine how easy it would be to claim that crumpled photo in her hand was, in fact, depicting her grandparent's wedding. It, of course, wasn't true but she liked that she could make up her own story about them. Every now and then a photo or two really stood out to her, this she would hastily buy and then take home to recreate in her next 'free' photo session.
She sighed heavily, resting her head on the wood-lined wall of the closet. "I'm sorry Mama, even if I had all the time in the world to look I doubt I would find it. It's probably not even intact whole let alone somewhere in this state". Lydia whispered to herself, leaving the tears of anger and loss to fall unscathed down her cheeks. "I'm so, so sorry I couldn't save this last part of you from her" she continued, the last word filled with years' worth of bitter resentment. She exhaled loudly and tilted her head back so she was staring up at the cracked, ceiling in a vain attempt quell the tears from falling. Her fingertips quickly swiped away the tear of sour defeat thereby slamming shut the gates to that particular painful memory, shutting the emotion safely back inside where she didn't have to deal with it.
As her watery vision cleared she couldn't help but notice a single white spider propel itself down from a crack in the ceiling with its almost invisible thread of web. She studied it for a few seconds as the spider stopped its decent and begun to quickly spin still suspended by a single thread. It was almost as if it was trapped in a crosswind yet there was no breeze in the stuffy little cupboard. It reminded Lydia of a lonely dancer pirouetting in the spotlight as it played out is solo for the entire world to see. It was a microscopic beauty, which she would have missed, had she been anywhere else in the house. As it was she had already missed the most striking quality about the creature. At first glances it was easy to mistake it to be white in colour, which was bizarre in itself. However, upon closer examination it was evident that the spider was in fact covered with minute black stripes which broke up the white base in the most unusual way. Close up it was easy to see the fine striping however it was all but invisible to the naked eye so Lydia had no clue quite what she was missing. She felt the urge to get her camera and record the magnificent little dance, however she knew that any little movement she made, would change the air pressure in the closet and disturb the miniature artist. So she stayed still, holding her breath as much as she could as she watched the glistening black creature pirouette on its string and then just as suddenly as it has started the ballet ended. The spider swayed for a moment before climbing back up its safety rope and quickly disappeared back into the cracked ceiling.
"What the hell was that about" Lydia couldn't help but think to herself, the random act of beauty she had just witnessed was rather weird she had to admit. She had seen a lot of spiders in her time but she had never seen one like that before, she would have remembered if she had, the marking were quite something. She knew that spiders just don't do that sort of thing, they couldn't dance like that and even if they could, it was doubtful that they want too. Yet this spider could, did and probably would dance again and that was something she HAD to get on film. She couldn't quite brush off the thought that there was some kind of meaning behind the macabre little dance. She knew it was just wishful thinking and that there had to be a rational reason for it somewhere, but in the mood, she was in at the moment indulging in a little irrationality was needed. Things were so dead in the house now she was all on her own that even the slightest hint of something supernatural made her feel all tingly inside again. It was an odd feeling, but a good one and something she hadn't felt for quite a long time. Though she would never admit it out loud she had missed the feeling as it rushed through her body like electricity. She knew she would have to find that spider again and find out why it gave her such a violent reaction.
It was only just as she was about to head out of her room when a thought struck her. She had after all been talking to her mother and even if the woman couldn't contact her verbally then perhaps she could make her presence show in some other way. It wasn't too much of a stretch when she thought about it. "Yeah aright I get ya, you want me to follow…er the spider," she asked to the air but of course got no reply back. "Alice got a rabbit you know" she muttered, even though she quite preferred spiders as they were less wet and messy creatures. "So I'll go follow the white spider," she said in a slow and deliberate manner before leaving the room. She would follow the spider all right and unfortunately, that meant going to the very top of the house, a place that had thus far stayed empty and locked. With a sigh she blocked out the mental anguish she might feel concerning that room in particular and instead concentrated on climbing the steps up to the attic.