The farmhouse is antique, all filigreed corner arches and white-painted shutters. Angel thinks it'd be cute if it didn't have such a rotten vibe. He brings his phone up and snaps a picture, capturing the way the afternoon sunlight glints off the second-story windows like JJ Abrams camera flares. He thinks it looks artsy as fuck.
"Oh, good, y'all made it!" An middle-aged woman has come out of the house, standing on the front porch and waving at them. She's dressed in a simple cotton tee and Walmart shorts that nearly reach her knees, probably in her early forties, with softly curling gray hair and kind blue eyes. "I was worried you wouldn't be able to navigate the back roads."
"Not to worry, Mrs. Matheson," Alastor assures her. "I've got quite a bit of experience with backroads." He lets his natural drawl come out to play, not the fake hoity-toity bullshit voice he tries to put on back on campus. Angel thinks this accent suits him, soft vowels and clipped endings.
"Wonderful! Well, why don't y'all come inside? I've got some lemonade in the fridge and I think I can whip up some sandwiches."
"Oh, we don't need any food," Husk starts, but he's cut off by Alastor's bony elbow in his belly.
"We'd love some sandwiches!" Matheson grins at that and scurries into the house, the screen door slamming shut behind her. Once she's out of sight, Alastor whips around and pins Husk in place with a world class glare. "When a southern woman offers you food, you take it."
"I didn't realize it'd be offensive."
"It wouldn't be, but this sort of thing is trained into them from birth. You have guests, you give them food. Otherwise she'd be flitting awkwardly around the kitchen and offering snacks every other word. It's a miserable experience."
"What if I ain't hungry," Angel asks.
"You're always hungry, dear."
"Yeah, but what if I wasn't?"
"Then you eat the damn sandwich anyway. Now come on. The poor woman has been dealing with this ghost for a year and I'm sure she'd like us to fix the problem." Angel snorts and ignores Alastor's sour look. Angel's never been a big believer in the supernatural, not even when he'd been small. Why should you be scared of monsters under your bed when your father's the biggest mob boss in Brooklyn?
One time, Molly had cried about the boogeyman in her closet and their father, dressed in a pair of boxers and a singular bunny slipper, had shot the closet door full of holes. Their ma had been worse than any monster, shouting about all the clothes Henry had ruined and how money don't grow on trees despite the fact that they were rich (unless the IRS came knockin', then they were lower middle-class at best and hide that goddamned Aston Martin).
The kitchen of the farmhouse is a cheery yellow that catches the sunlight just perfectly. It should be warm and inviting, but the whole house is cold enough that Angel longs for a sweater. Matheson gestures for them to sit at a small dining table, round with a seam down the middle for an extra panel if she has company.
Once they each have a glass of lemonade and a sandwich, Matheson seems to lose every bit of cheer. She keeps casting nervous glances at the ceiling, the doorway, her shoes. Angel and Husk share a look, well-aware that these meetings can be awkward.
"Tell us about your phantom," Alastor prompts. Angel winces at the directness, but he'd also known to expect it. Alastor isn't the type to babble needlessly when bluntness would work. Well, unless he was practicing a monologue that wouldn't be out of place in a black and white flick starring Humphrey Bogart.
"Well, uh…." Matheson coughs, fingers tapping nervously against the side of her glass. "You see, well…. Shall I start at the beginning?"
"That would be helpful." She nods, seems to find her backbone again, and meets each of their stares head-on. Angel's not gonna lie, he kinda loves this woman.
"The sounds started up the first night we moved in, but we all thought it was the house settling. Then we thought maybe it was one of us unable to sleep, not hard to believe when I've got three kids with insomnia, but then things started going missing. My husband's watch had been beside our sink and then it wasn't, my son's soccer uniform disappeared from the dryer, my favorite perfume vanished from my dresser."
"Did you call the police?"
"Of course we did. They didn't find anything and the deputy let me know that the neighbors had reported similar things after the foreclosure. The deputy's the one that told me about you kids." Matheson's eyes drift back to her shoes as she takes a deep breath. "I'm not sure I believe in ghosts, but there's something in this house. My children are too afraid to stay here."
"We'll get to the bottom of it."
"Even if we gotta throw some jackass out a window," Husk tacks on with a wink. Matheson seems to relax at that, even managing a small smile. "Would you mind giving us a tour of the hot spots?"
"Of course," Matheson nods. They all rise and Angel makes sure to snag the half-eaten sandwich from Husk's plate before he tags along. No reason to leave any food for the poor lady to toss out.
Not much has happened on the first floor, so they start on the second and move on from there. The bathrooms where things have disappeared, the guest room where the blankets were always rumpled no matter how many times they were straightened, their daughter's room where the makeup seems to rearrange itself every night. The third floor is split between two rooms, one of them an art studio with a gorgeous skylight that takes up twenty-percent of the ceiling for their son while the second half has been turned into a private library for the whole family.
"We've been renovating as we get the money," Matheson explains, gesturing at the skylight. "My husband put that in last month so our son has some natural light. I read somewhere that this kind of thing could make a haunting worse."
"It disturbs spirits," Alastor confirms.
"Did your husband do any electrical work," Angel asks. "Cause that could mean some serious EMF and that can affect mental states. Heck, even constant high-pitched noises can make you feel paranoid." Three sets of eyes turn to him and Angel preens. "What? I'm not just a pretty face."
"Got a pretty brain, too," Husk says, despite the blush staining his cheeks. Angel winks at him, flirty and just the right amount of silly. He's growing on Husk, like a fungus. Alastor clears his throat and the other two snap their attention back to him and Matheson.
"What do you think, Husker," Alastor asks.
"I've got a few cameras I can set around the house, plus some GoPros for the three of us." He shrugs, giving Alastor a bland smile. "We gonna start the investigation now or are we waiting for nighttime?"
"Research and set-up can start now if that's okay with you, Mrs. Matheson."
"Do what needs to be done, boys," she says, suddenly tired. "I need my family back together. You've got my phone number, call me if you need anything from me. My husband and I are staying in a motel for the night." She gives Alastor's cheek a pat and he actually leans into it, a total mama's boy.
"You tellin' me I could'a been pattin' ya this whole time if I still had tits," Angel complains once Matheson is out of the room. He'd had top surgery last year and he still jokes about it to his family's annoyance.
"You don't exactly have a mothering vibe," Alastor says dryly. Angel's eyes go lidded and his smile turns into a smolder.
"Oh, I could be your mommy if you ask me nicely." Alastor flicks him between the eyes, but he's sniggering as he walks out of the studio. Angel rubs the sore spot with a pout, glancing over at where Husk is trying to smother a laugh behind his hand. "Yuck it up, Husky, just be prepared to sleep on the shitty air mattress tonight."
Set-up, unlike what Zak Bagans would have you believe, is a simple thing that's become so routine that it's second nature. Husk takes care of the third floor, Angel the second, and Alastor the first. They set up cameras with night vision, recorders, digital thermometers, and even take EMF readings. Once that's done, Alastor goes to city hall for records of the property.
Angel's just got their dinner ready when Alastor comes home, a stray spiderweb clinging to his shoulder. There's a bit of dust across his cheek where dirty fingers had pushed up his glasses and Angel's sinuses ache in sympathy.
"Are those…." Alastor trails off with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Are those fucking Lunchables?"
"Yep." Angel takes a selfie, making sure to capture their reflections in the window above the sink. He posts it on the newly established Deerly Departed Sinstagram with the caption the supper of champions. Is it original? No, but it makes him chuckle.
They chatter about their game plan as they eat, Husk and Angel passing their Lunchables back and forth while Alastor nibbles at a piece of cheese. Alastor's never been a big fan of quick dinners like these, he prefers something that's at least touched a stove before being served even if it's just beanie weenies.
Once they're finished, they each take a walkie-talkie and go to their respective floors. Angel takes the third floor because the studio has a balcony that overlooks the front yard. It's a beautiful view and the fresh air is nice after the smog of California. He stands there for a moment as the last rays of sunlight disappear, then he turns his back and starts his investigation.
He takes notes as he goes along, keeping his phone up for different video angles they can splice in between the stationary and GoPro footage. Being in front of the camera has always come naturally to Angel and he slips into the bubbly personality he's become well-known for by their fans.
"Personally, I couldn't imagine letting a ghost run me outta my house," he's saying, coming back through the doorway that leads into the studio. The library had offered nothing, the atmosphere stale and quiet. At least the studio has awesome lighting between the skylight and balcony doors. "Youse guys know how hard it is to get ya hands on a house in this economy. Way I see it, that ghost is gonna hafta kill me and then I'll be dead and its problem. Think I won't punch a ghost in the face for a nine-hundred square foot house?"
He's still chattering as he goes outside, eyes more drawn to the view than his phone. It's why he doesn't notice a figure coming down from the attic, their steps whisper-soft on the plush rug. Angel's just turning to head back inside out of the chill breeze when a pair of gnarled hands shove hard against his back.
There's a comical moment where Angel teeters against the railing, hands wind-milling and phone forgotten. It's like being suspended by a pair of strong hands, his long legs going on pointe, and then he's toppling into thin air. His hands somehow latch onto something solid and his scream seems stuck in his throat until he looks up.
There's a ghost leaning over the railing, snarling down at him and baring crooked, truly fucked-up teeth and beady eyes. Her hair is matted and filthy, hanging limply against her shoulders and heavy with grease. When she howls down at him, that scream in his throat breaks free and somersaults off his tongue loud enough to echo.
"Where are they," the woman howls. She beats arthritic fists against the railing, a toddler throwing a fit. "Where's my chickens, you sonsabitches? Where are they? Trespassers!" Angel's scream turns into a whimper, as shaky as his grip.
It was supposed to be a simple case, in and out with enough footage to make a mildly entertaining video, so why in the ever loving fuck was Angel currently hanging from a balcony railing with a ghost screaming at him about missing chickens?
"Husk," Angel cries. "Husky, Al!" The woman is still growling and snarling when a strong pair of arms are yanking her back, nearly throwing her through the doorway of the studio. Alastor leans over the railing to haul Angel back onto solid ground, holding him as they watch Husk and the woman struggle. "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck," Angel mumbles.
"It's alright now, cher," Alastor promises. His grip is warm and solid around Angel, rocking him gently like a mother would rock their child. Angel can't seem to stop shaking, unable to keep his gaze from wandering back to the woman. Because this is a woman, flesh and blood, fully human as she finally goes limp beneath Husk's bulk.
"Is she still alive?"
"She'll be fine," Husk answers. He's got two fingers against her pulse, nodding. "Strong old battle axe, that's for sure." He and Alastor find some rope in a shed to truss her up, then the trio go up the stairs of the attic. They'd been hidden behind a false wall, probably kept off the blueprints by the original owners. It certainly makes sense why the roof is a bit higher on one side than the other, why Mister Matheson hadn't discovered the attic when he'd put in the skylight.
"Holy shit," Alastor curses. The attic holds an entire bedroom set; a twin bed, dresser, and matching nightstands. The floors are well-swept, the furniture free of dust, but what truly catches their attention are the drawings on the wall. It looks like a child's work, crayon drawings of chickens covering every available inch from floor to ceiling. All of the Mathesons' missing things have been set neatly on a table, arranged by biggest to smallest.
"Well, I think we found our ghost."
The woman, it turns out, is the previous owner. The farmhouse had been foreclosed by the bank when she'd been unable to keep up with the mortgage and, instead of giving up the place she'd been born and raised in, she'd hidden herself away in her attic room. She probably would've gone undetected if the Mathesons hadn't gotten rid of the chickens that had come with the property.
Now, three days and a psych evaluation later, Florence Fischer has returned to the Matheson home. Someone has combed out her hair and given her a fresh change of clothes, settling her at the kitchen table. She looks far less horrifying in the buttery sunlight, looking around in wonder at the changes.
"We're gonna help her out," Mrs. Matheson says, smiling softly. "She's eighty years old, she can't be by herself. And, anyway, this was her whole life." Matheson shrugs, her smile brightening when her daughter brings a cup of tea to Fischer. "Thank you all so much."
"We're just happy to help," Alastor assures her. He keeps a careful distance between himself and the others, wary of being touched after comforting Angel. He can only do small doses, otherwise he feels like his skin has been set on fire.
"Do ya'self a favor and buy that woman a chicken," Angel advises. Fischer glances up at his voice and offers a wobbly smile. He winks at her with a cheeky grin of his own and Fischer giggles. All's forgiven, that wink says, no hard feelings.
All in all, it wasn't the worst night of his life.