Eliot Waugh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
eliotwaugh) wrote2019-10-29 08:56 pm
eliotwaugh) wrote2019-10-29 08:56 pm
Entry tags:
Call Off Your Ghost (for Martin)
He'd heard that weird things tend to happen in the city, and that Halloween is one of those times where things tend to happen, so he shouldn't be surprised. And yet.
At 9:05 p.m. on an unremarkable Tuesday Eliot feels a sudden and intense wave of vertigo, which is odd in that he hadn't been drinking and he's also sprawled more or less comfortably on his couch. He sits up, wincing, but the feeling is gone as quickly as it came on. There's no other immediate effect, and Eliot frowns. It could be some effect of large-scale magic, but he has no way of knowing where it came from, or what might occur. He goes to the fridge for a St. Crosse (mandarina almost tastes like a childhood dream about a tangerine, and they're good for a sour stomach besides), cracks it open, and thankfully hasn't yet taken a sip when he turns and sees the ghost standing directly in front of him.
"Motherfucker!" Eliot shrieks. He's not proud of it, but there it is. And then he throws the can of seltzer, which of course passes clean through the apparition, who frowns and looks perturbed. It's the figure of a man, his features seeming to shift and warp like sunlight underwater. Well whatever the fuck he looks like he's can't just turn up unannounced in someone's apartment. Eliot doesn't even think about it; he thrusts his arms out and wills the thing the fuck away from him.
It's raw magic, messy and instinctive, but it gets the job done. In an instant the force of the spell shunts the specter about twenty feet backwards; it passes through the kitchen window with a horrible squelch and Eliot can see it, hovering outside in the air like a puff of smoke. The window is covered with a smear of what he can only assume is ectoplasm, in the shape of a human head and torso.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Eliot grumbles, shaking his hands out and rummaging in the drawer of the coffee table for some chalk.
He spends the next fifteen minutes muttering and scribbling wards on the windowsills, and when he's done Eliot's reasonably certain he won't have any more uninvited guests. He looks out the window to check on the ghost, now bumping against the glass, a grumpy little stray balloon. "Sorry compadre," Eliot says in the ghost's general direction as he checks his phone and starts composing a text. "I'm not in the market for a fucking roommate."
At 9:05 p.m. on an unremarkable Tuesday Eliot feels a sudden and intense wave of vertigo, which is odd in that he hadn't been drinking and he's also sprawled more or less comfortably on his couch. He sits up, wincing, but the feeling is gone as quickly as it came on. There's no other immediate effect, and Eliot frowns. It could be some effect of large-scale magic, but he has no way of knowing where it came from, or what might occur. He goes to the fridge for a St. Crosse (mandarina almost tastes like a childhood dream about a tangerine, and they're good for a sour stomach besides), cracks it open, and thankfully hasn't yet taken a sip when he turns and sees the ghost standing directly in front of him.
"Motherfucker!" Eliot shrieks. He's not proud of it, but there it is. And then he throws the can of seltzer, which of course passes clean through the apparition, who frowns and looks perturbed. It's the figure of a man, his features seeming to shift and warp like sunlight underwater. Well whatever the fuck he looks like he's can't just turn up unannounced in someone's apartment. Eliot doesn't even think about it; he thrusts his arms out and wills the thing the fuck away from him.
It's raw magic, messy and instinctive, but it gets the job done. In an instant the force of the spell shunts the specter about twenty feet backwards; it passes through the kitchen window with a horrible squelch and Eliot can see it, hovering outside in the air like a puff of smoke. The window is covered with a smear of what he can only assume is ectoplasm, in the shape of a human head and torso.
"Oh for fuck's sake," Eliot grumbles, shaking his hands out and rummaging in the drawer of the coffee table for some chalk.
He spends the next fifteen minutes muttering and scribbling wards on the windowsills, and when he's done Eliot's reasonably certain he won't have any more uninvited guests. He looks out the window to check on the ghost, now bumping against the glass, a grumpy little stray balloon. "Sorry compadre," Eliot says in the ghost's general direction as he checks his phone and starts composing a text. "I'm not in the market for a fucking roommate."
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Martin frowns for a moment, wondering where that leaves them, what they do about it, when he supposes they might be going about it the wrong way. It may not be able to answer, but there are other ways to see if it undertands. He clears his throat and takes a faltering step forward.
"You don't really want to be here, do you?" he says, chasing a whim and hoping desperately that he's right about it. "Are you stuck? I mean... can you move at all?"
The ghost turns his gaping stare on him again for what feels like far too long before it drifts slowly back. It doesn't turn, just keeping its gaze on him while it floats away, inching toward the door.
Martin breathes out. "Okay," he says. "Well." So that's something. He could ask it to leave, but that would just put it in the hallway. And he's not certain it can leave the building, so...
"You know," he says as a thought strikes him suddenly. It's a bit terrible, actually, but he can't find the capacity to care just now. "If you have a complaint to register, I suppose you could approach the building manager about it." He faces the ghost, meeting its stare steadily. "He's down on the first floor. First flat on the left from the lobby, you really can't miss it. I can't promise he'll be very polite or helpful, but..." He shrugs. "He's technically in charge here."
The ghost just looks at him for another long span of seconds, having no expression to change or judge. Then, just as Martin's growing a bit worried this is too complex or ridiculous a suggestion, it turns around fully and drifts out through the closed door.
Martin stares at the door, then at Eliot, then hustles over to step out into the hall. He can't believe that actually worked, and he's going to follow it to make sure.
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Eliot can breathe a bit easier, watching it float towards the door, but he has to cover his mouth to stop himself from laughing at the suggestion that the ghost take up its grievances with Peter.
"Holy shit," he whispers, looking at Martin with a slightly hysterical grin. "That was brilliant, you think it's just going to go...hover in his place instead?" Eliot follows him out, making sure that The Bishop doesn't sneak through the door before he closes it. A thought occurs to him. Not a terribly kind thought, but he voices it nonetheless. "...You think that would work on the rest of them?"
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"No reason not to try," he says a bit too cheerfully, and then stops when he realizes the ghost has stopped and appears to be staring at them again.
"Wh... oh." He hesitates, glancing at the door to the stairwell. "You... you want me to get that for you?"
It seems ridiculous. This ghost is either terribly unfamiliar with its own noncorporeal abilities, or it's more bound by physical constraints than Martin realizes. Or perhaps it's just very polite. As frightening as it is, it seems very polite, as far as he can tell.
So, he swallows his trepidation and reaches out to open the door. Sure enough, the ghost drifts in and begins making its slow way down the stairs. Martin wonders if it's less about physical barriers and more an emotional one; it remembers interacting with the world as a living person, and is continuing to do so as much as it can.
In any case, he follows it, down the stairs to the first floor where, stepping out into the hall, he's able to watch it hover outside Peter's door, looking almost thoughtful, before finally breaking its own habit and passing through the door.
It worked. Martin hesitates, waiting for something to happen, but nothing does, at least nothing audible. It doesn't matter. He grins, small but satisfied, and looks at Eliot. "Shall we see about the others?"