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“This place is fuckin’ creepy,” Tommy mutters, shining a flashlight up at the house. It’s one of those Victorian-style homes, though it isn’t very big — apparently only two bedrooms, an office, and one-and-a-half bathrooms. Three stories, including the attic. The outside is pretty though, obviously still well kept, and painted a nice light navy blue.
Still, the Vibes are off, and it’s nighttime. Everything’s creepy at night.
“You say that every time,” Technoblade chimes in next to him, and Tommy sighs dramatically.
“And I’m right, every time!”
“Not necessarily. The insides are normally creepy, but the outside of this one actually looks nice.” Techno shrugs and begins to walk towards the house, his backpack clanking with equipment. “I’d live here.”
“You’d live in our van, dickhead, your opinion doesn’t matter,” Tommy scrambles to follow after Techno, clicking off his flashlight and tucking it into his belt loops. And he was correct, by the way — the man himself had said he’d live in their vehicle, surrounded by equipment, absolute nutcase that he is. Tommy’s only in this business for the money and to be supportive of his Best Friend Turned In-Denial Brother Figure; Techno’s the one that’s actually passionate about this whole ghost thing.
Not that Tommy doesn’t believe in ghosts, he just thinks they have better things to be doing than messing with lights and thermometers — and apparently, in the case of this particular ghost, instruments. If Tommy was a ghost, he knows he’d be spending his time doing real shit, like possessing cars or picking up Hot Ghost Women.
“So, what do you reckon this ghost used to be?” Tommy muses as they enter the house, Techno flicking on his own flashlight. It’s a question he always asks, based on whatever information their clients give them about the ghost they’re called in for. “Theater kid, that killed themself? Band member, that got murdered for fame? Maybe, a medieval bard!”
Techno huffs. “The Middle Ages ended in the 15th century, max. This house was built in the 1800s.”
Tommy pauses, considering. “Which one was the 15th century again?”
“The 1400s to 1499. Just change the number to the thousands, minus one thousand.”
“Mimimi, maths, maths, maths. Don’t care!” Techno shoves his head lightly, and Tommy spits out a litany of swears.
Something falls upstairs.
The two of them both look upwards, as if they could see through the ceiling, the floorboards, straight to whatever might’ve made the noise. Techno has gone deathly still, and Tommy can tell he’s holding his breath.
“Did they say anything about owning a pet?” Tommy finally breaks the silence, voice low. It is, in reality, the first time they’ve heard anything on any of these jobs. Most times, they go in, take some readings, find fuck all, then say that they got the ghost to pass on. Techno isn’t a fan of the lying bit, but even he knows that most of their calls are just people with faulty technology or an aging house, connecting dots that aren’t there.
Confirmation bias, he’d say privately to Tommy. Dumbassery, Tommy would reply.
But that was a very tangible thump , no creaks or groans of an aging home. No confirmation-whatever, though not necessarily a ghost.
“Said they had no pets. Could be a wild animal knocking something over, there were trees around the house that something like a squirrel could use to break in. Could have left a window open too, though it’s not very windy outside.” Techno starts to move towards the nearby stairs, and Tommy follows just behind.
“Could also be someone inside, like those horror stories of people living in the walls or in the attic,” Tommy’s voice drops to a whisper, as if he’s telling a story around a campfire. Not out of fear. Fuck off.
Regardless, Tommy can see Techno’s grip tighten on the flashlight, and knows the man is fully prepared to swing it like a baton.
“People that live here would have noticed footsteps, missing food, bills that don’t quite line up if the intruder used the water or electricity, maybe moved around objects. If they were just staying in the attic, for example, there’d probably be an odor after a while,” Techno is rambling under his breath, but Tommy nods along. This isn’t one of the ghosts that makes footstep noises, thankfully.
The two of them reach the top of the stairs. They do a cursory walk around, checking rooms for above-average EMF or cold temperatures, but they both can tell most, if any, evidence will be near or in the attic. The client had said all the instrument noises had come from there — apparently, an old relative’s packed away shit — and the lightbulb next to the hatch would flicker no matter how many times it was changed.
Probably faulty wiring, but the instruments are a bit suspicious. So, after a few minutes, the two reconvene under the aforementioned lightbulb. It was off now, all the electricity in the house was off. The only light came from their flashlights, and moonlight through the slats of the curtains.
Techno shines his flashlight up at the attic door. Tommy doesn’t feel good about this, he feels like the space is too small, like he’s being observed. From the waver of Techno’s light, Tommy reckons he feels similarly. They both just stand there a moment, tense and waiting, as if the attic would open on its own.
“C’mon, let’s just search it, find whatever squirrel or raccoon is wrecking stuff, and get out,” Techno finally says, voice hushed. He reaches up and tugs the string of the door, grunting as it gets stuck for a moment, then the two of them step back as it opens and the ladder descends. It makes a thunk noise, but not as intense as the falling they had heard earlier. Techno shines his flashlight up the ladder, but the darkness of the attic is thick and permeating. “Let’s go.”
Fuck, Tommy does not want to do this. He knows as much shit Techno would give him, he would never seriously judge Tommy for backing out now. But, he doesn’t want to leave Techno alone.
(Is what he would say if he were noble, chivalrous even. Tommy mostly just doesn’t want to walk back through the house alone, nor does he want to just sit in the van and wait.)
Techno puts his flashlight between his teeth, climbing the ladder. Tommy, not being a heathen , clicks his off and tucks it back into his belt, following after. The two of them get to the top quickly, Tommy coughing at the dust in the air. He turns back on his light, and the two of them glance around.
It’s, well, definitely being used for storage. Rows and rows of boxes, bins, what-have-you, line the room. They’re relatively new too, not much sign of age besides the layers of dust. There’s some furniture as well, covered by tarps, though not much. The largest item seems to be a covered painting, probably about as tall as the bottom of Tommy’s ribs, leaning against one of the rows. He approaches it, ignoring Techno’s warning hum, and rips off the tarp.
Yeesh. It’s a portrait, the kind old rich people would get commissioned decades ago. There’s a small plaque on the bottom, which he rubs his thumb over the dust to reveal Wilbur Soot, 2020. Tommy hums.
“Check this out,” Tommy mutters, just loud enough for Techno to hear, and Tommy backs up so the two of them can observe the painting. The man in it has brown curly hair, wispy and it would probably fall just above his eyes if his head wasn’t tilted down. He’s wearing a yellow turtleneck sweater, in contrast to the serious expression on his face. He’s holding a guitar and seems to be heavily concentrated on it. Of course, it could quite possibly be an entire farce — if the painter did it with the man, Wilbur Soot, posing, then he wouldn’t be doing much guitar playing at all. Though if it was done using a photo of Wilbur, then that’d be different. “Fuckin weird, to get something like this done in 2020. This guy is either a cringe born-in-the-wrong-generation fucker, or he’s got an ego the size of the fuckin moon.”
“ Had an ego the size of the moon,” Techno corrects, and this time both of Tommy’s eyebrows raise. “We’re paranormal investigators looking for a ghost , obviously I checked if anybody had died while living in the house. Wilbur Soot died in 2020, so this wasn’t all that long before he passed.” There was a moment of silence while Tommy blinked owlishly at the man. “Uh. If this is his ghost, you were right about the band member thing, though not murder. Suicide, apparently.”
“Well, only a fuckin theatre kid would get something like this done, so I was right anyway.” Techno shrugs helplessly, then pulls out his EMF reader.
“Look, let’s just get this done, and we can—”
“Excuse me?”
Techno freezes. Tommy freezes. The wispy voice from behind them clears its throat.
“I, well, I don’t mean to be rude, but… Why are you in my house?” Techno unfreezes first, whipping around and shoving Tommy behind him. The figure, obviously having been the source of the voice, yelps and covers its face. “Ah! My eyes! Be careful with that!”
Tommy, for just a moment, holds out hope for the intruder theory.
This is of course ruined by the foot of air between the figure’s feet and the floor. It is also ruined by the lack of shadow cast by the figure, the beam uninterrupted despite being directly pointed at it.
Also the transparency. That too.
“What the fuck?” Tommy breathes, and Techno shifts his stance.
“Uh. Very sorry… sir?” And it was definitely a sir, because it was exactly like the man in the portrait, with the same wispy hair curling just above the eyes, and the same face — even if it was a serene neutral now rather than the concentration featured in the painting. Even the same sweater, though that was just slightly different.
The painting didn’t feature the hole in the chest, oozing blue liquid. It flows as if it were a recent wound, though the front of the sweater is too soaked to absorb any of it and instead dripping onto the floor with quiet plops. It sounds too thick to be blood, sounding closer to slime. Gross.
“Oh, it’s quite alright, you don’t seem to be stealing anything. Though please be fragile with that painting!” The ghost, supposedly Wilbur, gives them a bright smile. “What brings you here? Are you a friend of my son?”
“Your son?” Techno asks intrigue lacing his voice. Tommy can only imagine what’s going through his head, seeing a ghost for the first time. Probably losing his shit. Tommy, for one, is not a fan.
“Yes, yes! My darling Fundy! My little champion!” Oh, Fundy. That was their client.
Tommy looks around, every single bit of Wilbur packed away into this one room. He can’t imagine their relationship was great, despite the ghost’s words.
Even a grieving son would likely keep some things about a dead father out, but Tommy hadn’t seen a single hint of him on the other floors of the house — no pictures, paintings, or anything music-related. Though, Tommy doesn’t exactly know Wilbur, so he might have just missed something.
“Right,” Techno replies, breaking Tommy out of his thoughts, “We’re friends of Fundy. He wanted us to come talk to you.”
Wilbur frowns, floating a bit closer to the ground “Can’t he just talk to me himself? He hasn’t come up here in so long, not since moving me up here. He wouldn’t even tell me why.”
“Do you know where you are?” This is somewhat familiar territory, questions they’d normally ask a ouija board or empty air. Now, they’re being asked straight to the face of a ghost. Wilbur looks at them with confusion and a hint of frustration.
“My attic? Of course I know where I am.”
“I’m sorry,” Techno immediately replies, aiming to calm the ghost, “Just want to make sure. Do you know what the date is? Doesn’t have to be specific.”
“Oh, ah… I don’t know exactly, sometime late 2020? I must’ve been up here a few months, and that painting was done just a couple weeks before Fundy moved me, I think, in the summer.
“You think?”
“Well, my memory after the painting is foggy, especially in the days immediately after. My dad was visiting, for Father’s Day. Fundy got that painting of me commissioned, though my dad set it all up since Fundy didn’t really know all that much about it — my dad had a similar one done of my mother, years ago, before she passed, so he had experience. The commission was done, and that night I…”
Wilbur pauses, eyebrows drawn together. His feet hit the floor noiselessly.
“I… must have gotten sick. I don’t remember much. When I came to, my father was gone and Fundy was moving me to the attic. I was probably contagious, didn’t want it to spread. But it’s been a few months, and I feel fine! Is that why he sent you, to check on me?”
Techno inhales, likely debating on going about telling this very in-denial ghost about his untimely fate or keeping him blissfully ignorant. “Wilbur, you… Didn’t get sick. You died. 2020 was a couple years ago.”
He must have settled on blunt then. Classic Technoblade.
“I… Died?” Wilbur blinks blankly at them, then looks down at himself. It must be the first time he’s really looked at himself with light, the attic lacking any windows, because his eyes widen at his obvious transparency. “Oh. Oh! That’s— Wow. How did it happen?”
Blunt must have been the right choice then, Wilbur seemingly taking the revelation in strides. Must have believed in ghosts, or at least been open to the idea like Tommy, back when he was alive. “Suicide,” Techno says, and Wilbur’s eyebrows shoot up. “From a gun, apparently, if that wound says anything.”
“No,” Wilbur says, and Techno tenses. Tommy feels his spine grow cold, a chill spreading through just one word. It’s said with simple confidence, no particular emotion but no doubt either. “No, that’s wrong. I know it. I… can’t remember that night, but I know it wasn’t suicide. It feels wrong.” He looks down at his chest. “I wasn’t suicidal, never even thought of it… And why would I shoot myself in the chest?” Wilbur holds his arm out, pretending to hold a gun, and he’s right. Aiming for that area looks awkward, Wilbur’s arm barely bending enough.
What the Hell.
“So you were murdered?” Tommy finally pitches in, and Wilbur nods.
“Must have, unless I somehow took a bullet to the chest accidentally. But I don’t keep guns in my house… A break-in, maybe? Or a mugging? But neither of those feel right either.” Wilbur seems to be musing just for the sake of it, but Tommy hears Techno take a sharp inhale. He must have had some realization, but Tommy can’t think of any information to be gleaned from that all.
“Wilbur, what would you say your relationship with your father is like?” Techno asks, hesitance in every word.
Oh. Oh shit.
Wilbur doesn’t seem to catch on, blinking before giving a wide smile. “Oh, just wonderful. He always gives me advice on raising Fundy, and he sends me cards all the time, and that night, he gave me the best hug ever before—”
Wilbur pauses, and his smile drops. For the first time, he well and truly looks like a corpse — eyes unseeing and glassy, mouth agape. The bullet hole seems to bleed faster.
“Before…” Techno prompts quietly, and for a moment Wilbur just stays stuck like that. It’s eerie, and it makes Tommy nauseous, and he wants to be anywhere but here, faced with a living cadaver doomed to an attic by his own family.
Murdered by his father, and buried by his son. Tommy can’t help but wonder if Fundy was in on it too, or if he was simply packing away a dead man’s things with no thought given to why.
“Before…” Wilbur blinks once more, and his face returns to something serene. Now though, Tommy can see just how uncanny it is. His eyes are too blank, and his cheeks don’t fold when he smiles. “Haha. I can’t remember.”
“Do you not remember,” Techno pushes on, and Tommy looks at him with alarm. It was a rule Techno himself had set, just in case, to never pressure a ghost. Tommy tugs on his sleeve, but Techno smacks his hand away. “Or do you not want to remember?”
Techno takes a step forward, and Wilbur’s eyebrows draw together. His face gets more distressed the more Techno speaks.
“What did your father do to you that night, Wilbur? What happened after that hug?”
“He didn’t—” Wilbur gags, one hand pressing against his mouth and the other pressing against his stomach. He curls forward around himself. “He— I— He didn’t…” The wound is gushing now, hitting the floor in a steady stream, and Tommy can see some of it pressing through the hand on his mouth. It’s not a pretty sight by any means, and it makes something in Tommy’s chest curdle.
“Say it,” Tommy pipes in after a moment, stepping up beside Techno. “Both for us and for yourself, yeah?”
Wilbur looks up at Tommy, and the ghost’s eyes gloss over with tears. He’s silent for a moment, shuddering and rocking himself back and forth.
“It hurt.” His voice is small, and when he lifts his hand Tommy can see that his teeth are stained blue. “It hurt so bad, and he just held me and wouldn’t let me go. He didn’t hit my heart, he must have hit my lungs… I don’t think I died from losing blood.”
Tommy feels sick.
“I think I died from… choking. I coughed up so much blood, it got all over him. He, he wasn’t wearing his normal clothes, and I had thought it was weird — he always wears this silly bucket hat, and his top always matches the green, but he wore black that day. When I asked he just said he felt like it — is that what my death was? A whim? Why? Why, why, why…”
Wilbur clutches his hair, still rocking, and continues to repeat the word. Techno grimaces, and places a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder.
“Wilbur, I know you’re upset right now, but is there any evidence you can think of, anything that could be used to arrest your father?”
What the fuck? This is way outside of their capabilities. They’re two ghost hunters for fucks sake, no court would take them seriously, especially not if they’re bursting in claiming a suicide was filicide instead.
“Um…” His voice wavers and tears finally spill from his eyes. “I don’t know. If the police never got the gun, maybe that? No, no, they would have if I was pinned a suicide… He would have gotten rid of his clothes… Think, think…” Cold horror washes over the ghost’s face.
“If… If you had reason to believe two similar suicides were connected, and both people were close to one person, that’d be cause for concern yeah? Because, when I was… He told me, that I was going just like my mother did, that we could see each other again… She, she killed herself, but what if she didn’t? What if— what if he— Oh God—” Wilbur chokes again, another wave of blood coming from his mouth. It stains his chin.
“That, that could work,” Techno nods, as if he isn’t fucking lying — no sane person would listen to two young adults that walk around with fucking EMF readers. Tommy grimaces. “We’re going to get you justice, so you can pass on.”
Wilbur looks up at Techno in surprise, before giving a weak smile. It warps the blood on his lips. “Thank you, I… I trust you. I don’t know if… As horrible as it is, I don’t think I really need that, to pass on,” He gives a small laugh, voice raspy. “I think I just… can you tell my son I love him? Lots and lots. If he doesn’t believe you, say he’s my champion, he never tells anyone about the nickname, I think it embarrasses him.”
Wilbur stands, then walks forward towards them. With an ounce of hesitation, he wraps his arms around the two of them, drawing them into a hug. He doesn’t feel quite there, instead a chill where contact should be, but Techno and Tommy both move into the hug out of obligation. Luckily, the blood doesn’t seem to be solid either.
“I think I just needed to remember… Thank you both.” He presses a kiss to both of their cheeks, which feels weird as fuck , then slowly fades. “By the way,” he chimes, giving them one last big grin, “Take the painting! Despite it all, I’d hate for it to just collect dust.”
And with that, he’s just gone. Techno and Tommy turn to face each other, having a moment of awkward eye contact, before Techno shrugs — fucking shrugs as if he isn’t a stupid ghost fanboy that just encountered the exact thing he’s been looking for for years — and goes to pick up the painting. Tommy pointedly doesn’t help.
“So, are you really going to try and get that guy arrested?” Techno hums, and the two of them make their way through the house. The attic ladder is a struggle, but they manage to finagle the painting down it.
“I’ll look into it, autopsy reports and stuff, ask some legal friends. Maybe,” Techno grunts as he starts down the flight of stairs, Tommy just behind him with the flashlight. “I assumed it was needed for Wilbur to move on, but I guess not. At the very least, the guy deserves it. I’ll definitely be explaining it to Fundy though.”
“And if Fundy’s in on it?” Techno shrugs and the two of them exit the house. Tommy didn’t realize how thick the scent of dust was, and he takes in a large breath of the night air. It’s cold, and burns going down, and for a moment he can’t help but wonder how it’d feel if it were blood. He locks the thought away.
“Didn’t get the impression he was, but we’ll see. Might just beat him up or something.” Tommy barks out a laugh and hops into the passenger seat, clicking off the flashlight. Techno takes a moment to offload their equipment — and newly acquired painting — in the back of the van, before getting into the front seat.
They sit there a moment. Techno is simply staring straight ahead, down the suburban road they’re parked on. Tommy shoots a glance at the house. It’s creepy, still, but now it also just feels… sad. Shaking the thought from his mind, Tommy turns back to Techno.
“I was right by the way,” Techno hums questioningly, and Tommy grins. “Band member, murdered.”
Tommy cackles as Techno plants his forehead on the steering wheel, and neither chooses to mention the faint blue lip stain on either of their faces.