Things have not been weird per say, not even quite awkward, now that Sloane thinks of it. Staying at the mansion has mostly felt like a breather, if one can fully ignore anything that happens within its walls at night. She does not want to call it haunted, that would imply the existence of something less malevolent. The things trapped her are volatile, violent if she is to believe everything she hears during the hours she cannot fall asleep.
The banging on her door has been replaced by desperate scraping in the walls a few days ago. It is a rhythmic skritch, skritch, skritch that nearly lulls her to sleep every time. It is the same pattern, the same pauses and drawn out noises. One night she rises from her bed, searches the room for anything to write with. She finds parchment and an old type pen. It makes her chuckle how out of time this mansion seems to be.
With writing utensils at the ready Sloane waits for the scratched pattern to repeat. She notes down the following.
.... . / -.- -. --- .-- ... / --- ..-. / -.-- --- ..-
It looks like Morse code, maybe. Sadly enough she never developed any need to learn it, so she is left to stare at dots and lines. Sloane halfway expects them to maybe shift into words, seeing as nothing on this island is normal, but the code remains, mocking her ineptitude. Perhaps later she can ask someone about it, not Irene though and certainly not Lydia. She doesn't want them to think she is snooping around too much yet again. She likes the sort of peace they all have established after everything and perhaps she likes the attention Irene gives her now.
For a while everything just feels nice, pleasant even. Again she ignores the warning signs of Mawbrook until she cannot. The scratching turns endless, the banging returns and her bones begin to ache with a need to return to the museum to actively satisfy her ever growing curiosity. So one day she decides that she cannot stall anymore and returns to the museum, its vibes off as always.
This time however, she finds its doors locked. A sign plastered to the glass of the door reads 'Closed due to illness. We apologize for the inconvenience.'
Perhaps this is the universe telling her "No.". Sloane chooses to ignore this. After all, the situation she is presented with is perfect for snooping, even if it requires a little breaking and entering. Preferably no one will be in the museum, leaving her to find all the answers she wishes to, if possible. It would certainly be nice to know what the fuck is going on. So, like any other person desperate for answers she rounds the museum multiple times to find a point of entry. The windows are these old, rickety single hung type windows. She tries to slide the panels of each on up, though all of them appear firmly locked.
She wastes thirty minutes on this, fingertips raw from where she tried to wedge them between the window panels. Perhaps she is a bit of a fool to think breaking into a place would be simply that easy. She glances down, spots a reasonably sized rock.
"Might as well start with the breaking part."
Sloane picks up the rock, winds back her arm for a nice throw. It is here that a window to her left gives a low, grating creak. She freezes mid motion. Of course this is the moment she is going to be caught by someone.
However, there is no one but a window opened the smallest of smidgens when she turns her head to look. She drops the rock, slips her fingers beneath the panel. It is a tight fit, but if she ignored the discomfort she can wiggle in her fingers until she has enough leverage to slide the window open. She squeezes through the resulting space, hissing when some splinters dig into the tender flesh of her hand.
The room she finds herself in is dark, the light from outside catching on the particles of dust that float about. The air smells old, stale, nothing like the time when she was here just a few days ago. Without other light sources the building feels different. It feels dead, like a carcass picked clean of any warmth. Should a normal building feel like this?
Sloane finds her answer once she turns around. There, sitting in the middle of the room is the well. The sparse lighting hits is smooth, dark rock and gets sucked right up. Somewhere deep below echoes the sounds of rushing water, like fists that beat against open flesh. It is a steady beat, one that echoes deep in her bones. It drones in the confines of her skull. She takes a step back, the feeling intensifies until it is near painful enough to force her to her knees. Her eyes water, the pressure behind them unbearable. Sloane is overcome with the urge to tear them out, to make it stop. It staggers her, pushes her a bit closer to the well.
It speaks to her. It whispers to her within the sound of blood rushing in her ears. It is sweet things, wonderful things. She finds herself drawn to the depths of the well like a sailor drawn into the depths of the sea. One step after the other she closes in on the void. Somewhere is the steady drip, drip, drip of something. An insignificant rhythm that too gets swallowed by the well in the end. Her hands graze the rock, the smooth surface of it. The cool of it is instant relief to her too hot skin. When has she gotten this warm?
Sloane leans over, gazes into the beckoning void. One leg over the railing and she thinks perhaps falling into it would feel a bit like coming home. She keeps moving, her balance nearly tipped over.
Drip, drip, drip.
Something wet splatters against the back of her hand. Other drops follow. Her eyes are slow to focus, but the liquid is unmistakably blood. Another drop, another one until her hand is nearly covered in it. She reaches up, feels it smear across her check, across her mouth. Her nose is bleeding.
It is now that the twisting dread of the situation sets in.
Her heartbeat jackrabbits. The droning inside her head turns into a piercing shriek. It sounds angry, volatile. It is a creature that has been denied the satisfaction of sating its hunger.
The walls rattle. Something within them scratches, skitters. Something wants to break out or perhaps something wants to pull her in. Either way she does not want to stay and find out. Her limbs only barely follow her command to move. That shriek sounds again and this time it seems closer.
Desperately, Sloane scrambles out through the window. The shrieking, the empty feeling, follow. There is something oily, something heavy that clings to her. It nearly makes running impossible. The key word being nearly. Her chest aches, her legs burn. The ground beneath her has turned soft and mossy. Overhead the last rays of sunlight manage to peak just barely through the treetops.
Sloane feels like screaming. Maybe she needs a good cry too. Of course she ends up in the forest, because why would she ever end up where she wants to be? Everything here looks the fucking same, so she is not only tired, but also lost. She stomps her foot, picks her direction and hopes for the best. After all, she should be an expert at escaping life threatening danger out of sheer, dumb luck by now.
"Stupid swimming rock with its stupid little hauntings."
Her foot catches on a root and she stumbles, nearly making her face acquainted with a tree. It must be instant karma. Luckily enough she twist herself just in time. Her shoulder connects with the bark and yeah, that is definitely gonna bruise tomorrow.
"Alright, alright. Sheesh... You as an island are not too bad I guess.", she halt, groans, "And now I'm talking to it. What an article that would be. Journalist driven to insanity by a sentient island. Surely that will get me a job somewhere, yep."
Here, she starts giggling. The situation really is just that hilarious. For days she has found out nothing, has been haunted and nearly killed and all she has to show for it is literally fucking nothing. One cannot fault her the small bout of insanity that overcomes her in this very moment.
Three hours. It takes her three whole hours to find her way back to the mansion. By then the moon has already taken its place high within the sky, providing the bare minimum of light so that she doesn't fall and crack her head open.
The lights inside the mansion are all shut off. Guilt settles somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach. Lydia may be hospitable, but knocking her awake in the middle of the night may be too much. She will be burden, she-
The door is flung open before that thought can take a particular shape. Before her now stands Irene, illuminated by the half light of her lamp. The woman looks as frazzled as Sloane feels. Within moments she finds herself tucked into a warm embrace. Her heart and brain may or may not be giving out for a few seconds here.
"Oh darling.... We were worried about you when you did not return for dinner. Wherever have you run off to, huh?"
Nevermind, this right here is the part where she dies, wrapped up in the warmth of this beautiful woman. Irene is soft, gentle in the way that she holds her, chin resting on Sloane's shoulder. She really hopes the other woman cannot hear how terribly loud her own heart is beating. Sloane thinks she might start crying, if it weren't for the fact that gentle carting of fingers through her hair nearly puts her to sleep.
The steps of the staircase give a low creak. Both their heads snap up at the sound, though Sloane can only see so much with her face tucked this firmly into the crook of Irene's neck. She catches just a bit of Lydia and from what she sees the lady of the house seems displeased.
"Good to see Ms. Aldrich safe and sound. Do make sure that she gets a proper rest, Irene."
Irene nods and that's that.
The next morning arrives, albeit Sloane trying to ignore the fact as much as possible. She deserves a break, doesn't she? Doesn't she deserve a day where nothing is after her throat or soul or whatever? Yes, she finds, she deserves that at least.
After breakfast she finds herself wandering the mansion all by herself. Many of the doors remain locked to her, but those who open have the potential to reveal to her mysteries yet to be uncovered.
There is the library of course, filled to the brim with books Sloane herself has never heard of. The carpet her is soft, lush and the armchairs here look beyond comfortable. Sadly enough the library does not contain any hidden passages, no matter at how many books she pulls in the hopes of revealing a secret.
Next are the kitchens. Here she is greeted with sweltering heat, a near overpowering scent of spices and one angry cook who kindly bids her goodbye when she gets too close to his workstation.
Last is a series of near empty rooms. If they contain anything then it is choking underneath several layers of dust. Now that she thinks about, she hasn't really met anyone else who works at the mansion yet. One would assume that a mansion as big as this would need more people to care for it. It certainly is strange, though perhaps Lydia merely does not have the finances to employ more people.
Sloane almost gives up with her search when she spots a door tucked away into the corner of the corridor.
"Mhm...what secrets may be hidden behind door number- Actually I didn't count, but you better not be a disappointment now.
The handle feels far too cold as she twist it. She struggles a bit to open the door itself, has to push against it with her shoulder so that finally something gives. The door opens with a grating shriek that has the hair on her neck stand.
Within the room stands one lonely object that is covered by a sheet that could use a wash or perhaps ten.
"Please be a creepy painting with a crucial detail. Ooooh...Or better yet, an entire cork board detailing what the fuck is wrong with this town."
Naturally it is neither. It is in fact a mirror, on old one with gilded figurines inlaid in its frame. It does look pretty, really, though the cracks that spider along its surface are off putting. Her eyes ache just from looking at it. The longer she looks the harder it gets to focus on the fractured image.
Sloane blinks rapidly. It helps for a moment, but now there is the feeling of soft wings beating against her face. Within the splintered reflection she sees moths all around her, all over her. They are getting in her eyes, her nose. She cannot breathe. She wants to scream, but the moment she opens her mouth to do so the moths force their way past her lips. She can feel them crawling down her throat. Thousands of feet and wings begin clogging her esophagus and trachea.
She falls backwards, uselessly batting at her own face. The moths do not leave, are unbothered. Her eyes screw shut on impact, only opening when there is a different kind of pressure against her neck and chest.
The moths are gone, replaced by a woman crouched atop her chest. Sloane can see her face underneath a curtain of greasy, dark hair. She would have preferred she did not. The skin is hanging off in rotting patches. Maggots have made themselves a home within the gray flesh of her cheek, writhing and wriggling. One of them gets dislodged as the woman's jaw works in a jittery motion. It hits Sloane's face with a wet plop. That is nearly enough to make her vomit.
"This town will swallow you too..." The voice is a buzz, as if thousands of flies had taken over decaying vocal chords.
Something is reaching into her chest cavity. It hollows her out, only to fill her back up with a sense of never ending dread. Finally Sloane finds it within herself to scream. It rips open her throat, like she has swallowed shards. The taste of blood clings to the back of her tongue. That rotting things is still on top of her, still squeezing. Between painful breaths and heaving sobs she begins pleading, eyes squeezed shut in sheer terror.
"Let me go. Let me go... please..."
She does not know how much time passes. It might be an eternity or a mere moment, but the pressure leaves with the sounds of heavy fabric scraping across the wooden floor. There, standing just outside the room is Lydia. Lydia who looks like she has seen a ghost. Is that not a funny thought? Perhaps she would even laugh if her lungs were not burning from the lack of oxygen. So with her face red, and the snot and tears dripping down her cheeks, Sloane keeps crying.
Lydia, who has not moved, crosses the distance in three wide strides, then sinks to her knees so she can hold her. Sloane cannot feel anything but shame. She is getting all these disgusting things on the nice fabric of the dress, but she cannot stop herself from seeking comfort in the warmth and comfort the other woman so freely provides.
"This room was locked. How did you manage to get in?" Lydia's words carry no malice. Instead they are tinged with equal parts worry and fear.
Sloane, descending into a guilt driven panic can only wail.
"It wasn't! I swear it wasn't! I would not have gone in had it been locked."
She is hiding her face in the soft fabric of the dress, frantically shaking her head. She did not break the rules. She would never have broken the rules of her own accord.
Lydia, who remains soft, gentle, pliant, gives a quiet exhale.
"I believe you."
There is such absolution in those words that Sloane nearly finds herself crying all over again. The urge is only suppressed by Lydia brushing her thumb across her cheek with utmost care again, again and again. She must fall asleep at one point, because when her eyes open and she turns, she is not on the floor of that room anymore. She is within her own room, on the bed, surrounded by both Lydia and Irene.
The lady of the house seems to have dozed off as well, resting her head against Sloane's shoulder. Irene however is looking directly at her. Something about it makes her feel exposed.
"You certainly possess a knack for finding things you shouldn't, don't you?", Irene asks, not unkind.
She could swear it even almost sounds fond, which does terrible things to her. It makes her heart beat rapidly, makes her stomach turn nervously until she thinks she will barf in the near future. Sloane swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and tries to find it within her capability to form words.
"Uhh... What can I say, I'm just that kind of woman."
Irene exhales in a quiet laugh. Her hand lifts, then halts, like she wants to cradle Sloane's cheek but thinks better of it. Before the woman can withdraw her hand fully though, Sloane clasps it between her own. She finds herself shyly smiling up at the other woman, unsure. Is she doing this right?
Irene returns all smile. There is a hint of teeth.
"A rule breaker. My poor Lydia will have trouble finding peace now that she has two of them on hand. Not that I particular mind the punishments I receive."
Heat shoots up into her cheeks at the implication of those words. She tries to speak, but nearly chokes on her own saliva. Irene grins. She knows and that might be just a tad mortifying. The room has gotten way too hot all of a sudden.
"Uhmm... I wouldn't-", she chuckles, tense all of a sudden, "Usually I'm not prone to breaking set rules."
Sloane tugs at the collar of her shirt. If she were to manage to look less flustered than she so clearly is would be great actually. Not that the way the other woman is currently watching her helps, like at all.
"Mhm.", Irene hums, something appreciative in her voice, "We can certainly enjoy someone who knows how to follow instructions."
Sloane straight up dies. This is it, the moment her soul violently pulls itself from its mortal shell. While she succumbs to this minor crisis, Lydia stirs against her shoulder, waking with a soft exhale.
"Irene be a dear and stop antagonizing our guest." Lydia raises her head to look at Irene. Her gaze is soft, so soft and Sloane wishes she had someone to look at her like that.
Irene herself seems to soften the longer the other woman looks at her. Slowly she pulls her hand from where it is held between Sloane's, only to gently brush a runaway strand of dark hair behind Lydia's ear.
She feels like she is intruding somehow. She is overcome with a sense that this moment was not meant to be seen by her. Though she cannot simply slip away from the moment either, trapped between the two women as she is. Instead of fully succumbing to yet another bout of panic, she closes her eyes and forces herself back to sleep.
Over the following few days she learns three important things.
First, Lydia warms up to her as long as she actively tries to keep to rules and instead begins to worry about the fact that the rules actively trying to get broken.
Second, Irene beneath all her allure and grins, is in fact someone who draws great personal enjoyment out of being a minor inconvenience at every chance she gets. She will whisper things to Lydia, or Sloane herself, unspeakable things that make both of them shut up mid sentence for different reasons.
Third, the manor is indeed haunted, or maybe people merely believe it to be. It is a presumed fact that no Reed who has died here has ever left and old ghost are ever so open to violence when they forget themselves.
Something else she learns, something she tries not to think about too often, is that the gardens have a lot of corners where people might steal away to for a kiss. She spots Lydia and Irene kissing once and the sudden, devastating heaviness that settles within her is oh so familiar and troubling. She did not come here to develop feelings of any kind.
When Sloane, in a bout of newly acquired insanity perhaps, decides to return to the museum once more, its doors stand wide open. There is however, no group of tourists, not even any sounds that would indicate anyone being in there. Curiosity piqued, she takes a step forward, then another and another until she has walked through most of the museum without meeting anyone, least of all Mr. Kelly. Even the walls are silent, not a scratch to be heard. The quiet feels expectant.
There is really only one room left and she dreads what it might hold, but she has never been one to make a good decision when in the middle of a situation.
One she enters to room to well she realizes why everything has been silenced. Mr. Kelly has been halfway dragged into the well, his limbs at odd angles, neck torn just like back at the interview. He is still smiling, teeth flashing red. The very same red that is painted across nearly every surface of the room, bright red against the backdrop of black.
Sloane can only stare, horrified and disgusted. Mr. Kelly, the corpse opens its mouth, wide and gaping. Bits of meat flake from his lips. It screams, then twitches like an animal and disappears down the well with a sickening, tearing crunch.
She vomits, then calls the police. Nobody comes.