[For Lisa]

[statement_ends]

John might not be keeping his finger on the pulse of Darrow's suburban development plans, but he's reasonably certain that the cul-de-sac and the enormous two-story house that dominates it have sprung up at a speed that beggars belief. Darrow might resist any eldritch certainty he tries to apply to the situation, but he's still confident that none of this was here a month ago.

Granted, it isn't impossible that the developers would have focused on finishing up one house first — a standing advertizement of what's to come, more effective than any 'just you wait' placard they'd otherwise be relying upon. That could explain why one structure stands completed while the rest of the plots are either still sitting empty or in earlier stages of construction. But something feels off about it, and it takes him a few seconds to realize what's really bothering him.

How fast does ivy grow? Not fast enough to cover so much of the brick facade in only a few weeks, surely.

That justifies a closer look. John walks closer, projecting the same casual, I'm-supposed-to-be-here confidence that used to get him into all kinds of restricted areas as a child. The neighboring construction workers don't pay any particular attention to him, which could be down to his acting skills, or could just be down to the locals' tendency to ignore anything odd so long as it poses no immediate threat.

As he nears the structure, he checks for any signs of occupation, but the lawn is devoid of lawn ornaments, gardening tools, or toys. Maybe it is just a model home, rampant ivy growth aside. He briefly considers knocking on the front door, decides that might be too conspicuous (not to mention foolish looking, if it is indeed unoccupied), and instead cuts around the side of the house, as if he's simply taking a shortcut over to the next block.

And if he hesitates, peering into one of the windows at the seemingly bare room beyond... well, an occupied home would have furniture, wouldn't it? And if it's meant to be a model home, then a prospective buyer could be excused for stepping up to the glass to get a better look at the interior.

Comments

[busybetty]

There's a man creeping around the house. Not 'creeping' in the literal sense — he's strolling, meandering, or whatever — but in the sense that he's being a creep because this place is none of his business.

Lisa stands in the upstairs window, just off to the side so the glare of the sun against the glass hides her just right, and she watches him to see what he's planning to do.

She'd almost think he's casing the place, but he's too well-dressed for that. Besides, it's empty. He'll see that in just a glance inside, and then he'll move on, right? Except he glances in, and he doesn't move on, not fast enough for Lisa's liking.

What the hell does he think he's doing? She glares down at him, and there's a defensive, protective part of her that wants to give him a piece of her mind. Get up in his space and demand he get out of here. She's so annoyed that her ears are rushing.

No, that's something else. The rushing gets louder and louder as she glares down at him, so loud she feels dizzy with it. Lisa squeezes her eyes shut and for an impossible second she feels like her feet leave the ground—

And then the rushing is gone, cut off like someone snapping shut a book. Lisa opens her eyes. She's outside. She's standing behind the guy, staring at his back, and she only takes a second to recalibrate before she crosses her arms.

"What're you doing?" she snaps.

[statement_ends]

John about levitates at the sudden question, whirling around with barked, "Christ!" He didn't even hear someone coming up behind him, and he did have an ear out.

Fortunately, said question isn't courtesy of anyone official, like a contractor or something. It's just a goth teenager. John colors faintly, straightening his spine as if that might counteract the overblown startle reflex, and looks down his nose at her. Whoever she is, he can't imagine why she's interrogating him. He just has to come up with some suitably professional excuse to put her off.

Instead, he ends up blurting, "What are you doing?"

[busybetty]

She narrows her eyes at him, then gives him a disdainful once over. He's tall and kind of scrawny, with a rumpled academia look that she'd seen pretentious kids at school wear, back when she went to school. There are scars dotting his skin like he's been through some shit, but he's not a ghost. Norah had told her most people here weren't.

"I asked you first," she points out, lifting an eyebrow as if to say 'I dare you to tell me I'm wrong.' She leans into every iota of teenage contempt she can manage. Whoever this guy is, he can't hurt her, and she's pretty sure that would still be true even if she weren't a ghost.

[statement_ends]

This is entirely too much attitude from someone with no clear authority to speak of, and John bristles. Where does she get off interrogating him? "Oh, I beg your pardon," he sneers back. "Are you the foreman? Or perhaps you're an undercover police officer, here to make sure no one has the audacity to look twice at an empty bloody building. Is that a crime, now?"

[busybetty]

She isn't expecting a British dude, so when he answers her, meeting her disdain with his own, Lisa is fleetingly caught off guard before her annoyance returns. Right. This is her house.

"Uh, trespassing is a crime, Phil Collins," she points out. "Do you see an 'open house' sign anywhere?"

[statement_ends]

"'Phil Collins?'" John repeats with open incredulity. "Christ, that's your pull?" From a teenager, no less. He'd expect any pointed cultural comparisons to list more towards a fucking obscure youtube streamer or something to that effect, not music his grandmother had occasionally listened to.

But that's beside the point. "Sorry, are you saying you live here? Have you got a single air mattress tucked away in a corner somewhere?" He gestures pointedly towards the window he's still stood beside. "Because a cursory glance suggests it's about as open in there as a house gets."

[busybetty]

Lisa could — and probably should — concede that 'live' is kind of a generous term for it, considering, but she's not about to give this guy an inch.

"Not that it's any of your business, but yeah, this is my home. So what are you doing, other than sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?" You're a busy Betty. Edgar's voice rings through her mind and she clenches her jaw against the chill it still gives her.

[statement_ends]

If she expects him to believe that a surly adolescent is the sole owner of a house that looks like it costs six figures at a discount, she's about to be disappointed. "Who really owns this home?" he Asks, too irritated to immediately appreciate the extra oomph he's given the question.

[busybetty]

"Technically Olivia's parents bought the house sometime in the twenty years after my family and I were murdered in the garage," she says. The words come easily and it isn't until they're out and she's had the chance to hear what she's just said that she realizes exactly what it was she has just said. She frowns, hugging herself, but tries to shrug it off. She doesn't know what the hell made her say that, but that doesn't make any of it untrue.

[statement_ends]

"... Ah." John blinks, belatedly recognizing the compulsion for what it was and warring with the idea that he should apologize for it. He can't quite stomach the idea of conceding anything to someone who's been so relentlessly snide. But the truth, underhanded as its acquisition may have been, does provide some helpful context on both the house and her attitude (insufferable as that may be).

"I didn't realize you were a ghost," he says, employing stiff civility in lieu of contrition. "And I can only assume you're not one of the local ones. You arrived with the house, I take it?"

[busybetty]

"Or the house arrived with me," she says, mostly to be contrary. She's still frowning at him, still hugging herself, but her tone tips back towards that same teenage contempt as she adds, "Either way, just because it's empty doesn't mean it's unoccupied, so you're technically trespassing."

[statement_ends]

"And who's going to enforce that?" John fires back, nodding in the general direction of the neighboring lot under construction. "Them? Does the city government even agree that you own the place? Or is it only a matter of time before someone sticks a 'for sale' sign on the front lawn?"

The questions are pointed and he makes no particular effort to sound kind, but they're not rhetorical, either. If this is part of a new development that Darrow's advertising, this home might just as easily end up on offer as any of the rest.

[busybetty]

All of his questions are good points. Lisa's dead. Just like every other family that moved into her house after she died — and she's sure there were more before Olivia's family — someone will move into this house eventually. She can't stop them, and there'll be no illusion forced onto her to make her think she's the only one there.

She doesn't have any answers, though. She has no idea how the city categorizes her or her house. Still, he's such a dick about it that Lisa's tone comes out sharp and defensive.

"Look, I don't know about any of that, okay?" she snaps. "But it's not like I can move out! I'm a ghost. Hello! Do they not have ghosts in England, Joe Jackson? Haven't you ever heard a ghost can't leave the place they died?" She swings an arm in the general direction of the cul-de-sac, eyebrows raised pointedly.

[statement_ends]

"Have you tried?" John arches an eyebrow. "Or are you just assuming Darrow plays by the same rulebook as wherever it is you came from?"

It should go without saying that it doesn't. He's never met an immigrant from a universe that regularly abducted people from the timeline next door. But if this girl has spent her entire postmortem existence trapped on her own property, she might not be particularly well-versed in the affairs of her home universe, either.

And that's setting aside Norah's example: he knows at least one ghost who's found herself to be more mobile in Darrow than she was back home. But he doesn't want to use a ghost he actually respects as a rhetorical pawn, so he just sweeps an arm toward the property line in clear invitation. "If you're really stuck, prove it. It's not like the effort will kill you."

[busybetty]

There it is again. 'The rulebook' Lisa keeps hearing about. It's kind of hard to know which rulebook to use when she barely even knows what fucking game she's playing, but he moves on, goading her, before she can point that out. What he says, though, how he says it, makes her queasy.

"Actually, it might, Smartass," she snaps. "You have no idea what it feels like to try to step off your haunting place. It fucking hurts. It hurts a lot." She tries not to remember how badly, the way it had knocked her down, knocked her out, and she'd woken up exhausted on her bed again.

But even she has to admit that the guy might have a point. She has met one other ghost who wasn't trapped in her haunting place, who told her that they weren't just ghosts here anymore. She looks at the curb like it's an animal that's just waiting for her to get too close.

She sighs, hugging herself. "Look, you're not the first person that's told me the rules are different here. But forgive me if I'm not jumping at the chance to be Gullible Gabby, or whatever."

[statement_ends]

"And what would I know about pain," John drawls, eyes narrow and tone downright desiccating. He knows he's being a prick, but given the copious scars covering his person — particularly the one across his throat, which is high enough that only a severe turtleneck might cover it, and therefore always visible — it does feel a bit rich of her to suggest that he can't begin to imagine whatever discomfort she's suffered.

Still, when she slumps a little, he feels no particular desire to stir her back up. "You can do whatever you like," he says, a little more gently. "But no one's lying with the intention to hurt you." After a beat, he adds, "And sometimes the reward is worth the risk."