Ghostly Haunts || Stiles & Trill

trilliumjones:

Why did ghosts have to be so pesky? They couldn’t just go to the afterlife and leave this plain alone? Of course not! There was just always something to hang around for. People, feelings, revenge. Whatever the reason they just needed to get gone. Killing people was not the answer.

The doors to the house were locked, windows unable to be lifted, the spirit pissed from being shot with rock salt. Good. Trill had wanted that to hurt.

“I’m going to find your bones and put you to rest. I’ve had enough of this game tonight, I’m ready to go home.” She’d checked the grounds for remains or graves but had come up empty, either because the graves were unmarked or they were inside the rickety house. 

Rickety house didn’t even begin to describe it. This place was a death trap even without a ghost inside. The floorboards were barely holding together, each step she had to carefully calculate. One misstep and…

“Oh fu - !” A flicker out of the corner of her eye had her directing the shotgun towards the spirit, finger pressing the trigger as it moved towards her. The boards below creaked and groaned and Trill lost her footing as one crumbled underneath her. Beginning to fall backwards the ghost swept past her and Trill’s back connected with the floor that couldn’t hold her weight.

The crash, mixed with her gunshot echoed around the house, and Trill lay still at the basement level, broken wood and debris laying around and on her. Groaning she coughed at the dust that swirled in the wake of her fall. Was she alive? She felt alive. Bruised most definitely, hurt, oh yeah, but alive. Weakly reaching out a hand her fingers brushed something soft, warm, something also… alive.  

“Oh my god!” she cried and pulled her fingers back. “Who’s there?!” Where was her gun? What the fuck was down here with her…?!?

If she were in the habit of being honest (which, really, she hadn’t been for a good two years now), Stiles would probably admit that deciding to tackle a haunted house all by herself hadn’t been one of her smartest ideas.  She wasn’t a hunter like the Argents, she had no idea what she was doing here.  All she knew was that it was Spring Break, she’d read in the papers about a haunting not too far away, and she’d thought: hey, why not?

She was seriously regretting that optimism now.  She’d spent over an hour wandering from floor to floor and calling out aimlessly to try and prompt the ghost into making an appearance.  That hadn’t worked, unsurprisingly.  It wasn’t until Stiles had started contemplating whether or not she ought to just leave that the stupid thing decided to show itself.  Of course, because Stiles’ life simply worked this way now, she’d been in the basement when it had happened, and the ghost had popped out of friggin’ nowhere, managing to totally freak her the fuck out.

So now she was sitting curled up in a dusty corner of the room, eyes stretched wide in an attempt to see better in the dark and her breath coming in quick, shallow pants.  She wasn’t having a panic attack, but it was a near thing.  It was too dark, too quiet, and to top it all off, her stupid phone was dead, so she couldn’t even make an embarrassingly hysterical call to one of the pack to come and get her.

It was seriously like the entire universe was conspiring against her, because she hadn’t even thought to bring a lighter—which, honestly, she’d watched enough paranormal shows to know better.  Rookie mistake.  If she lived through this, she was going to buy every damn lighter she could get her hands on, no matter what Derek’s eyebrows said about it.

Before she could pursue that line of thought any further, a gunshot cracked overhead, ripping a startled shriek from Stiles’ lungs.  Heart pounding, she strained her ears to hear what was going on.  Maybe it was Chris?  Could she be that lucky?  There was a few muffled thumps, another gunshot, and then suddenly the ceiling was caving in.  Stiles shoved a fist into her mouth to keep herself from screaming again, her other arm curling protectively over her head.  When the dust settled, she found herself staring down at an unfamiliar blonde.

A blonde who had apparently survived the fall, and was now groping around herself—probably searching for the shotgun that had landed a couple of feet away in the other direction.  After a brief hesitation, Stiles tentatively reached out in return, opening her mouth to ask if she was okay, and maybe tell her to stay still (Melissa had gotten pretty strict about knowing basic first-aid after she’d accepted the whole werewolf situation).  But the moment their hands brushed, the woman startled and started yelling.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down!” Stiles said, perhaps a little too loudly, as she planted a soothing hand on the woman’s shoulder, “It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you!  I mean, let’s be real, I’m probably the least threatening thing in this house right now.  But, dude, are you okay?  Because you kind of just fell through the ceiling.  You aren’t going to die or anything, right?  Because I really, really don’t think I could handle that right now.”