Owen paused in his work at rubbing the pain from his toes. His head remained where it was pointed at his feet but his eyes rolled upwards looking around the room. He thought he might have heard a bit of laughter or something like it. He laughed again shaking his head. He couldn’t believe he was getting sucked into old ghost tales.
Getting so sucked into them that now the wind had started to sound like laughter.
Except then his water glass fell from the counter.
It surprised him. He jerked away from it with a shout of fear and glanced fearfully around the room.
“What the-”
Blonde brows pulled together over his eyes. Owen pushed himself up and walked over to where the glass had rolled under the counter and stopped against the baseboard there. He bent and retrieved it. Holding the glass up, he gazed at it. Looking through the glass bent the world around him.
He made a ‘humph’ sort of sound and put the glass into the sink.
He found a dish towel and mopped up the water.
“If there is a ghost here, I don’t know what I did to piss it off. I fixed up the old piano. Played some good tunes. Had a little party here with a pretty girl. I’m livening up the place, alright?”
Now he really was crazy. Talking to some maybe ghost.
“That’s the thing about ghosts, they gotta torture perfectly random people over shit that happened forever ago, you know? Where’s the justice?”
What was the point of such philosophical rhetorical questions? There was no one there. But Owen was the type of man who would totally try to debate a ghost.
Getting so sucked into them that now the wind had started to sound like laughter.
Except then his water glass fell from the counter.
It surprised him. He jerked away from it with a shout of fear and glanced fearfully around the room.
“What the-”
Blonde brows pulled together over his eyes. Owen pushed himself up and walked over to where the glass had rolled under the counter and stopped against the baseboard there. He bent and retrieved it. Holding the glass up, he gazed at it. Looking through the glass bent the world around him.
He made a ‘humph’ sort of sound and put the glass into the sink.
He found a dish towel and mopped up the water.
“If there is a ghost here, I don’t know what I did to piss it off. I fixed up the old piano. Played some good tunes. Had a little party here with a pretty girl. I’m livening up the place, alright?”
Now he really was crazy. Talking to some maybe ghost.
“That’s the thing about ghosts, they gotta torture perfectly random people over shit that happened forever ago, you know? Where’s the justice?”
What was the point of such philosophical rhetorical questions? There was no one there. But Owen was the type of man who would totally try to debate a ghost.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
The following 1 user Likes saronym's post: SolitareLee
There was a brief feeling of success as she watched him watch the glass roll across the floor until it stopped. The shocked noise he had made had pleased her. She circled him like a smarmy animal that was watching its owner clean up a mess it had made; he mopped up the water and picked up the glass.
He didn’t know what he had done to piss her off? Julianna scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. As if moving into a house that didn’t belong to him wasn’t worth offense. Touching her things and having sex with women in her bed. Whatever happened to respecting the dead and such?
“I’m going to get rid of you,” she promised, turning her back on him and marching out of the kitchen as he asked more questions to thin air. The stairs creaked as she mounted them. The fourth from the top was always the loudest. Floorboards groaned on the landing as she walked the hall towards the master bedroom. Her bedroom, the one he had decided to take over.
Still throwing a childish fit, Julianna pushed the heavy curtains back that hung from the four poster bed, exposing the defiled mattress that was hidden behind them. She yanked and pulled the sheets off of the bed and deposited them in the corner of the room. She pushed the pillows into the floor just because she could.
“Absolutely filthy,” she complained to no one, because Owen had yet to re-enter the room and she couldn't be heard regardless.
The mattress creaked as she sat down in the end of the end of the bed and rearranged her skirts over her knees. Her point was made and he could redress the bed in his own. Maybe he would decide to sleep somewhere else. She refused to be evicted from her own room.
He didn’t know what he had done to piss her off? Julianna scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. As if moving into a house that didn’t belong to him wasn’t worth offense. Touching her things and having sex with women in her bed. Whatever happened to respecting the dead and such?
“I’m going to get rid of you,” she promised, turning her back on him and marching out of the kitchen as he asked more questions to thin air. The stairs creaked as she mounted them. The fourth from the top was always the loudest. Floorboards groaned on the landing as she walked the hall towards the master bedroom. Her bedroom, the one he had decided to take over.
Still throwing a childish fit, Julianna pushed the heavy curtains back that hung from the four poster bed, exposing the defiled mattress that was hidden behind them. She yanked and pulled the sheets off of the bed and deposited them in the corner of the room. She pushed the pillows into the floor just because she could.
“Absolutely filthy,” she complained to no one, because Owen had yet to re-enter the room and she couldn't be heard regardless.
The mattress creaked as she sat down in the end of the end of the bed and rearranged her skirts over her knees. Her point was made and he could redress the bed in his own. Maybe he would decide to sleep somewhere else. She refused to be evicted from her own room.
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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Owen would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he felt something, someone watching him. He could feel the presence. Energy. Something was there. Owen wasn’t a superstitious person. He didn’t believe in the afterlife, demons, or angels, or ghosts. It was perhaps naive to believe that the sciences had already explained most phenomenons.
And here he was being proved wrong in his beliefs.
Having essentially an encounter with a presence he could really no longer ignore.
But then it passed away. He felt suddenly alone in the kitchen. Owen gazed around him in the half dark wondering if he was losing his damn mind. It was probably the alcohol, the rumors, a frightened southern girl all getting to his head. But wait - was that the - stairs he heard? Owen’s ears strained in the silence of the house to place the location of creaking wood. While one part of him seemed to know it was something mounting the stairs, the other part of his brain explained the sound by noting that the entire house creeked and made noises when the wind blew and as it settled.
The house was made of wood. It swelled in the heat and receded in the cool. Clearly it would be making noises all the time.
He tarried in the kitchen downing another glass of water before he mounted the creaky stairs. What he found in the bedroom could not be explained by creaking wood or scared southern girls getting to his head.
His bed was torn apart. Oddly enough, Owen was more offended than anything. He hated making the bed. Hated the stupid struggle of stretching the bottom sheet to fit the mattress. Hated when it popped off a corner and made him feel stupid.
“Worst turn down service, ever.” He complained sarcastically before flipping on the overhead and lamp light. Owen flooded the room in light because whatever lurked in the shadows of the house was beginning to scare him a little. He gathered up the comforter and laid on the bare mattress and covered himself up to his chin.
Though the entire room was lit, he closed his eyes and intended fully - stubbornly - to fall asleep that way. He wasn’t about to be chased off by some ghost. While he tried to fall asleep he planned an exorcism...or banishment...or whatever one did to be rid ghosts.
This was his house now.
And here he was being proved wrong in his beliefs.
Having essentially an encounter with a presence he could really no longer ignore.
But then it passed away. He felt suddenly alone in the kitchen. Owen gazed around him in the half dark wondering if he was losing his damn mind. It was probably the alcohol, the rumors, a frightened southern girl all getting to his head. But wait - was that the - stairs he heard? Owen’s ears strained in the silence of the house to place the location of creaking wood. While one part of him seemed to know it was something mounting the stairs, the other part of his brain explained the sound by noting that the entire house creeked and made noises when the wind blew and as it settled.
The house was made of wood. It swelled in the heat and receded in the cool. Clearly it would be making noises all the time.
He tarried in the kitchen downing another glass of water before he mounted the creaky stairs. What he found in the bedroom could not be explained by creaking wood or scared southern girls getting to his head.
His bed was torn apart. Oddly enough, Owen was more offended than anything. He hated making the bed. Hated the stupid struggle of stretching the bottom sheet to fit the mattress. Hated when it popped off a corner and made him feel stupid.
“Worst turn down service, ever.” He complained sarcastically before flipping on the overhead and lamp light. Owen flooded the room in light because whatever lurked in the shadows of the house was beginning to scare him a little. He gathered up the comforter and laid on the bare mattress and covered himself up to his chin.
Though the entire room was lit, he closed his eyes and intended fully - stubbornly - to fall asleep that way. He wasn’t about to be chased off by some ghost. While he tried to fall asleep he planned an exorcism...or banishment...or whatever one did to be rid ghosts.
This was his house now.
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Julianna may have lost the day, but she had not lost the war. That is exactly what it was now: war. It was her against the Hart who thought he could occupy her family’s home. She let him sleep through the night. She’d found his determination to defy her to be somewhat amusing. Falling asleep with the comforter up to his chin with all the lights on. She had frightened him, and that was a good sign.
She watched him sleep. She didn’t have anything better to do. It had nothing to do with how attractive and peaceful he looked. Attractive and peaceful weren’t words she would normally associate with a Hart. Insofar, this one wasn’t much different than the others. Julianna hovered over him, while he slept. Her presence nothing more than and annoying chilly aura, not that he really noticed while he was sleeping.
“Why are you here,” she asked no one. She settled onto the bed, again, sitting next to him, but not disturbing him. She was mostly weightless. She peered down her nose at him. Her gaze traced the line of his nose and the curve of his lip, across his chin and down the line of his throat.
Unthinkingly, she settled one of her hands on his neck. Just above the hollow of his throat, her fingers curved over his skin, his Adam’s apple pressed against her palm. It was not quite the way it had been done to her, but it could have been effective nonetheless, had she actually wished him harm.
She didn’t not. Just because she didn’t like him, didn’t mean he deserved to die. The one who had ended her life had long since passed himself. He’d not nearly gotten what he deserved, but Owen didn’t deserve to take his place. She returned her hand to her lap. “What possessed you to buy this house.”
She watched him sleep. She didn’t have anything better to do. It had nothing to do with how attractive and peaceful he looked. Attractive and peaceful weren’t words she would normally associate with a Hart. Insofar, this one wasn’t much different than the others. Julianna hovered over him, while he slept. Her presence nothing more than and annoying chilly aura, not that he really noticed while he was sleeping.
“Why are you here,” she asked no one. She settled onto the bed, again, sitting next to him, but not disturbing him. She was mostly weightless. She peered down her nose at him. Her gaze traced the line of his nose and the curve of his lip, across his chin and down the line of his throat.
Unthinkingly, she settled one of her hands on his neck. Just above the hollow of his throat, her fingers curved over his skin, his Adam’s apple pressed against her palm. It was not quite the way it had been done to her, but it could have been effective nonetheless, had she actually wished him harm.
She didn’t not. Just because she didn’t like him, didn’t mean he deserved to die. The one who had ended her life had long since passed himself. He’d not nearly gotten what he deserved, but Owen didn’t deserve to take his place. She returned her hand to her lap. “What possessed you to buy this house.”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
The following 2 users Like megs's post: saronym, SolitareLee
Despite the apparitions touch and speech in the night, Owen didn’t stir. She was quiet and so gentle that none of the sensation of her presence registered deeply enough to rouse him to consciousness. But it did seep into his subconscious and enter his dreams.
He dreamed about Maddy, or a woman he thought was Maddy at first. She was sitting on top of him. Why was she wearing that period dress? Like something out of an old movie. He couldn’t see her face.. There was like a mist all around them. He could only see that dress sitting there. That yellow dress. Owen tried to move his hands to touch her hips, her breasts, any part of her. To pull her down so that he could see her better in the mist. Why was there mist in his bedroom? The woman allowed him to pull her towards him revealing to him not Maddy but the face of another woman who seemed vaguely familiar.
Had he seen her picture somewhere?
She was obviously displeased with him and placed her hand on his neck as if measuring whether she had the strength to crush his larynx. He stared straight back into green eyes but wasn't afraid of her. A question was posed of him though her mouth never moved. What possessed you to buy this house.
Owen woke in the morning with the dream still vague in his mind. He could hardly remember the dream - just impressions. It hadn’t frightened him so much as left him with a funny feeling. He left the house that morning to attend to errands he had in town. He ordered internet and cable television to the house and switched the power and water from the realty company into his name. Owen also stopped at the grocery store to stock the fridge and pantry … and for a few special items.
Owen spent the afternoon at home getting a new TV and video game console that he purchased set up. He cooked himself an unimpressive meal of baked chicken breast and buttered noodles. Once he was fed and half-way liquored up on that bottle Maddy had brought him, Owen set to rid the house of the ‘presence’ everybody insisted on.
He had seen spooky movies.
He knew what to do.
He did not know what to do.
Owen unpacked his secret weapons: tall, oblong candles with pictures of the Virgin mother on them and cilantro. As the sun went down on the Old Haven House casting long shadows on the yard and in the home, Owen lit candles and arranged them in various places around the house - on the kitchen counters, on the piano, on that creaky stair, in a circle on the living room floor - like he was about to have a cheesy seance. He proceeded to light cilantro leaves on fire and started his “banishment” process at the front entry way where he shook the burning cilantro leaves mimicking the activity he had no doubt seen on a television show or movie. It apparently didn’t occur to Owen that particular herbs or prayers may be appropriate, or that grocery store candles didn’t have mystical properties.
"This is my house now." He said, foolishly, as he moved to incense the other door ways of the home. He carried the bottle of liquor with him and dribbled a little bit on the floor as if it were holy water.
He dreamed about Maddy, or a woman he thought was Maddy at first. She was sitting on top of him. Why was she wearing that period dress? Like something out of an old movie. He couldn’t see her face.. There was like a mist all around them. He could only see that dress sitting there. That yellow dress. Owen tried to move his hands to touch her hips, her breasts, any part of her. To pull her down so that he could see her better in the mist. Why was there mist in his bedroom? The woman allowed him to pull her towards him revealing to him not Maddy but the face of another woman who seemed vaguely familiar.
Had he seen her picture somewhere?
She was obviously displeased with him and placed her hand on his neck as if measuring whether she had the strength to crush his larynx. He stared straight back into green eyes but wasn't afraid of her. A question was posed of him though her mouth never moved. What possessed you to buy this house.
Owen woke in the morning with the dream still vague in his mind. He could hardly remember the dream - just impressions. It hadn’t frightened him so much as left him with a funny feeling. He left the house that morning to attend to errands he had in town. He ordered internet and cable television to the house and switched the power and water from the realty company into his name. Owen also stopped at the grocery store to stock the fridge and pantry … and for a few special items.
Owen spent the afternoon at home getting a new TV and video game console that he purchased set up. He cooked himself an unimpressive meal of baked chicken breast and buttered noodles. Once he was fed and half-way liquored up on that bottle Maddy had brought him, Owen set to rid the house of the ‘presence’ everybody insisted on.
He had seen spooky movies.
He knew what to do.
He did not know what to do.
Owen unpacked his secret weapons: tall, oblong candles with pictures of the Virgin mother on them and cilantro. As the sun went down on the Old Haven House casting long shadows on the yard and in the home, Owen lit candles and arranged them in various places around the house - on the kitchen counters, on the piano, on that creaky stair, in a circle on the living room floor - like he was about to have a cheesy seance. He proceeded to light cilantro leaves on fire and started his “banishment” process at the front entry way where he shook the burning cilantro leaves mimicking the activity he had no doubt seen on a television show or movie. It apparently didn’t occur to Owen that particular herbs or prayers may be appropriate, or that grocery store candles didn’t have mystical properties.
"This is my house now." He said, foolishly, as he moved to incense the other door ways of the home. He carried the bottle of liquor with him and dribbled a little bit on the floor as if it were holy water.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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Julianna didn’t have much choice than to watch Owen come and go and do as he pleased in her home. She sat at the bottom of the stairs, pouting, as he brought strange things into the ancient domicile. The spirit hovered around him as she assembled something in the living room, and in the kitchen where he made one of the most uninspired meals she had ever seen. All in all, she was mostly disappointed with the Hart man. He didn’t seem very interesting. Not that she wanted him to be interesting, she wanted him to be gone.
He kept himself too busy to be affected by her attempts at haunting. Unusual noises and knocking things over like a disgruntled cat no longer seemed to reach him. Now, he was doing good job of getting drunk again. She wondered if an overindulgence of liquor was genetic of Hart men.
The sun was setting and she lifted her head off her hands when she heard him rifling through the remaining bags he’d returned from the store with. Leaving the stairwell, she followed the sound of crinkling plastic. Candles and some sort of herb? What a strange combination. Her ghostly presence followed him through the house as he laid out the candles. A strange aesthetic and she wasn’t sure if she appreciated it.
Did he fancy himself some sort of witch? This was a certainly very witch-like behavior (not that she knew for sure, really only what she had heard in stories). Whatever he was burning smelled awful, dark smoke wafting upwards towards the ceiling. She frowned and followed him, trying to figure out what he was up to. She was less than content to observe until he started leaving splashes of rum on her old hardwood floors. Her presence was announced with a spine-tingling chill and she made herself visible to him for the first time. Julianna stood behind him in her pretty yellow lawn dress, dark curls pulled half away from her face and falling over her shoulders. Her frown was severe and her arms were crossed over the tight bodice of her dress,
“What are you doing,” she questioned sharply, voice echoing out from. “It stinks,” she complained, waving smoke away from her face. “And leaving a terrible mess!”
He kept himself too busy to be affected by her attempts at haunting. Unusual noises and knocking things over like a disgruntled cat no longer seemed to reach him. Now, he was doing good job of getting drunk again. She wondered if an overindulgence of liquor was genetic of Hart men.
The sun was setting and she lifted her head off her hands when she heard him rifling through the remaining bags he’d returned from the store with. Leaving the stairwell, she followed the sound of crinkling plastic. Candles and some sort of herb? What a strange combination. Her ghostly presence followed him through the house as he laid out the candles. A strange aesthetic and she wasn’t sure if she appreciated it.
Did he fancy himself some sort of witch? This was a certainly very witch-like behavior (not that she knew for sure, really only what she had heard in stories). Whatever he was burning smelled awful, dark smoke wafting upwards towards the ceiling. She frowned and followed him, trying to figure out what he was up to. She was less than content to observe until he started leaving splashes of rum on her old hardwood floors. Her presence was announced with a spine-tingling chill and she made herself visible to him for the first time. Julianna stood behind him in her pretty yellow lawn dress, dark curls pulled half away from her face and falling over her shoulders. Her frown was severe and her arms were crossed over the tight bodice of her dress,
“What are you doing,” she questioned sharply, voice echoing out from. “It stinks,” she complained, waving smoke away from her face. “And leaving a terrible mess!”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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A chill washed over his whole body which Owen had to admit was pretty fucking creepy given what he was doing. He had the gall for a moment to believe his make-shift knock-off witchcraft had actually summoned something and perhaps was even actively banishing that something. It was a split second that he believed that before terror struck him.
What are you doing. A deeply southern accented voice was asking him from behind.
He whirled around and was confronted with that, again, eerily familiar woman. He recognized her from his dream. “Holy shit.” He cussed and flattened himself out against the wall.
In his scramble to move away from her, he dropped the burning cilantro to the floor. He took his eyes away from the woman long enough to stamp out the burning herb. His foot smashed burning herb and pressed ashes into the floor.
“I’m - I’m - uhm. Banishing a ghost?” His hand gestured towards her questioningly. “Are you - ? Is it working?” He stared harder at her now putting together that she was the woman from the portrait. His eyes again left her just to glance at the picture on the wall opposite to her to confirm. "Holy shit. You're in the painting."
What are you doing. A deeply southern accented voice was asking him from behind.
He whirled around and was confronted with that, again, eerily familiar woman. He recognized her from his dream. “Holy shit.” He cussed and flattened himself out against the wall.
In his scramble to move away from her, he dropped the burning cilantro to the floor. He took his eyes away from the woman long enough to stamp out the burning herb. His foot smashed burning herb and pressed ashes into the floor.
“I’m - I’m - uhm. Banishing a ghost?” His hand gestured towards her questioningly. “Are you - ? Is it working?” He stared harder at her now putting together that she was the woman from the portrait. His eyes again left her just to glance at the picture on the wall opposite to her to confirm. "Holy shit. You're in the painting."
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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She was pleased that she had properly startled him, but displeased by his continued use of improper language. There was something matronly in the tilt of her head, and her frown seemed to say watch your mouth. She was a lady after all, had he no sensibilities?
Her eyes followed his to the greenery on the ground. A high-pitched and impatient noise sounded in her throat, as he continued to make a mess on her beautiful floors. She propped her hands up on her hips and stared hard at him, still waiting for an answer to her previous question.
“No, it’s not working,” she replied in a monotone. Hands left her hips to sweep away from her figure. “Does it look likes it’s working?” Her hands slapped against her thighs, the sound muted from the layers beneath the yellow silk of her dress. She looked at her own painting, she was wearing that very same dress today, but her hair was different. She frowned at the portrait.
“This is my home.”
Her eyes followed his to the greenery on the ground. A high-pitched and impatient noise sounded in her throat, as he continued to make a mess on her beautiful floors. She propped her hands up on her hips and stared hard at him, still waiting for an answer to her previous question.
“No, it’s not working,” she replied in a monotone. Hands left her hips to sweep away from her figure. “Does it look likes it’s working?” Her hands slapped against her thighs, the sound muted from the layers beneath the yellow silk of her dress. She looked at her own painting, she was wearing that very same dress today, but her hair was different. She frowned at the portrait.
“This is my home.”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
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“Oh.”
He didn’t seem disappointed that his makeshift witchcraft wasn’t working. It’s not like he expected it to. He was sort of really just entertaining himself and goofing on the locals who had insisted the damn house was haunted.
Joke was on him though.
“I wouldn’t know what it would look like if it was working.” He responded trying to sound reasonable. His eyes swept over her figure. The tight bodice of her dress accentuated her shape nicely and the color of the fabric complimented her complexion. Apparently ghosts from the past could be hot. Even though, sure, he was scared, Owen was first and foremost a virile Hart man. His attention was naturally brought to the suggestive and sexual dream he had about the ghost just the night before.
“Well, actually, I own the house now.” He said this boldly, challenging her. He stepped forward and added in poor taste, “So I guess I own you now, too.” It was meant to be suggestive and sexy. And it sounded that way in his alcohol clouded mind.
He didn’t seem disappointed that his makeshift witchcraft wasn’t working. It’s not like he expected it to. He was sort of really just entertaining himself and goofing on the locals who had insisted the damn house was haunted.
Joke was on him though.
“I wouldn’t know what it would look like if it was working.” He responded trying to sound reasonable. His eyes swept over her figure. The tight bodice of her dress accentuated her shape nicely and the color of the fabric complimented her complexion. Apparently ghosts from the past could be hot. Even though, sure, he was scared, Owen was first and foremost a virile Hart man. His attention was naturally brought to the suggestive and sexual dream he had about the ghost just the night before.
“Well, actually, I own the house now.” He said this boldly, challenging her. He stepped forward and added in poor taste, “So I guess I own you now, too.” It was meant to be suggestive and sexy. And it sounded that way in his alcohol clouded mind.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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A brow quirked upwards as he reminded her that he was the one who owned the house. She knew it was true on paper, but she refused to believe that was really the case. He stepped closer to her, and she looked down at his feet, almost in disbelief that he dared to approach her. Julianna had just crossed her arms over her chest and turned her chin away from him, when he’d decided to speak that last awful sentence.
It wasn’t the first time someone had said something similar to her. Being a woman of color during a time when slavery was abundant, Julianna had experienced her unfair share of haughty white men saying things they shouldn’t. Regardless of the station she was granted by her father’s name.
With fury on her features, Julianna slapped Owen squarely on the cheek. The sound of it echoed in the space of the stairwell and the contact left her own hand stinging. “How dare you, sir” she spit from between clenched teeth. She exhaled sharply through her nose and looked away from him again, her hands smoothed over the abdomen of her bodice, before the one she’d used to hit him clenched into a fist. “Who do you think you are,” she asked, accusatory. “Another Hart man to come in and claim everything you walk on?”
It wasn’t the first time someone had said something similar to her. Being a woman of color during a time when slavery was abundant, Julianna had experienced her unfair share of haughty white men saying things they shouldn’t. Regardless of the station she was granted by her father’s name.
With fury on her features, Julianna slapped Owen squarely on the cheek. The sound of it echoed in the space of the stairwell and the contact left her own hand stinging. “How dare you, sir” she spit from between clenched teeth. She exhaled sharply through her nose and looked away from him again, her hands smoothed over the abdomen of her bodice, before the one she’d used to hit him clenched into a fist. “Who do you think you are,” she asked, accusatory. “Another Hart man to come in and claim everything you walk on?”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
The following 2 users Like megs's post: saronym, SolitareLee
The slap came as a complete surprise. Owen had, in fact, never been slapped by a woman before. Or really anyone. He’d never been slapped. The flat of her hand met his cheek with a very satisfying sharp sound that had some impressive resonance. His head was knocked to the side in trajectory with her hand.
“Ouch. Shit.” He pressed his own hand against the stinging site in remembrance of the gate control theory of pain he had learned in college. Apparently, some things he learned there would be useful.
Owen realized that he had definitely said something completely insensitive. In his defense, he was trying out a line he had heard on a television show with a handsome vampire. Well, come to think of it, that hadn’t worked out the way the vampire wanted to either. So all in all, it turned out to be a dumb ass thing to say.
He held both hands out, showing her his palms and that he meant her no harm...no more harm than he had already caused. “Okay. I deserved that. That was not a cute thing to say. Message received.” He said as he rubbed the assaulted skin which was now burning. Damn, the woman had an arm.
“Wait...what do you mean by another Hart? Did you know anyone from my family?”
All fear of the ghost had really passed, so far nothing crazy had happened like he had seen in ghost movies. No dragging of his body across the floor. Demonic scratches on his body. No plates flying around.
She’d slapped him like a regular girl and now he was intrigued to pick her brain about his mysterious family history.
“Ouch. Shit.” He pressed his own hand against the stinging site in remembrance of the gate control theory of pain he had learned in college. Apparently, some things he learned there would be useful.
Owen realized that he had definitely said something completely insensitive. In his defense, he was trying out a line he had heard on a television show with a handsome vampire. Well, come to think of it, that hadn’t worked out the way the vampire wanted to either. So all in all, it turned out to be a dumb ass thing to say.
He held both hands out, showing her his palms and that he meant her no harm...no more harm than he had already caused. “Okay. I deserved that. That was not a cute thing to say. Message received.” He said as he rubbed the assaulted skin which was now burning. Damn, the woman had an arm.
“Wait...what do you mean by another Hart? Did you know anyone from my family?”
All fear of the ghost had really passed, so far nothing crazy had happened like he had seen in ghost movies. No dragging of his body across the floor. Demonic scratches on his body. No plates flying around.
She’d slapped him like a regular girl and now he was intrigued to pick her brain about his mysterious family history.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
The following 2 users Like saronym's post: megs, SolitareLee
The specter continued to glare at him icily, even as he held his hands out and attempted to apologize. Her own hands were still balled into fists at her sides, and the initial wave of her anger refused to wane. Even the satisfying sight of his complaining about her slap didn’t move her.
It wasn’t until his complaints turned into surprise that her own expression changed. Her face fell as she recounted what she had said in her head. Internally, she scolded herself, she had said too much. Revealed too much too quickly. Centuries had passed and even though he was asking, she didn’t know if she was ready to talk about what she knew of his family.
He wasn’t even scared of her anymore. The entirety of her plan was all but ruined because she had piqued his curiosity.
“I’ve known many Harts,” she explained, and she didn’t sound pleased at all about it. “They founded this town with members of my own. They were bootleggers. Rumrunners. With a few legitimate businesses to launder money through.”
This was apparently all she was going to say on the matter. Her attention dropped to the half-burned herbs and the alcohol dribbled on the floor. “Clean all of this up, before it stains,” she demanded, gesturing to the mess he’d left around the room.
It wasn’t until his complaints turned into surprise that her own expression changed. Her face fell as she recounted what she had said in her head. Internally, she scolded herself, she had said too much. Revealed too much too quickly. Centuries had passed and even though he was asking, she didn’t know if she was ready to talk about what she knew of his family.
He wasn’t even scared of her anymore. The entirety of her plan was all but ruined because she had piqued his curiosity.
“I’ve known many Harts,” she explained, and she didn’t sound pleased at all about it. “They founded this town with members of my own. They were bootleggers. Rumrunners. With a few legitimate businesses to launder money through.”
This was apparently all she was going to say on the matter. Her attention dropped to the half-burned herbs and the alcohol dribbled on the floor. “Clean all of this up, before it stains,” she demanded, gesturing to the mess he’d left around the room.
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
The following 2 users Like megs's post: saronym, SolitareLee
Owen’s hands lifted up in front of him in excitement about her revelations. “What! No way!” He said over her giving more information about his family. “I had heard something like that before, but I never knew if it was true.”
Owen was about to continue on with how he had come across the information and ask her more questions, but she clammed up and was demanding he clean his mess. He sheepishly surveyed the ridiculous mess he had made and then nodded. “Yeah sure, of course. I’m sorry about that.” For some reason he found himself apologizing to the ghost because, he supposed, she was as legitimate an owner of the house as he. A roommate maybe. And it was rude to make a mess when you had roommates.
He dashed off into the kitchen to retrieve the trashcan and some cleaning products. “So anyway,” he chattered at her from the kitchen, “when my dad died he left me some stuff on the family history. And a shit ton of money. I haven’t had a chance to get into all the random crap he left me. It’s not organized. Just a mess of newspaper clippings, old pictures, and letters. I think there is a diary? Some weird kids toys.”
He went to his hands and knees to clean up the charred cilantro and took care to wipe the ashes and liquor from the floor. Owen moved around from spot to spot cleaning and blowing out the candles as he approached them.
“But you, you must know a lot more about the family. You’re a living - well - sorry - not living - but… I guess, walking history book. What were the names of the Harts you knew? I would like to cross reference it with some of the stuff I have.”
Owen was about to continue on with how he had come across the information and ask her more questions, but she clammed up and was demanding he clean his mess. He sheepishly surveyed the ridiculous mess he had made and then nodded. “Yeah sure, of course. I’m sorry about that.” For some reason he found himself apologizing to the ghost because, he supposed, she was as legitimate an owner of the house as he. A roommate maybe. And it was rude to make a mess when you had roommates.
He dashed off into the kitchen to retrieve the trashcan and some cleaning products. “So anyway,” he chattered at her from the kitchen, “when my dad died he left me some stuff on the family history. And a shit ton of money. I haven’t had a chance to get into all the random crap he left me. It’s not organized. Just a mess of newspaper clippings, old pictures, and letters. I think there is a diary? Some weird kids toys.”
He went to his hands and knees to clean up the charred cilantro and took care to wipe the ashes and liquor from the floor. Owen moved around from spot to spot cleaning and blowing out the candles as he approached them.
“But you, you must know a lot more about the family. You’re a living - well - sorry - not living - but… I guess, walking history book. What were the names of the Harts you knew? I would like to cross reference it with some of the stuff I have.”
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
The following 2 users Like saronym's post: megs, SolitareLee
Julianna did not share his excitement. It was obvious by her frown and her closed off posture. Arms across tucked beneath her breasts and her body half-turned away from him.
When he disappeared to retrieve the necessary cleaning supplies, she dropped her arms and her hands slapped against her skirts. He wasn’t within earshot to hear her exasperated huff as she sat down upon the piano bench, but she often did a lot of things without anyone to hear them. Sometimes, it just felt good to do them. Living gestures that she refused to let go of.
She watched over the top of the piano as he moved around the room to clean up his mess. Julianna appeared to be bored, running her fingers back and forth over the tops of the piano keys as he spoke. The gesture stopped and she stared hard at him when he mentioned a diary. There had been an estate auction about a decade ago and her diary had been one of the things lost in the careless transaction of her belongings.
Julianna did not know if it was a Hart man that had taken it. She did not know if her was the one that Owen now had. She didn’t ask, if anything, she would just go through his things later and see if she could locate it. She sighed heavily when he continued to question her. Julianna then waved a hand and rolled her eyes as if she couldn’t remember.
“I knew plenty of them. Too many in my opinion. Reinhold and Mara Hart. Their children Elizabeth, Nathan, Ephraim and…” Julianna’s gaze fell to where her hands rested in her lap. “Absalom.” She looked back up at Owen. “And endless aunts and uncles and cousins and what have you, I’m sure.”
When he disappeared to retrieve the necessary cleaning supplies, she dropped her arms and her hands slapped against her skirts. He wasn’t within earshot to hear her exasperated huff as she sat down upon the piano bench, but she often did a lot of things without anyone to hear them. Sometimes, it just felt good to do them. Living gestures that she refused to let go of.
She watched over the top of the piano as he moved around the room to clean up his mess. Julianna appeared to be bored, running her fingers back and forth over the tops of the piano keys as he spoke. The gesture stopped and she stared hard at him when he mentioned a diary. There had been an estate auction about a decade ago and her diary had been one of the things lost in the careless transaction of her belongings.
Julianna did not know if it was a Hart man that had taken it. She did not know if her was the one that Owen now had. She didn’t ask, if anything, she would just go through his things later and see if she could locate it. She sighed heavily when he continued to question her. Julianna then waved a hand and rolled her eyes as if she couldn’t remember.
“I knew plenty of them. Too many in my opinion. Reinhold and Mara Hart. Their children Elizabeth, Nathan, Ephraim and…” Julianna’s gaze fell to where her hands rested in her lap. “Absalom.” She looked back up at Owen. “And endless aunts and uncles and cousins and what have you, I’m sure.”
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) I want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you.
The following 2 users Like megs's post: saronym, SolitareLee
The cleaning was finished and Owen now had a trashcan filled with soiled napkins, burned herbs, and minimally burned religious candles. He toted the supplies back to the kitchen as Julianna spoke. After putting everything away Owen returned to the living room where she loitered at the piano.
He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in disbelief. It was truly a crazy situation. Meeting a ghost who knew your own ancestors. He had so many questions for her.
“So, what were they like? My family.” He moved into the room with her and sat in the armchair nearest to the piano. “How did you know them? Who did you know best?”
He did a half shrug as if he were going to correct himself. “Well my father’s side of the family. My mother’s side are O’Rourkes.” A minor detail.
With nothing to keep his hands busy and distract his mind, Owen began to feel uncomfortable. Worried partly for his sanity. Was this real? Worried also because if it was real, how could he be sure this spirit, ghost, whatever, wasn't malicious?
If it was possible, there seemed to be something kind hidden in those green eyes somewhere under the anger that seemed to burn there on the surface. He pushed himself up suddenly from the chair and moved close to the piano.
"Do you play?" He asked as he reached over her shoulder to press middle C with his thumb. The full note rang out. His middle fell on a black key above and pinky hit another white key above that. A minor chord. "I took lessons all my life. Even through college. My father paid for them."
He put his hands on his hips and shook his head in disbelief. It was truly a crazy situation. Meeting a ghost who knew your own ancestors. He had so many questions for her.
“So, what were they like? My family.” He moved into the room with her and sat in the armchair nearest to the piano. “How did you know them? Who did you know best?”
He did a half shrug as if he were going to correct himself. “Well my father’s side of the family. My mother’s side are O’Rourkes.” A minor detail.
With nothing to keep his hands busy and distract his mind, Owen began to feel uncomfortable. Worried partly for his sanity. Was this real? Worried also because if it was real, how could he be sure this spirit, ghost, whatever, wasn't malicious?
If it was possible, there seemed to be something kind hidden in those green eyes somewhere under the anger that seemed to burn there on the surface. He pushed himself up suddenly from the chair and moved close to the piano.
"Do you play?" He asked as he reached over her shoulder to press middle C with his thumb. The full note rang out. His middle fell on a black key above and pinky hit another white key above that. A minor chord. "I took lessons all my life. Even through college. My father paid for them."
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
The following 1 user Likes saronym's post: SolitareLee
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