Post by Margret Sung on Apr 8, 2021 16:22:06 GMT |
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Post by Deleted on Apr 8, 2021 18:20:35 GMT
Few things were as easy to Beau as what Margret had requested. It was second nature to him, muscle memory, a long lost hobby of his dad's. While the old man wasn't around to watch Beau anymore, he was there in spirit while the boy ghosted through The Woodlands. He practically blended in with the trees, and what he came for, came practically jumping into his hand. It was so easy--and, for once, he felt a twinge of pride in himself. Perhaps that was the spirit of his dad as well.
The house Margret dictated reminded Beau a lot of his childhood home, now rotting in the outskirts of town. Its farmland was just dust and dirt and often flooded like dreary bogs when it rained and, sometimes, he felt like he could stare deep into the muddy pools and scry where he'd someday lay himself to rest. But Beau didn't crave death, he simply wasn't afraid of it, he just knew his path in life. Doomed just like his parents, who passed their curse onto him. He had nothing but love for his parents, and if he could change his destiny, he wouldn't.
But, this house was just a house. He knew people said it was haunted, but Beau was never convinced. If it was haunted, he would have boned down a ghost quicker than anyone could make up some sort of lie about seeing 'em. He wondered if a ghost's touch would be cold, or if it was just feel like another human's hand. The thought took him as he waited for Margret.
What came was, at first, an apparition, to which Beau rose his head with almost uncontained excitement, which died down to his normal, blank expression when he saw the ghost's face. Oh. Margret. No, she was alive. Like, he totally would if she would, but... same old, same old.
"Both," he said. He did not elaborate. "Yeah. 'S right here."
Beside him, at his feet, was a white garbage bag, one of those stretchy kinds, red handles tied together with a hole visible at the top. The contents shifted at Margret's entrance, but barely. The room was filled with the quiet rustling before it stopped once more, its presence only lingering by the rhythmic rise and fall of the plastic.
The house Margret dictated reminded Beau a lot of his childhood home, now rotting in the outskirts of town. Its farmland was just dust and dirt and often flooded like dreary bogs when it rained and, sometimes, he felt like he could stare deep into the muddy pools and scry where he'd someday lay himself to rest. But Beau didn't crave death, he simply wasn't afraid of it, he just knew his path in life. Doomed just like his parents, who passed their curse onto him. He had nothing but love for his parents, and if he could change his destiny, he wouldn't.
But, this house was just a house. He knew people said it was haunted, but Beau was never convinced. If it was haunted, he would have boned down a ghost quicker than anyone could make up some sort of lie about seeing 'em. He wondered if a ghost's touch would be cold, or if it was just feel like another human's hand. The thought took him as he waited for Margret.
What came was, at first, an apparition, to which Beau rose his head with almost uncontained excitement, which died down to his normal, blank expression when he saw the ghost's face. Oh. Margret. No, she was alive. Like, he totally would if she would, but... same old, same old.
"Both," he said. He did not elaborate. "Yeah. 'S right here."
Beside him, at his feet, was a white garbage bag, one of those stretchy kinds, red handles tied together with a hole visible at the top. The contents shifted at Margret's entrance, but barely. The room was filled with the quiet rustling before it stopped once more, its presence only lingering by the rhythmic rise and fall of the plastic.