❝ When a ghost falls in love with the living, he'll start believing his heart has awoken. ❞
❝ When a medium wants to close her eyes to the dead, she'll realize being normal is harder than it seems. ❞
än ämerican horror story fan fi...
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⭑*•̩̩͙⊱••••✩••••̩̩͙⊰•*⭑
AUGUST 13TH, 1997
"YOU have got to be fucking kidding me."
Antoinette Debroux flicked down her crescent moon spectacles to take in the trove that held the darkest, most cursed hoard of treasures in the country.
Or that's what the papers and City Hall records proclaimed.
When her mother had sent her the address, she had almost believed it was an April Fool's joke and that she would hear her family laugh in her face before going to the real home they had chosen. But no. Instead, as the gate opened its iron jaws ready for her and the view of the family's spud wagon sat in the driveway, Antoinette knew this was real. She would be living in the house that was a gateway to many of the unwashed stains from its history.
Too many bad memories left for an unpleasant affair.
Antoinette breathed out deeply, hitting her back against the leather seat of her 1970 Volkswagen. The red paint was slowly peeling from oxidation, and she knew her father would chastise her for the neglect, but she loved it. The paint paling and peeling meant it gave it character, it made it unique. Just like her.
Not a lot could be said for the house.
"I leave for a year, and this is what they do." She whispered to herself.
The house was beautiful, no denying that; grand and obviously thoroughly designed as the glass, rainbow mosaics and the craftsmanship of the entrance archway was unlike anything she had ever seen. She was amazed it still stood; through California's many earthquakes and the threat of the possible delinquent child on the block, it remained proud like a kingdom with fortified walls. She was sure her sister loved it more than any of them, found a delight in the idea of being able to live inside something that was known to be a part of the historical society.
Gabrielle tended to fall for the mysteriously horrible.
And even though Antoinette was an admirer of all things retro or vintage, she knew not to touch things so tainted.
