HEY THERE, DEMONS

X

"True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen."

- Francois de La Rochefoucauld

The sound of oil spitting and metal tongs dragging against a cast iron frying pan drew Olive to the kitchen. A waft of pale white smoke rose into the exhaust hood which did nothing to stop the smell of cooked bacon from flooding the house. The heat from the stove took to the room like a space heater, enveloping every inch in a comfortable warmth. With a flick of her fingers olive opened the two pane window above the stove. Cool fresh air flooded the room as the smell of autumn mingled with the scent of home cooked breakfast. 

"Shane! If you get oil on the splash-back again you'll be cleaning it up..." she warned. Echoing through the room her voice was recognisably her own, if not for the metallic, robotic ting courtesy of Ryans latest ghost communication tool discovery. This one was sage green, no bigger than a small book and sat on the corner of the kitchen island. Ryan insisted they order one of every colour for every room of the house. 

"She's letting us live in her home Shane, at very least I'm gonna make it so that we can talk to her"

"She's not 'letting us' do anything Ry. Our names are on the lease, it's our home now." Shane was met with a soft blow to the shoulder from a floating pillow for that particular remark. "Ow! watch it, O! or you'll be paying rent..." another gentle hit followed, eventually escalating to Shane's having a pillow fight with the empty air as Olive and Ryan laughed from the sofa.

She remembers those days fondly. After their first stay at the house Olive spent a week in paralysing fear of her home being flooded with investigators and journalists alike. Her whole life on a screen for the world to watch and ridicule, her existence no longer a secret kept safely and lonely within the confines of four walls. 

Seven days later when the men returned with no equipment or devices, Olive was shocked to learn they had destroyed the footage and refused the media access to her story. They told her tales of how they had argued with their producer and fought with historians and politicians to try to get her house recognised as a historical site. That way nobody could ever tear it down and nobody she didn't like could ever move in. Her heart sank with a painful wanting she didn't realise she had. What if somebody I do like wanted to move in...

As if her thoughts had manifested it to fruition, 3 months later Shane and Ryan were parading around the house with a lease and a bottle of champagne, dancing and celebrating to the tune of a song she didn't really care for - a testament to how nothing in that moment could spoil her happiness. If Olive had to spook one too many people at open house events and let her presence be a little more than known to real estate agents to drive down the price of her 'haunted house', well nobody had to know...

She could never have seen herself enjoying a life like this. Sharing her space, losing her freedom, exposing herself to outsiders, slow healing wounds open to the pair of men like posters to inspect and poke and prod. Over the next two years of sharing a home with the happy couple she found none of her fears came to fruition. Instead she watched happily as Ryan and Shane built a life together. Every morning Shane would make breakfast as Ryan took old sheets to wash and made the bed anew. Every evening she laughed at the sight of two men arguing over the remote control, the constant battle of star wars vs star trek she thought she'd never hear the end of. She listened in awe as Ryan wrapped words together like silk thread, spinning a story of pain, mystery and adventure for their audience of true crime fanatics, while Shane tore the words apart like puzzle pieces to inspect and admire before piecing them back together in an order she'd never even considered to reveal an alternative ending to a case that always remained unsolved.