Everytime (American Horror AU 5)

Chapter 18

The middle of October was the first time Michael set foot in the house in over a month. When the kindly, lovely Swede opened the door to welcome him in, he was in pure shock at the sight before him. It had been the girl who he had seen die tragically in the house, falling over the top railing and onto the first story before his very eyes. It was the beautiful young woman whom he had collected gently in his arms so he could lay her down on her bed, as though she were merely sleeping. Her dead, murky blue eyes seemed to stare off into space as she took slow, long drags of half a cigarette.

She had been wearing all black, and her skirt was longer than usual. Michael eyed the soft, translucent crinoline layers as they tapered up to a strapless, corseted top. Her bosom heaved over the top of the sweetheart neckline substantially, but what shocked him most was that her hair was clipped short. Her golden curls reached her soft, feminine jawline, and they were somewhat messy and tousled, a few stray strands caressing her forehead as they hung down. She also was not wearing a full face of makeup—she looked sickly pale and dead; simple as that.

"Amy?!" he exclaimed. "What the—"

"Ja, she has returned to us," Britta said. "Not all who come back return in the same way as they were alive."

"But…but can she talk?" he asked.

"Yeah, I can talk," Amy replied, a strange calmness in her voice. He had never seen her like this—she was always boisterous.

That was the moment Michael stepped up on the staircase and sat next to her. She smelled like a strong perfume, but he didn't know what. It was overpowering, making him suspect that an excess amount had been applied to mask the odor of death.

"How long have you been alive?" he asked, making eye contact; the dead, fish-like look in her eyes was enough to frighten him, but he tried to mask it as much as he could.

"A month," she answered, taking the cigarette between her lips and taking a long drag only to billow out the smoke afterwards.

"Hm," he grunted—there was a silence before he spoke again. "What did you see?"

"Huh?"

"You know, what did you see when you died?" he asked. "They say when you die, you go someplace."

"No, no," Amy replied, putting out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray that was already full of fifteen cigarette butts from that one sitting. "I didn't see shit." She paused, taking a slow, even breath. "I saw absolutely nothing. It's black. Nothing but eternal darkness."

Michael just stared at her, the aroma of her heavy perfume overpowering his nose as she continued in a hoarse whisper.

"I swear, it's this house," she added.

"You think you were trapped here?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's all a bunch of shit, really," Amy replied, taking a fresh cigarette and pyrokinetically lighting the tip before taking her first drag. "I died when I was little and came back without problems. Now, I feel like I'm going insane."

"That why you cut your hair so short?" Michael questioned.

Amy could've sworn she heard footsteps around them—was it a ghost? No, it was Clara. Little did they know she had been behind the doorway of the foyer, beginning to listen to their conversation. Hearing Michael's voice again made her think of the night he had his way with her, taking her in cold blood while Amy lay dead back home. It sent an all-too-familiar chill up her spine.

"I don't even know," Amy replied. "It feels lighter. I won't have to d-deal with brushing it anymore."
"Well, do you feel any different other than—"