𝐎𝐑𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐂 | (adj.) "Otherworldly."
In an alternate version of present-day Britain, ghosts who are deadly to the touch have been rising from their graves for the past fifty years. Adults cannot sense the ghosts, but children can, so teenagers hav...
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𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍 back to the office. They stood in front of wall along the right side of the door. It was painted a brilliantly dark teal and there was a piece of embroidery displayed on it in a gaudy, golden frame. The stitches were light, and Erin couldn't tell whether or not it was from age or if the colors had originally been so. It was of a home, quite cartoonish in nature, and had a simple phrase underneath it: Home, Sweet Home. Erin figured it must have been made far before the Problem began—before it became clear that homes were not as sweet as they were once believed to be. Before parents hung iron charms above their children's beds and far before those same children were sent to become soldiers, fighting to protect the living from the dead. That wasn't the only thing that Erin had noticed about it, however; the middle section of it extended outward toward them, providing a protrusion that denoted something about the architectural design of the house.
"She faded before she reached the wall, but that's where she was headed," Anthony told her as they stood there.
"Chimney breast," Erin noted with a frown. "It's probably where the body is."
With the bags that they'd retrieved from the landing, Erin dug through the one that Anthony had brought and produced a cannister of iron filings. She made a careful semicircle around where they would be standing, making sure to leave enough room between them and the edge of the wall. All they needed was for some of the plaster to fall, break the seal, and put them in danger.
Once that was done, the two threw their bags into the circle and stepped over it themselves. Erin regarded the wall with apprehension—knowing that that Visitor's body was likely trapped behind that wall unsettled her to no end.
"Want to hear my theory?" Anthony asked her, his voice quiet, as if someone else might hear.
"Hm, thrill me," Erin replied with a sigh.
"She was killed in the house decades ago—so long back, she at last grew quiet," he explained. "Then Mr. Hope sets up his study in this room, and that triggered her somehow."
"I wonder what exactly," Erin muttered thoughtfully. "Perhaps just his presence? Her murderer might have been a man. Maybe she felt threatened."
"Or, when the Hopes moved in, they moved the bedframe out of here to convert it into an office," Anthony said as he crouched, reaching into one of the duffel bags, retrieving the proper tools for this part of the job. "I'd guess it was an iron frame—enough to keep her dormant. Once it was gone, she gained the strength to appear."
Erin sighed, her silent agreement to the theory that was arguably fairly reasonable.
Once the two each had a crowbar in hand, they went to work. The wall cracked as they chipped away at it, quickly between the two of them. In five minutes, they had gotten down to the plaster. Some was a pinkish-white, streaked with orange-brown paste. It didn't look as though it was wholly professional—it very well could have been, but it appeared more like someone wanted to get the job done as quickly as possible.
