haunting house
pairing: House/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)
reader's pronouns are he/him; race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.
summary: You take a slow breath. In, out. You grab your phone and turn on the flashlight, before turning to glance at the dark electrical closet. You have a feeling you know who’s behind this particular prank. “Very funny, House,” you remark, staring at the closed door. “I’m telling Cuddy you’re the reason for the high electric bill.” “Couldn’t humor me for even one second?” a muffled voice sounds from behind the door.
Five times House fails to scare you, and the one time he succeeds.
word count: 2k | ao3 version | halloween playlist
author's notes: heeheeeee... hi.... hey guys... hey... hey... how y'all doin... two posts in one day... clock it...!
Warnings: mentioned phobias of clowns, the ocean, rejection; spiders!!! and handling spiders and all that. if you have arachnophobia, skip the section that starts with the bolded 'On the same day' and keep reading at the next divider.
It all starts in October. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital is decorated for Halloween, with fake cobwebs strewn across reception desks; costumed skeletons peeking out from various places; and the typical amount of real blood. Oh, joy.
You walk into the office on Monday, October 1 with a slight pep in your step. The weather is finally growing mild, after a somewhat suffocating heat wave that had extended the summer into late September. But no more—today is the first day you actually get to wear a jacket. It’s nothing short of magnificent.
You nod in greeting and exchange pleasantries with your various colleagues, making your way to your desk and draping your jacket over your chair. You don’t have much paperwork remaining from your previous shift, so you tie up those few loose ends before beginning to make your rounds. Everyone seems to be in relatively good spirits today, as the sun finally peeks out from the clouds and casts warm light across the tile floors.
You’re consulting your faithful clipboard, jotting something down, when you’re suddenly accosted by a new presence.
It happens in the blink of an eye: one moment you’re standing alone; the next, there’s someone practically right on top of you, tilting their head down to scare you and obstruct your view of your clipboard. “Rah!” a far too familiar voice says.
While your heart definitely skips a beat, you don’t flinch. Instead you look up from your clipboard to find Dr. House standing there.
“…Hey,” you say casually.
“Nothing?” he demands. “Not even a flinch?” You shrug.
House scowls. “Should’ve known I’m losing my touch—Wilson’s too easy.”
He doesn’t give any further explanation for this behavior, instead walking away as if nothing happened. You stare after House in confusion, before eventually giving up and going about your day.
As you soon learn, that strange encounter was only the beginning. A mere few days later, House is approaching you again. This time, he doesn’t opt to jump out at you. Instead, he just stands there—quiet for long enough to make the silence uncomfortable.
“Heights,” House then states, apropos of nothing.
“What about them?” you ask, confused.
“Phobias,” he states impatiently. “Go.”
“Uh… not heights, no,” you respond. You’re not afraid of heights.
“Clowns?” House asks.
“No.” You’re not afraid of clowns either.
“Rejection?” he says with a mocking voice.
“No,” you repeat.
“Either you’re defective or you’re lying,” House declares, pointing a finger at your chest and practically digging into your sternum. “My bet’s on both.”
“Right,” you mutter under your breath. You look over at him. “Hey, if I tell you, will you leave me alone?”
House just raises an eyebrow. You sigh. “Rollercoasters.” That’s a complete lie. But what House doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
“Rollercoasters, but not heights,” he states skeptically. House rolls his eyes. “Try again. Like you mean it, this time.”
Shoot, he didn’t buy it. You rack your brain for another realistic phobia. “…Needles.”
“You’re a doctor,” House reminds you dryly.
“The ocean?” you suggest. You shouldn’t have asked—you should’ve just said it with certainty. You practically gave yourself away there.
“Come back to me when you have a more plausible lie,” House says with a scoff, waving a hand as if to dismiss you. You roll your eyes and go back to what you were doing.
On the same day of the following week, you start your morning with coffee, as usual. The unusual part? There’s a spider on your desk. A decently sized one, crawling around in an open petri dish.
You look down at it for a long moment. Then you sigh loudly and pick the petri dish up, before walking over to House’s office.
“House,” you say carefully, leaning on the doorframe of his office. “Did you leave this spider on my desk?”
House scoffs, looking up from his paperwork. “Do I look like I have the time and energy to do that?” he says dismissively. You know better.
“Yes,” you respond.
“Did it work?” he asks. He’s looking back down at his paperwork again, trying to appear bored.
“No.”
House scowls, his eyebrows furrowing. You resist the urge to laugh. “You’ll get ‘em next time, champ.”
At that, he sends you a positively murderous glare. Then House’s gaze finds the petri dish in your hand, eyes gleaming with victory.
“What?” you ask warily. That look means nothing good. You slowly look down at the petri dish, only to find that your new friend is nowhere to be found. “Damn it!” you curse, throwing the empty petri dish at House. He catches it and smirks, because of course he does.
“Better get to work, Spider-Man,” House says with a pointed raise of his eyebrows. “Those runaway trains won’t web themselves.”
You groan and leave his office, resolutely ignoring the smug expression on his face.
House’s next attempt doesn’t occur until the next week. And it’s far less practical than the spider one.
You end up having to stay late that evening, to the point when the majority of your colleagues have gone home. You take up residence in the larger space that leads to your office, sitting on the sofa as you attempt to make sense of the bright screen in front of you.
That’s when you hear a noise. It’s kind of like a groaning sound, an ominous sort of creaking. You turn and look for the source of the noise, but there’s no one else in the office. You frown and return to your work, only for the sound to repeat itself a few moments later.
Then, just as you’re prepared to write it off as a coincidence, the lights flicker. Once, then twice. Then they’re completely off.
You take a slow breath. In, out. You grab your phone and turn on the flashlight, before turning to glance at the electrical closet. You have a feeling you know who’s behind this.
You walk over. “Very funny, House,” you remark, staring at the closed door. “I’m telling Cuddy you’re the reason for the high electric bill.”
“Couldn’t humor me for even one second?” a muffled voice sounds from the nearby electrical closet.
“Let me think…” you hum. “No. Now get out of the closet, unless you want to relive your high school days.”
“Ouch,” House says flatly, pushing the door open and stepping back into the office. He leans on his cane and gives you a piercing look. “And bold, coming from you.”
“Yeah, yeah, pot meet kettle, whatever,” you huff, unsurprised by the jab. “How long were you even hiding in there?”
“Too long,” he punctuates with a stretch and a groan. “I’m too old for this.”
“And yet, here you are,” you observe. “Hiding in closets to prank me. Like a grade schooler.”
“Not my fault you’re such an easy target,” House states.
“Right,” you say. You’ll let him have that one, even if you know it’s not true. “Well, the next time you decide to terrorize me, schedule it during office hours. That way I’m getting paid for my tolerance.”
“Oh, of course,” he drawls. “Wouldn’t dream of interrupting your busy and important schedule.” House shakes his head sardonically. He leaves without another word.
It’s getting to the point when being accosted by House doesn’t surprise you anymore. Hell, you’re almost starting to expect him. And sure enough, as you’re standing near the registration desk, filling out paperwork in your convenient solitude, he appears.
“Horror movies,” House states, approaching you and speaking apropos of nothing.
“What about them?” you question.
House stares, as if he can ascertain the answer from your face alone.
“Oh, is this about the scaring me thing?” you realize aloud. “I love horror movies. You’ll have to try something else.”
House promptly walks off, muttering something about lack of taste and being difficult.
As the end of October approaches and no more mishaps occur, you come to the conclusion that House has finally lost interest in his phobia experiment. It happens—the guy gets bored with things rather easily. No doubt he has more important things to focus on than what you’re afraid of. (Or, more accurately, not afraid of.)
It’s only a few days before Halloween now, and the hospital is a flurry of activity. Between patients being, well, patients, and the impending holiday, the halls are bustling with activity. Several of your colleagues have parties to look forward to. You, on the other hand… You’re just trying to get through the week.
You have a quick conversation with a nearby nurse as you exit your patient’s room, before eventually finishing up. You have to head back to your office to grab some more files, and you’re about halfway there when you see a crumpled figure in a side hall. You squint at them, the nearby cane tipping you off. Dread curls in your chest as you head over, your suspicions confirmed as you see that messy hair and unruly doctor’s coat.
“House!” you say, genuine fear striking at you as you see the man collapsed on the floor face-down. “Jesus Christ—” you choke out.
You turn him over, only to find him staring at you with the biggest smirk on his face.
“Gotcha,” he grins maniacally. And only then do you realize that House is completely fine. He was just pretending to be injured.
“Oh, fuck you,” you huff, immediately letting go of him. House flops to the floor with the movement in a characteristically dramatic gesture, before grinning.
“Who knew?” he drawls, leaning back on his hands as he sits. “Your genuine fear is seeing me passed out on the floor. Sentimental. And, frankly, embarrassing.”
“You’re a dick,” you scowl.
“You are what you eat,” he responds smoothly.
You can’t help it: you laugh. Because damn it, despite the mind games, that was funny.
“You’re insane,” you say with a slight amount of exasperated fondness. “Clinically, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally. Now get up before Cuddy thinks I finally lost my shit and shoved you to the ground.”
You extend a hand. House stares at you like you’ve grown a third head.
Eventually, he swallows his pride and takes your hand. You pull him up, expecting him to help you out a bit. But House stays put, making no effort to help.
“You’re really going to be difficult about this?” you huff disbelievingly, using virtually all of your strength to pull him up to his feet. House relaxes his weight and leans into you, his head falling to your shoulder as he pretends to suddenly lose control of himself. The unexpected dead weight almost makes you fall over. You push House back with a few muttered curses and eventually he gives up, straightening up as if nothing happened at all.
It’s silent for a long moment. “Uh… okay then,” you say awkwardly. “Good talk?”
House stares at you for several more seconds. “……Boo!” he then says loudly, reaching out and pushing you in an attempt to scare you.
You just sigh. “I thought we moved past that.”
An impatient sound. “You’re boring,” House declares, before walking off.
You stare after him in disbelief. What the hell just happened? The guy was playing dead on the ground, to… what? Scare you? Stress you out?
That does sound like something he’d do. And he did do it. You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to sort out your increasingly messy thoughts. The second you think House is predictable, he goes and does something outlandish enough to send you right back to square one.
You sigh yet again and brush off your coat, as if getting rid of the nonsense you just endured. As your hand brushes against your pocket, you get the weird sense that something’s missing. You have your badge, you have your phone—
You don’t have your phone. Your pocket is empty. That’s strange. You try to mentally retrace your steps, thinking back to when you remember having it last. Shortly before you ran into House, you’d felt the vibration of a text notification—prompting you to turn off your ringer. That was… what, not even five minutes ago? All you did since then was talk to House.
…Fuck. House took your phone. He must’ve snatched it when he was leaning on you. Because of course House knows how to pickpocket. Of course he does.
You groan and storm after him, resigning yourself to another endless game of cat-and-mouse.
endnotes: i completely forgot i wrote some of this and then found it on my phone just now and finished it up… ironically, that first one literally happened to me yesterday. I was waiting for the train when this guy in a mask walked by and tried to scare me by kinda getting in my face as i was looking at my phone? Proud to say i didn’t even flinch or give him a reaction. So this is BIBLICALLY ACCURATE.
anyways! happy halloweenie (almost)!! hehe
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