Simon had seen you before - a tad too many times, perhaps. You never announced your arrival, but you never hid yourself away from him either.
The first time he saw you, he was just a kid - now he was an adult man yet you looked exactly the same like those many years ago, when his Pa had beat the shit out of him for the first time.
He was bleeding now, the pain burning through his body as he sat up, trying to ignore the knife still lodged in his side - his enemy dead dead next to him. As steps appeared he looked up, raising his gun and —
You looked beautiful even now, so many years later. When he was a kid he had assumed you were an angel, as you surely looked like one. Ethereal in your long, simple dress, hair nicely braided, flowers intertwined with the strands, the light of the moon that shone into the shell of a building he was in. Back then, he had wanted to crawl into your arms and as you stood there, he almost felt like a child again, wanting to cry and seek comfort from you.
Johnny was speaking in his ear, but he wasn’t listening - not when you were right there.
“I can’t,” he told you softly, not getting up from the dirty floor, watching you tip your head to the side, “not now.”
“Yes, you can,” you spoke calmly, your voice slightly reminding him of his mother, love seeping into it despite the worry, “you just don’t want to.”
He ignored Johnny, pushing the comm out to hang by his neck, looking at you as you slowly squatted down, still keeping your distance.
“Not now,” he repeated with a grunt, pain shooting through him, “not now.”
“Still so stubborn,” you mused softly, your eyes shining in the light of the moon, “just like you were younger.”
“Can’t you take that bloke?” He jerked his head towards the man next to him, whose blood was spreading out on the floor and whose last breath had been taken after Simon had put a bullet between his eyebrows.
“He isn’t mine to collect,” you didn’t even look at the dead body, a sad smile on your lips, “only you are.”
“Tough job, innit?” He mumbled, “not that good at it, are ya?”
You laughed. You never laughed a lot. It was like gentleness, love that was only audible to him.
“I suppose not,” you agreed, “but you’re never quite ready when I finally come to get you.”
Simon didn’t say anything. He could hear the others yell at him over the comm that was hanging from his shirt collar.
“I’ll have to take you with me soon,” you gently whispered, before nodding towards the knife, “unless you get that taken care off.”
“‘That oll?” He asked, because he figured he would go from something different than a knife in his side. You tipped your head to the other side, like a puppy listening to something a human couldn’t hear.
“No,” you finally answered, still squatting down and you tapped the floor, “this will blow up soon.”
He grunted. Sounded more like a way he would go. The pain was there, it wasn’t the worst he had tried but it wasn’t nice.
Simon felt tired. Deep inside his bones.
“Can’t die,” he finally said, repeating himself as he added a “not now.”
You watched him for a second, before nodding. It had taken him a couple of times before realising that you weren’t an angel, but some sort of death. You never answered his questions when he asked about it.
“I can’t help you downstairs,” you sounded apologetic and you rose, “but I can lead the way.”
You were humming gently as you lead the way, a tune that reminded him of something his mother used to sing. As he staggered after you, keeping his eyes on your somewhat shining self, he wondered if you had picked up Tommy or if he had been collected by someone else - and his mom. Would you even let him know if you had? Simon wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure where exactly he would be brought by you when he would finally agree to go, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t any form of heaven.
He followed you through the back door, tumbling out behind you, though you made sure to always stay far enough away so the two of you wouldn’t touch.
Simon felt sick, blacking out for half a second now and again as he followed you, doing his best to not keel over. He pressed against the wound despite the pain, attempted to focus on the sound of your humming. Gunshots, explosions, screams all nearby, yet you walked with such confidence, never jumping or flinching at any of the sudden sounds.
Finally you reached a tall wooden fence and you stopped, pointing to a spot at it. As he let himself fall down onto the spot, an explosion nearby happened, confirming the house he had just been in had indeed blown up. It burned in his ears and he felt his breath go ragged from the impact. His eyes flickered up to find yours. You were smiling. It was a little sad but it was still a smile.
“Kyle will come around the corner there,” you pointed to the right, “in a couple of seconds. He will get you to safety.”
“ ‘ank you,” he managed to slur out, tongue heavy in his mouth, “again.”
“Of course, Simon,” you smiled again, a little less sad now, “I’ll see you, sweet boy.”
Sweet boy. He blinked and then you were gone - as he tipped his head to the side, towards the corner where you had pointed to, he wondered when exactly the two of you would meet again. If you would ever respect a future no if it was too late.
“GHOST!”
There he was. Kyle was yelling at him, but he didn’t care - a moment later his friend helped him up on his legs, calling for evacuation over the comm. Simon wondered if you were still looking at him, seeing how leaving him behind yet another time was worth it. That it would have upset Kyle if he had been dead - that he wanted to return to his team.
But though you had disappeared once again, Simon also knew it was only a matter of time before he met you again.
Mentions of Violet Harmon, Chad Warwick and Sally McKenna.
This is a combination of both Murder House and Hotel, but the large majority of it takes place in the Murder House.
In this, the reader is an ambiguous character to takes on the common Grim Reaper trope of guiding souls to the afterlife. They struggle with doing this in supernatural hotspots such as the Murder House due to the stubborn, evil and traumatized spirits that live there.
But they especially struggle with Tate Langdon, a boy who refuses to accept his hellish fate. But Death just can't seem to grapple their strange attachment with him.
Word count: 2k
If you don't want to read the Hotel section, skip to the transition symbol ┉┈◈◉◈┈┉
The hallways of the Hotel Cortez were never welcoming. At least, for you they weren't. The non-human entities, most of whom contradict your existence, weren't keen on having you roam the building. You demonstrated the truth of their circumstances. The vulnerability they hid behind violence.
But you still saw it. How could you not? It's your job, after all.
The carpeted floor felt grimy, even through your shoes. The lights down the hallway flickered. You could feel a draft echoing through the unmaintained vents, or... screams?
It's difficult to tell when they all feel the same to you. A calling – more work to be done. Eventually, that is.
You heard footsteps staggering somewhere behind you. Turning your head down the dim hallway, you saw Sally stumble out of a darkened room. Her old, crimped and frizzy hair fell around her face while cigarette smoke curled around her figure.
She stopped when she saw you. She pointed at you, cigarette latched between her two fingers. "Well, look who's decided to haunt my hallways. What do you want, Grim Reaper?"
You smiled, glancing down at the patterned floor before meeting her eyes again. "You know that's not my name, Sally." The ghost in question scoffed, throwing her shoulders back to emphasize her distaste at your correction. "And it's not haunting, it's... monitoring. Making sure the lost know they have a choice."
Sally snorted, her feet dragging as she walked further down the dimly light hallway. "A choice? Please. You really think any of us would choose this damned place if we had any real options?"
You shrugged. "Some did. Some still can, if they want. It's never too late for those who haven't thrown it away." Your voice was gentle, but firm. It was a necessary precaution when speaking to spirits, especially those like Sally.
You watched Sally take a long drag of her cigarette. She had stopped walking, planting her heeled shoes into the dirty carpet. Her narrowed eyes never left yours.
Breathing out the smoke, "You mean, if they haven't been stupid enough to turn you down already." Her arm fell back down to her side, cigarette ash falling to the floor. She paid it no mind. "But we all know how that goes–regret and begging. You get off on that, don't you?"
You shook your head. "It's not about getting off on anything, Sally. It's about respect. It's about finality. I don't relish in their pain. I mourn it."
The ghost laughed bitterly. Your words, which normally cut through the fragile facades of the deceased, barely scratched her. "Well, yeah, keep your mourning to yourself. None of us are going anywhere. We're all trapped in our own hells, and nothing you say will change that."
"Perhaps. But I'll still be here, Sally. For those who might change their minds. For those who need to know that there's a way out, even if it's only once." You spoke softly, looking away from Sally for a moment. You nodded slightly, confirming your beliefs to yourself.
You need to stay in touch with your ideals. Your morals. Your job.
You saw her eyes flicker, hints of vulnerability poking through before they hardened again. "Don't waste your time." She brought the cigarette back up to her red lips but stopped before she inhaled the drugs within. "You know, instead of bargaining with the freaks here, you should really be having that talk with your boy-toy at that house."
Your face hardened whilst hers curved with humor.
She shrugged dramatically, tilting her head in the process. "Seems like you're not so good at your job after all." Her eyes widened in mockery.
"Tate's choices are his own. I can't force him to do anything." You defended your stance, shifting your body to fully face the deranged ghost. "My job doesn't circle around force. It's about accepting your situation and moving on."
"Hm. Well, good luck with that." Her eyes narrowed more, which you didn't even think was possible. "Places like this have a way of holding on to its ghosts." Her hand, cigarette still placed between her fingers, gestured around you two to the otherwise empty hallway.
You watched her turn heel and walk down the remainder of the hallway. Your eyes remained latched onto the cheetah print of her coat before she turned out of sight.
You sighed, looking down at your feet for a moment. Shit– you should really check up on that place.
┉┈◈◉◈┈┉
You walked into the house through the back door, noticing the emptiness in the air due to the absence of the living. Ever since the death of the Harmons, the large house has sat abandoned for the most part.
You sighed, running your fingers through your hair. You haven't been here in a hot minute– too caught up at the hotel in the city.
"Oh, look who it is." You looked over your shoulder at the kitchen area, seeing Chad Warwick leaning on the counter. "Back again, oh door-to-door Jehovah's Witness? Still trying to sell us all on that afterlife plan?" You watched his nose crinkle when he spoke and how his clasped hands gripped each other with more strength.
The man's reaction to you was common. He's always been like this. Originally refusing you to stay with his boyfriend, now existing in pure ignorance ever since the relationship soured with age.
You raised your eyebrows, responding to him anyway. "Your choice, Chad. But remember, doors to the afterlife don't stay open forever."
"Hm, do they?" He tilted his head, watching you as you walked by and towards the staircase. You knew his bitterness was just a reflection of his personal problems, so like the others, you didn't let it affect you.
The stairs creaked under your shoes. Dust and broken glass littered the wooden floorboards. Graffiti decorated the walls in various bold colors as you trailed throughout the familiar building.
Your fingers traced the cracked walls. The paint crumbled and fell behind them, hitting the floor softly. The only sound was the sound your shoes made as you navigated down the hall. You finally stopped when you turned a corner, opting to lean against the wooden doorway instead of fully entering it.
Tate laid on the old mattress in the room. It still sat on Violet's old bed frame, although you don't remember who owned the mattress. It's been too long to remember trivial details like that.
The boy turned his head to face you, dirty blond hair falling over his forehead. "What's the matter, Death? Didn't get enough souls today?" His voice was laced in sarcasm, arms crossed in a defensive pose. He became detached after learning of your true purpose. Cold.
You haven't decided if you should put that against him though.
"Just thought I'd check in, Tate. How's the afterlife treating you?" You raised an eyebrow. He's rejected your proposals of moving on more times than you can count. There's no point in being professional anymore. So why do you still feel so attached?
Tate scoffed, sitting up on the bed and crossing his arms in his lap. "Oh, it's great. Violet still hates me; the house is still a hellhole."
So hostile.
"Why are you here?" He added on at the end of his short rant. You watched his blue eyes, lined with redness, narrow at you.
You shrugged, walking in the room slowly. You lingered around the walls, quickly glancing outside through the window. "Just... doing rounds. Discussing the reality of the stubbornness you ghosts seem to hold for my proposal." You said it nonchalantly, but Tate could recognize your poor attempts at manipulation. You were a truthful, blunt entity. Manipulation wasn't in your blood.
You leaned against the wall, shadows encapsulating your face as you looked at the boy. In contrast, the sun amplified his features. His expression of hatred, fear. Refusal to accept his fate. "Maybe," you started, "I'm just... attached in a way I shouldn't be."
"Attached? That's rich." He crossed his legs on the mattress, jaw ticking as his fingers traced the stained seams of the fabric. "I thought you were all business. Guide souls, move on. An eternal one-night stand attitude." He grumbled, eyes looking back at you.
You smiled. "It's not that simple, Tate."
He didn't respond. His fingers continued to trace the stitches in the fabric, trying to find a distraction to the situation he was in. An obvious detail that none of the ghosts here seemed to take into consideration when scaring the living away was the removal of any distractions or entertainment.
You looked down to where Tate – and also Violet, at some point – had stored his albums. The floor was empty now.
"You know," you heard him speak, "if I go with you, there's only one place I'm heading. Hell. Doesn't exactly sound like a vacation."
It wasn't a lie. You had been honest about that with him from the get-go. The boy was destined for Hell, and you couldn't help but silently pray that he'd just accept that.
"Tate, you've always known the consequences of your actions. But staying here, trapped in this endless cycle, isn't a permanent solution to your problem either. You remained natural, as best you could regarding the boy. Your stance was approachable, casual.
His eyes darkened. His finger stopped the movement against the mattress below him. "At least here, I know what to expect. Hell... that's a different kind of torture. I'm not exactly itching to find out what they have planned for me."
"Hm." You hummed, leaning your head against the cracked wall and staring off at the ceiling. "That's true. You don't. I don't even know."
He scoffed, annoyed by your attitude. He could feel his irritation grow the longer you intruded in his space.
"But think about it, Tate." Your nose crinkled as you turned your head to look back at him. "This house won't stand forever." You smiled. "One day it will crumble or be torn down. And where will you be? Trapped in the ruins, a ghost with no anchor. Your suffering won't end, Tate. It'll just evolve into a new kind of torment."
Tate frowned, a hint of fear flickering in his eyes as he quickly looked away from you. "Why does it matter? I'm already in Hell here. At least it's familiar."
Your voice was still soft, but sterner as you continued to fill his head with images of his fate. "Familiar doesn't mean safe. The ghosts bound to this place will scatter, their ties disconnected. Lost without something to focus their energy on. You have a chance to leave this shit hole on your own terms. Obtain a semblance of control over your fate."
"Fuck. Control, seriously? What kind of control do I have knowing what's on the other side?" His voice got louder, angrier as his head shot up to face you again.
"Hiding from what you fear will only make your existence more miserable when this place can't protect you anymore."
Your face went blank. You watched one of his eyes twitch, annoyed by the impending reality he was faced with. You stared at each other, yours a look of understanding, his of fear and boiling hatred. Suddenly, he whispered, "You really believe that, don't you?"
You nod. "I do. I need to. And I'll be here, waiting, for whenever you do too."
You stood up straight, not giving the boy another look as you left the room. Your hand trailed against the wall again, before you turned the corner.
Tate watched you leave, attempting to appear indifferent to your conversation. But he couldn't deny the emotions it stirred up inside him. He could take what the other ghosts said about him. He could push their words down until he either forgot about them or lashed out in a swell of emotions.
But you... you were different. You were an inhuman, cosmic creature crafted by the universe.
And his attachment to you wasn't going to save him.
