#i still stand by the belief (hope) that parker iii walking out of the hall made him eligible to fall so him too

[caligulalotus]

the next non-league team fall is gonna be for a team called the plot gang that’s just fourteen plot heavy players who haven’t fallen out yet

[snappingsound]

Summerland

Happy Halloween, everyone! I really wanted to begin posting Part III today, but it’s just not quite ready. I have a few more chapters to finish up and then an editing pass. So I thought I’d post this instead. This ditty takes place in the same world, but is along a different timeline. It is tangentially related to the main story of A Snapping Sound. I had lots of fun writing it. Hopefully you spooks will enjoy it too. 

Alice Fox did not believe in ghosts. In fact, she didn’t believe in much of anything. It was a constant thorned crown of pain to her devoutly Christian mother and father, and a source of bemusement to her recently converted Jewish older brother, Parker. Faith, and the dearly departed, more than politics, was the one topic best avoided in the Fox den.

So why was she working the reception in a haunted ‘museum’?

It was a question that, just this morning, Alice had been asking herself more often than not. She had opened the museum one hour ago. Already, an older woman had fainted on the morning tour from a ghost-story induced panic attack. Alice had already been already asked five times if she had ever experienced any paranormal activity while at work, and, on top of all that, had been cornered into hearing the long and bloodied past of a guest’s Palm Springs condo.

It wasn’t even ten in the morning.

Alice let out a small groan and, instead of letting her head fall onto the wooden surface of the receptionist desk like it wanted to do, she tilted it up at the ceiling. Her curly brown hair fell away from her face as she squinted two equally brown eyes up at the museum’s infamous ruby chandelier.

“Disneyland,” she whispered, a reminder. Or, more of a pep talk.

That was why she worked here, and would remain working here all summer long. She needed exactly four-hundred and seventy-two dollars to fly to Anaheim with the rest of her high school orchestra. She played the Viola. And while she wasn’t one for animated movies, she loved theme parks. More specifically— roller coasters. Also, she had never been out of Ohio. Her parents weren’t ones to travel, and her family rarely had spare cash.

Most of the time, working the museum wasn’t so bad. It had air conditioning and free coffee. In between tours was hours of downtime where Alice could do her homework or watch YouTube. Once in awhile a guest would wander in without making a reservation, and she would deal with them, but for the most part the entryway remained quiet.

It really was a pretty place to work, too.

Alice took in the restored frescoed ceiling and the delicate Victorian lace trimmings. Far, far above her head on the domed ceiling, lions and wolves leaped and chased prey, tearing fur and skin apart, their eyes staring directly down at anyone that passed beneath. The morning sunlight refracted off the absurdly intricate ruby chandelier, making their eyes seem to glow red.

If she was easily spooked, or believed any of the rumors of this place, spending hours alone in this hallway would have gotten in her head. It was why her boss paid her even more than any of the guides. He couldn’t find anyone else who felt comfortable sitting alone in this house. Alice didn’t understand it, but hey, why question a gift horse?

A hollow clunk jolted her out of her thoughts, jerking her attention from the ceiling.

A tall, fit boy with creamy dark skin smiled. In one hand he held a mug of coffee. With the other, he pushed a second mug across the table. “Wilmot Morgan,” he said, by way of a greeting.

Another very strong case for not quitting: Bishop Lee, or as everyone called him, Hopper. He was a Senior and Alice had spent the past year crushing on him. She wasn’t alone. Almost every girl at Casper High crushed on Hopper at some point or another. It was because he was a good head taller than every other boy his age and he was steadfastly shy. His introversion had been misinterpreted as enigmatic. It didn’t help that, in her overly superstitious hometown of Amity Park, Hopper’s Native American heritage placed him squarely in the ‘folklore’ category, whether he liked it or not.

While Alice’s crush had definitely centered around his high cheekbones and kind hazel eyes, the way her class exotified him not only infuriated her, but had been what, ultimately, forced her to let go of her crush and get to know him as a friend.

This past summer she had shared more sentences with Hopper than she had the past five years of elementary, junior, and high school. And while she certainly still liked him, she was no longer paralyzed with affection whenever he swung by her desk. During those daily desk visitations, Alice had learned he harbored a meganerd obsession with this house and a strong belief in spirits, which made him a lot less mysterious and a whole lot sillier.

Alice realized Hopper was staring at her expectantly, although his grin had faded a bit.

“Sorry, what?” she asked. She reached out and grabbed the mug from him. It said I SEE DEAD PEOPLE on the side. Hopper had most certainly picked it out on purpose.

“The ceiling. It was painted by Wilmot Morgan in 1902,” Hopper explained, taking a sip from his own mug and shooting the fresco a fond glance. “A commission.”

“He was a very detailed artist,” Alice entertained.

“She,” Hopper corrected. “Morgan was a woman.”

Alice blinked. She took in the ceiling again, in a different light.

Most of their conversations revolved solely around the house itself— never about homework, or school, or family life. Alice could never tell if this was Hopper’s way of trying to get her to believe, or if it he found those other topics too painful or too boring to bring up.

He raised his mug in a cheers. “You should—”

“Go on one of your tours,” Alice interrupted. “Yes, I know. Unfortunately, my job is to man the front desk.”

“You might learn something.” Hopper took a long sip from his mug. His usually sparkling eyes hollowed out and his grin twisted into more of a grimace. “My people say this house sits atop sacred land. An Indian chief was buried long before it was ever built. That’s why the land is cursed.”

Despite herself, Alice felt a chill run down her spine. “Are you serious?” She had meant it to come out sarcastic, but her body betrayed her.

Hopper’s haunted expression cracked and he let out a short laugh. “No, Alice. There’s no stupid Indian burial ground. That’s just a bunch of crap white people made up.”

“I knew that,” Alice blurted. She hid her burning cheeks behind her coffee mug, taking a big, flustered, sip. It burned. She forced herself to swallow it instead of spit it back out to avoid any further mortification.

“I hope you’re not saying stuff like that to the guests,” a voice grumbled.

Hopper winced and spun. “Of course not, Mr. Lancer. Guides speak only truth,” he recited.

Coming from down the hall, Mr. Lancer paused and spared the two of them a suspicious look, though it was hard for him to see Hopper’s face considering Hopper was abnormally tall and Lancer had developed a rather bad hunch in his old age. “Enough actually happened here. We don’t need to further encourage rumors and hearsay,” Lancer warned.

A blanket of gloom descended over the entryway.

Mr. Lancer had personally known the teenagers that died here. It was the reason he had founded this museum in the first place. Whenever her boss mentioned what happened, Alice couldn’t help but feel a tinge of remorse for being so unaffected by the house’s past.

Lancer didn’t make Hopper uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, Lancer’s stories fascinated him. Hopper had also worked here a lot longer than her. Alice supposed she’d get used to Lancer eventually.

“Good morning, Alison,” Lancer greeted.

“Morning.” She didn’t know if she would classify it as ‘good’.

It seemed to satisfy Lancer, though, who handed her a sheet of paper with the list of attendees for the noon tour, and shuffled back down the hall towards his office.

Alice plucked the paper and scanned the list. “Twenty-seven,” she counted.

Hopper whistled. More people meant a bigger tip pool for the guides to split at the end of the day. “I should go change.”

Movement out on the very edge of her gaze caused Alice to peer at the second floor railing. She had sworn she had seen a dark shape, like a cat or a raccoon, but there was nothing. Some of the rubies in the great chandelier casted jewel shine on the wallpaper up there and whenever a breeze passed through it gave the sensation that the wallpaper was crawling. That had probably been it.

When she took in the room again, she found herself alone. Hopper must have gone to grab his uniform. She had missed him leave. Alice sighed, a little disappointed, and instead set about logging the number of people attending the tour onto the museum’s spreadsheet.

A knock on the door interrupted her as the computer booted up.

“It’s open,” Alice called.

It wasn’t uncommon for guests to knock instead of freely enter the museum. The museum was a house, so it was a bit weird to walk straight inside without knocking first, but it meant Alice had to get up from her desk to open the door constantly. After her first week, she had even made a sign that said ‘Come on in!’ and had taped it next to the door handle. Still, some guests continued to knock first.

When the knock happened again, Alice gave up, sliding off her stool and opening the door. “Next time, you don’t have to knock. You can just walk right in,” she said, trying be as polite as possible, while still being informative.

A boy around her own age tilted his head. “Really?” he asked, still standing on the doormat, despite the fact that Alice was holding the door open.

“Sure. I mean, as long as we’re open.”

The boy walked inside. As he passed her Alice felt a radiating cold, as if the boy was carrying an open freezer. Something in her unsettled, wanted to run, but just as quickly as the impulse came upon her, she shrugged it off as stupid.

Alice settled back behind her desk and watched the guest meander the entryway, taking in the double staircases and the ceiling that Alice herself had been ogling earlier.

This wasn’t odd behavior. They were, after all, a museum, and the detail poured into this house’s construction at times felt like a kaleidoscope for the eyes. But, something about this boy was familiar, and the fact that Alice couldn’t put her finger on it made her uneasy. She knew him from somewhere. Maybe he resembled a famous person. With hair and an outfit like that, he reminded her of James Dean.

“You’re pretty early for the noon tour,” she mentioned, feeling like she had to initiate polite conversation. “It’s not for another twenty minutes.”

The boy turned and stared, bright blue eyes blank.

Oh, so he was one of those guests that didn’t read the website. Looked like it was just going to continue to be one of those mornings. Swallowing her annoyance, Alice explained, “The museum gives four tours, each about two hours long. Our guides will take you through the entire house as well as the backyard and surrounding forest. The next tour is at noon.”

At the boy’s completely baffled look, Alice felt a little bad for being so cold. She grabbed the sheet of tour attendees and a pen. “There’s still three spots left, if you want to join?”

The boy scrunched his freckled nose and scanned her desk for a long moment, almost as if he didn’t understand what it, or she, was doing there.

Alice’s annoyance came back, this time tempered with a tiny bit of fear. This kid was beginning to creep her out. Once in awhile a guest wandered in that truly loved all the horrific gory shit that went down here, and those guests always freaked Alice out a lot more than any of the ghost stories ever did. “What’s your name?” she asked, working to keep her tone squarely in the polite camp, lest she provoke this weirdo.

He looked upset and a little lost. Like he had been expecting someone else. After a minute his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Danny,” he told her.

“I’m Alice,” Alice greeted.

Introductions seemed to break Danny out of whatever little mood he had been in. He neared her desk, eyes flicking towards her nametag. An amused smile spread across his lips. “I can see that,” he teased. “Alison Fox.”

Alice couldn’t help but lean back a bit. The guest smelled faintly like cigarettes. If Parker didn’t also smoke occasionally, she would have taken the smell as a sign of delinquency, somewhere next to tattoos. 

He didn’t look like a delinquent. If anything he looked like he was on a debate team, what with his sweater vest and gelled hair. Only, his style was so accurate, it had transcended nerdy and had crossed over somewhere into cool. His clothing could have been thrifted straight out of her great-grandfather’s closet.

She cleared her throat. “Want me to put you down for noon?”

“How long has this place been a museum?” he asked.

Alice put the roster down and blinked. “Dunno. As long as I can remember.”

The guest quieted, humming to himself.

Figuring that was the end of their conversation, and that he would look around before deciding twenty minutes wasn’t worth the wait, Alice turned back to her computer which was now on. She typed in her password. The old monitor flickered a quilt of static and she blinked, reaching around to jiggle the wiring.

“What do you think of it?” a voice asked, sounding so close it almost came from inside her own head.

Alice jumped, narrowly missing a mug of coffee.

The guest was super close. He was leaning over her desk atop his elbows. He craned his neck to peer around at her monitor.

Alice scowled and tilted the screen away. “What do you mean?”

“This place,” he clarified. “What do you think of it?”

No one had ever asked her that before. Sure, there was a lot of ‘ever see any ghosts?’ or a lot of ‘how long have you worked here?’ then the subsequent disappointment when she said two weeks. Never what she thought about the museum. Alice found people rarely asked her what she thought of things.

Alice let go of the screen and played with the handle of her mug for a second, trying to get a read on him. She supposed he looked earnest. “I’ve only worked here for a few weeks so I don’t really know a lot about it besides the stories I heard growing up,” she admitted. “I suppose it is beautiful, in the same eerie, disorienting way an eclipse is.”

The boy glanced down at the top of her desk, brows furrowed. 

Maybe he didn’t like her answer. Feeling a little self-conscious, Alice said, “Hopper can answer better. He’s worked here longer and he’s a guide.”

Danny glanced up, a wide grin unfurling across his face. His teeth were really white and perfect and so was his skin. “Let me guess. Hopper is the guide for the noon tour?” he teased. “You’re pretty good at pushing these tours on people. How much do they cost?”

Alice blushed, embarrassed. “I wasn’t trying to push anything.”

Footsteps, thankfully, interrupted them.

“Did I leave my coffee...?” Hopper trailed off, gaze darting between the guest and her. He was now wearing his tour guide white button up jacket and his name tag. He skidded to a halt in the middle of the foyer, jaw going slack, face pale.

“So you’re a guide?” the boy, still leaning on her desk, accused.

Hopper nodded, mute.

Alice was starting to feel embarrassed at Hopper’s weird reaction. Strange or not, this boy was a guest. He wasn’t even as bad as the Wiccans and Spiritualists that plagued the tours, hoping to scry something meaningful from the mansion’s creaky floors. She raised her eyebrows at him, motioning for him to say something.

If the guest noticed anything unusual, he didn’t show it. Instead his blue eyes lit with amusement, like he had just thought of something really funny. That grin widened until it felt edged with mania. “What’s it take to become a guide?” he asked. “I’m looking for work.”

With Hopper still frozen, Alice scrambled to overcome the awkwardness, shuffling through the mountains of papers hidden in the drawers of her desk. “Ah, here.” She grabbed an application and scooted it across the desk. On the top, a simple logo read: Masters Villa. Erected 1892. Amity Park Historical Monument & Museum.

The boy scooped it up. “Thanks.” Just as quickly as he blustered through, he left.

As the door clicked shut, Alice fully turned to give Hopper a frown. “What was that all about?” she complained, gesturing at the door.

Hopper swayed slightly.

Alice’s anger snapped to concern. It looked like he was about to pass out. She contemplated trying to get out from behind her desk and catch him, but with how tall and built Hopper was there was no way he wouldn’t crush her.

Instead of fainting, Hopper asked, in a weird and floaty voice, “You don’t know who that was?”

Damn, Alice thought. So the boy had been famous. “No. Who is he?” Now she was curious. Although, something about Hopper’s glazed look filled her with dread.

Hopper yanked out one of the pamphlets from the wall holder, flipping through the mini stapled book. Finding the right page, he held it up so Alice could see. “Who that was,” Hopper corrected.

It was a black and white photo of a kid in a lawn chair. A kid that looked remarkably the same as the one that had just taken a job application. He had his ankles crossed and his t-shirt sleeves rolled up as if it was a hot summer’s day. In one hand was a Coke, only, it was one of those old curvy Coca-Cola-shaped glass bottles. The ones they stopped making years and years ago. Alice glanced at the caption.

Danny, 1959. Disappeared August 12, 1962.

Alice flicked the pamphlet away. “Very funny. That was one of your higher production jokes.” She scowled. “You know, Lancer’s going to fire you one of these days.”

“It’s the truth,” Hopper insisted. His slap-glazed look faded into annoyance.

Something in his tone made her pause and reconsider. He truly believed it. Either he wasn’t trying to pull one over on her, or whoever was doing the pulling was pulling it on them both.

Alice glanced down at the roster where she had written, on the last line: Danny. Just Danny. “Well, he might become a guide, if he’s qualified,” she said, not knowing what else to say. Internally, she was trying to explain the past five minutes and the longer she couldn’t come up with a plausible answer her skin inched further and further in all directions.

Alice Fox didn’t believe in ghosts.

“Qualified?” Hopper repeated, offended. “Of course he’s qualified. He’s been here the whole time.”