#worst tenants. they don't even pay rent.

[kujakumai]

In BC during the Atem-YB duel when Marik has Rishid fake-switch Bakura to the front, he does so successfully and without Yami Bakura's consent or knowledge of the plan, implying that by virtue of their sharing system he can in fact Just Do That. And then a few minutes later YB tells Marik to go to hell and takes the body back by force, so he can also Just Do That. I am stating these facts not because they are significant but because altogether they suggest that canon contemplates and accepts a scenario where Marik and YB could have a perpetual back-and-forth flip-flop idiot slapfight over who controls Bakura's body (since both can simultaneously take it or kick the other out at will). And I think that would be funny

[thegainingdesk]

The Spider to the Fly

Statement of Oliver Barrett, dated 22/05/2023

The rent should have been the first red flag, I know that, but fuck me, have you seen the rents in Dublin these days? Worst than fucking London, if you can believe it. And there's this guy, right, four-story townhouse, twenty minute walk from my new job, says he just wants a tenant to make this place feel less empty, all for a grand a month, bills included. In this market! Too fucking right I didn't question it.

Well, I say a grand a month. One thousand euro and one cent, to be exact. The cent didn't bother me at the time, why the fuck would it? The man wants to add a cent to the rent, I'll give him a cent. Maybe it was to get over some threshold for something, or some tax dodge, or whatever, I didn't know and I didn't care. It was still €999.99 less than I'd be paying anywhere else in Dublin for some damn sight nicer digs. Now though, knowing what I know, after everything that… well, anyway, it bothers me more now. It feels significant. Like those old penny rents you hear about, or something. Something symbolic, and old.

But anyway, there was a cheap room going, in a good location, a good house, it was bloody better than anywhere else I've come across, and I was only in Dublin for a weekend before I properly moved to get everything sorted, so I didn't ask too many questions. So I go to this house, and it was gorgeous. We're talking Edwardian or Georgian or, I don't know, fancy. Some Upstairs Downstairs shit, like there were servants quarters and a coal cellar and whatever a scullery is. I didn't really think about it at the time - again, I'm not really in a position to ask questions - but you usually see houses like that in a row, right? Like terraced? This one was just there. On its own. On a nice street, don't get me wrong, but it was taller than any of the other houses, set back a little, and the style's all wrong. Maybe I thought the rest of the street had gotten destroyed in the Blitz or whatever they had in Dublin, it's not like I know anything about history outside of naming a couple of Henry the eighth's wives.

So I walked up to this great big, not quite right house, and I pulled this rope by the door and it fucking clanged. This wasn't some little ding dong electric doorbell, this was some fucking machinery. It felt like the house was vibrating from it. And while I'm reeling, this Victorian era sonic torture device still going off in my ears, the door swung open, too fast really, faster than you'd expect someone to get to the door, even if they were by it.

I don't know who I was expecting but this guy was hot. Like, something else. I'm talking movie star hot. Fuck, maybe he was a movie star, there's so many movies these days, right? He could have an Oscar for all I know, maybe that's how he could afford the house. I'm looking up at him, checking him out, and I don't have to look up at many people but this guy is real fucking tall, six-six maybe? And rail thin, but in a way that he makes work, he wasn't gaunt or anything just… angular. He had this jet black hair and his eyes were somehow even darker - at the time I probably would have said they were like ink or the night sky or something sappy, but looking back all I can think of is how shark's eyes look. I don't know, maybe that's just me projecting stuff after… well you know, after what happened. And he's just stood there, completely still, but, fuck, I really don't know if I can explain how fucking still this guy was. And that's not me looking back after the fact, at the time I was a bit creeped out. It was like looking at an optical illusion or something, like my eyes couldn't put together this guy that I'd just seen open a door in double-speed with how fucking still he was now. It was like someone had pasted a photo into the middle of my vision. And even though he was so fucking still, there was this, I don't know, this tension to him, like I could just see some energy there, ready to… fuck, I don't know, pounce. Like a tiger or… well, like a… but that's for later I guess.

Anyway, I'm checking this guy out, because he was sort of giving me the creeps, sure, but he was also fucking hot, and suddenly he wasn't so still anymore, and he’s looking me up and down and he's smiling and I'm starting to feel like this guy's checking me out right back. I don't know if you're gay, but there's this look, right, every gay guy knows it, this discrete little up and down, maybe with a little smirk and it just says, you know, "I'm gay, you're gay, let's fuck sometime". Now, I've had my share of guys in the past, I'm not about to be humble about it, I know that I'm hot myself, or, well I guess, you know, back then… but you know, I really was a great looking guy. Square fucking jaw, little dimple right in the middle of my chin, real broad shoulders, you know, I've always played rugby, and you could tell, because I had some decent fucking muscle on me, still do, probably, somewhere under all this fucking… whatever. The point is that I've had guys lining up for a chance to bounce on my dick, so I wasn't exactly shocked when guys checked me out but this guy, I mean, he was out of my league, you know? Out of everyone's league. It's insane to think guys that look like that would check anyone out.

So I was feeling sort of cocky, like maybe I could get more than a room out of this deal. And I know, don't shit where you eat, and definitely don't fuck your landlord, but fuck me this guy was hot, right? I couldn't pass up on this. And everyone in the fucking city's probably going for the room, it's not like I was likely to get it anyway, not with an advert that attractive. Sorry, what's that? Where did I see the advert? No, sorry, I can't quite… No, no, I don't think it was on a website, maybe a… Listen, I don't fucking remember, okay?

Anyway, so this guy smiled and he stepped back, and with his long legs he was all of a sudden right back in the shadows, and he let me in and the door closed behind me and all of a sudden it's just so dark. And I sort of stumbled around and I hear his voice, somewhere off down the corridor, and he said, and I remember this, because it's the first time I heard his voice, all soft and whispery, like I'm imagining it more than I'm hearing it, and there's this light, coming down the corridor from some door, but it's not like the hallway gets any brighter, it's just this beam of light for me to walk to. And he said, right, he says "Why don't you come into the parlour?" I remember that, exactly, because who the fuck says parlour, but it's in my head too, like it echoes in there. Anyway, so I walk towards this light, but it feels, I don't know, like I'm pushing through something, like- fuck, sorry, can we stop for a minute, I just need-

[Archivist's note: the recording was paused here at the subject's request. The subject was provided with a cup of tea and a member of the museum staff brought some food. After around five minutes, the subject was happy to continue the interview.]

Sorry, it's just, that's sort of where it feels like it all started. Walking through that hallway towards that voice and that light and that… that parlour. I'm not sure I really even remember what happened next. We spoke, for a while, the house rules and stuff I guess, when rent was due. I don't even remember agreeing to taking the room, it was just assumed. He certainly didn't give me a tour. He didn't even tell me his name, I don't think, not then anyway.

The next thing I knew I was back blinking in bright daylight, disorientated to be out of the dark and out of the warm, heady air of my new home. I flew back to London the next day, and spent the next few weeks preparing for my move. I received a contract in the post and found out my landlord's name - Damhán Alla. The contract was short, and was lacking a lot of the details I was expecting - nothing about a deposit, no bank details to transfer money to, none of the usual stuff. And what was there was odd - the contract was for one year and one day, no naked flames, the basement was out of bounds, I wasn't allowed to use certain spices or cleaning products, and I specifically wasn't allowed to do the hoovering myself. But like I said, if he wanted to run a tax dodge or whatever it was by renting me a cheap room, and if he was a little particular about his cleaning, or he's got some allergies, I was happy to help him out.

I turned up with all my worldly possessions in a few bulky bags - I'd either sold a lot of my stuff or sent it to my parents for storage, there was no realistic way I could haul much of anything to Ireland. My new landlord opened the door and was once again eye-achingly still for a moment or two, and then suddenly he's all charm, welcoming me in, taking my bags from me once I'm over the threshold, asking me how the journey was, if I wanted something to eat or drink.

I stuck my hand out. "It's Damhán, right?" I said. "I don't think we actually exchanged names last time." Thinking back, I don't even know how he knew my name and address to send me the contract.

His laugh was soft, but with a cruelty hiding somewhere deep in it. There was another sound there too, coming from his throat; a clicking maybe, or bubbling, and a hissing behind that. "Damhán," he corrected my pronunciation. "Not 'Damn-ham'."

"Down," I tried again. He shook his head and repeated it, slowly. "Dow-un," I said, doing my best to replicate him. He shrugged and gave a small nod - it would do, obviously.

I had the attic room - a whole floor really. In contrast to the rest of the house it was light and airy, with large windows and modern furniture. It had an en suite, a little kitchenette, even my own sitting area. I never needed to use the rest of the house if I didn't want to, but Damhán assured me from the shadows of the stairwell that I had the run of it, reminding me once again about the contract's stipulation not to go into the basement.

I got the full tour. The house was huge - I mean huge, you know. Bigger than it looked from the street, it must have just gone back and back. Loads of empty rooms, which makes sense, I guess; what are you supposed to fill that much space with? I remember at the time asking where his bedroom was, you know, just so I'm not stepping on his toes, and him avoiding the question. Thinking back I don't think I ever did figure that out. And the whole house was dark, curtains drawn in every room, hardly any lights. And cobwebs absolutely everywhere. And these cobwebs weren't dainty little strands, you know, they were thick. I'd occasionally walk through one and actually get stuck for a second or two. I remember thinking that if I had enough money to afford a house like that I'd hire a cleaner to come in a couple of times a week, but rich people are weird, right?

We made our way through the dark to the kitchen - me stumbling, my new landlord silent - where he started pulling out pots and pans to cook me lunch. I can't remember if I'd mentioned being hungry, but I suppose I must have been, anyway, after so long traveling.

Once he was set up, he led me through to the parlour where we spoke that first time, and told me to sit down. He left and I could hear him cooking in the kitchen.

He came back in after a while and placed a plate filled with bacon sandwiches in front of me. The bread was thickly sliced and freshly baked, the fat on the bacon was still sizzling slightly, and I could smell the butter before it was even close. There must have been three or four of them on the plate, each one piled with bacon and far too much for me to eat in one sitting usually. I remember salivating and licking my lips. Damhán licked his lips as well, and watched me tuck in.

Damhán wasn't much of a talker, I quickly learned, but he liked my company at meal times. Whenever I did try talking to him, he'd always end up laughing - with that hissing, bubbling, clicking sound beneath it. I learnt after a while to not make him laugh. He'd not eat with me, he'd just… watch me. Each breakfast and dinner time, and lunch on weekends, he'd call me into the parlour, place a pile of food in front of me and watch me eat it all. Always huge portions, always rich and fatty, always fucking incredible. Some of the best food I'd ever eaten, honestly. Every time I'd think, I'm never finishing that, y’know, always a proper pile of food, and then I'd take that first bite and… Look, it did taste amazing, it did, and I'm sure that was a part of it, but really… I don't know. I just ate. Like I entered a trance, or I was sleepwalking, or… I don't know, okay? All I know is he'd put food in front of me and watch me eat and then it was like, I don't know, like I knew I was eating but I didn't feel it. Like someone else was eating and I was watching them as well.

I started snacking at work as well. I've never been much of a snacker, got to watch my figure you know. Ha! And you can see for yourself how that turned out. But all of a sudden I'm just hungry all the time, I'm stashing chocolate and biscuits in my desk and in my coat, and all day I'm just mindlessly eating and- no, no, not like when he was watching, not that kind of mindless, just, you know, I didn’t ever think about it, it was just, I don't know, habit or instinct or automatic or whatever.

I didn't notice at first. The weight gain, I mean. God, I mean I must have noticed it, but I didn't notice it, you know? Like I could see it happening, I could see myself getting doughy and could see my gut puffing up and how my clothes weren't fitting right, but it's not like. I don't know. I thought with the move and the new job and living in a new country, it was just stress. Like, my weight goes up and down sometimes, this was just an up, there was nothing to notice.

But it kept on going up. And up. And at some point I'm bigger than I've ever been and my clothes aren't just fitting weird or too small, they're tight. Like, couple of sizes, bursting out, buttons not closing tight. I don't know what everyone at work thought. God, I must have been obscene. Actually, I think I, yeah, give me a moment, I've got a picture from around then, some work drinks thing… ah, yeah, here you go.

[Archivist’s note: the subject here showed a picture of himself in a small crowd, at a bar or similar. The subject looks to be around 250 lbs and wearing clothes several sizes too small, with skin showing where his shirt has ridden up, and shirt and trousers showing clear signs of the fabric straining. This picture, along with several others the subject has provided of themselves during their time in Ireland, can be found in the supplemental materials attached to this statement.]

I still didn't see it though. Like, you can see what I looked like, and, I mean, god those trousers! They must have killed, you know? And I can remember how painful they were to wear, remember noticing my body getting bigger, but my brain, I don’t know, just didn’t make the connection that I was actually getting fatter.

It was fast. Really fast. There was this woman in the office, Sarah, right, and she was maybe six months pregnant when I started. Well, obviously, couple of months later she's going on maternity and I looked over at her and I think its the first time I clocked how big I was getting because I realised my belly was bigger than hers. Even accounting for, you know, different heights and builds and stuff, my gut still looked bigger on my frame. One day just before she was due, she mentioned she's put on over two stone, and I remember people saying how much that is. I get home and I weighed myself for the first time since London. I was eighteen and a half stone. I'd put on about five stone since moving. I literally put on more than twice as much as a pregnant woman, and I did it in only a few months. That's mad, right? After that I tried to pay a bit more attention to my weight, step on some scales occasionally, but like I say, it was difficult. My brain just couldn't focus on the idea.

At some point in all of this, some point before I realised I put on more than Sarah I mean, Damhán one day just appeared in the parlour while I was eating some, I don't know, mound of potatoes and meat, and he just put this pile of clothes next to me. Didn't say a word, no mention of how it's because I'm bursting out of my own clothes or where they've come from, just puts them next to me then stands back to watch me eat.

I tried them on later and they fit perfectly. Well, I mean. They fit, anyway. I think I was so used to my clothes cutting in everywhere by that point that anything that was actually reasonably my size felt like it was tailor-made. They must have been expensive though. Real wool suits, tweed trousers. Not really my style, you know, bit old fashioned, but I couldn't deny they looked good, and by that point I was just happy I had something where I could get all the buttons to close.

I remember one time, not too long after, I think I was a bit over twenty stone at that point. I’d come back from the pub - I started drinking a lot, during it all. I think on some level I recognised how fucked up it all was and was just trying to… I dont know. Numb myself. Get out of the house. Whatever. I came back, took off my coat and shoes and whatever, get upstairs and collapsed. The next morning I had this hangover from hell, but at least I knew Damhán’s going to have sorted a slap up breakfast to help me through it. So I went downstairs and… god, sorry, it's just… right, no, I'm fine, I'm fine, I just need…

[Archivist's note: The recording was once again paused here, and the subject was given some cake and biscuits while he became settled.]

Sorry, where was I? Right. I went downstairs and he’s standing in the hallway with his palm outstretched. Completely still, like he's been there hours, just waiting for me to come down. He had a lighter in his hand - I must have nabbed it off someone in the smoking area, you know how it is on a night out, you just sort of pick these things up, don’t you? Anyway he’s stood there with this fucking lighter in his hand, just staring and staring at me as I come down the stairs, and he said “Your contract said no lighters”. That's it. No “good morning” or “how's the head” or whatever. “Your contract said no lighters.”

And I said, you know, sorry, won't happen again, few too many last night, as you do. And he doesn't move. Just stood there with his lighter and he just repeated himself, louder: “No lighters, no naked flames.” And I realise, this guy’s angry. Really, properly, fucking livid. He was almost shaking with it, you could hear it in his voice. His face wasn't really showing it, not really, a little bit around his mouth maybe, but his eyes were… fuck they were blank. This guy was furious about this lighter, probably waited for hours for me to wake up, and his eyes were just blank.

So I'm there realising just how badly I've fucked up, that he must have some phobia or something. I’d seen all the hobs and whatever were induction whatsits, but I'd not really thought about it until then, just thought, I don't know, fuck, that they were just induction hobs, didn't think to care. I started to apologise again, told him I understood. I don't know if he heard me. He just went on and on about lighters and fire, getting louder and louder all the time, until suddenly he just stops and turns around and walks away down the hall.

For a second he stopped outside the door to the basement and put his hand on the knob and turned to look at me. It was like he was sizing me up, looking me up and down. Clearly he decided against whatever he was planning because he carried on to the kitchen and just snapped at me to go sit in the parlour. I remember that moment really clearly. And to say it now, it's nothing, right? He went to open a door. Decided against it. But… fuck me, it felt important at the time. Like my whole life depended on whether or not he opened that door. Maybe it did.

Fifteen minutes later he walked in and just put two big frying pans down in front of me, one piled up with bacon, one filled with eggs and sausages. He walks away and comes back with a loaf of bread and a couple of packs of butter and throws those at me and says “eat”.

And there was a part of me that, you know, obviously wanted to ask about the deconstructed breakfast sandwich I've just been served, and a part of me that was just absolutely boggling at how much food there was, but then there was… I mean the biggest part of me, the bit that wins out, just says to eat.

So I ate. I reached out and I grabbed some bacon with my bare hands out of the frying pan and I just shoveled it in my mouth, and just carried on until it was all gone, all the while with Damhán stood watching. Then the eggs and sausages, just with my hands, you know, with the yolk just, fuck, just dribbling down my arms. When that was all gone I started taking bites out of the bread. Didn't slice it, didn't butter it, just ate until it was gone. Then Damhán just carried on watching me and I… I got that feeling. Like I was in a trance and the only thing I knew is that I had to eat. So I bit into the butter. Just took a great big bite out of it. And another, and another. Fuck me, I ate it like it was chocolate. And I was screaming at myself to stop, right? Obviously I didn't want to be eating butter by the block. But he didn't force me, or threaten me, or whatever, didn't even tell me to. I ate it. I did that. Me. And he just watched.

Once I was done he walked out and left me alone. I won't lie, I cried. Pretty fucking hard. My stomach hurt, I was covered in butter and grease and egg. I felt huge - I was huge. And I just felt so ashamed.

After that it all picked up pace. He never mentioned that day again, but meals got bigger. A lot bigger. Each one could have fed a rugby team. Occasionally he'd just put a block of butter on the side, like it was a fucking dessert or something. I always ate it. He never told me to. I just knew what I was supposed to do.

And I started swelling up. I was gaining fast beforehand, but this was, fuck me, I reckon it must have been over a pound a day, maybe two. Must have been, honestly, considering how fast it all was and how big I am now. Clothes just seemed constantly uncomfortable; even straight after he'd given me bigger ones, they'd not quite fit right. My back hurt all the time from hefting around this gut, my feet hurt, I got these stretch marks fucking everywhere. It was just a lot, all the time, and my body never got a chance to adjust.

It was around Christmas, I must have been, maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven stone - who knows honestly, it all went by so fast. I went to my work’s Christmas do. Fuck knows what they must have all thought of me - can you imagine? They hire me at thirteen, fourteen stone, and not even a year later I'm pushing double that and not showing any signs of stopping?

Anyway, the Christmas do. I'm wearing the biggest Christmas jumper that I could find in M&S, and even that's, you know, riding up on me, fits me like a sausage casing. People are being friendly, nicer than I'd be if I was watching someone inflate in front of me in real time, if I'm being honest. No jokes or anything; not to my face anyway. And someone asks if I'm going home for Christmas, and I say no, I'm staying in Dublin. They ask, you know, very reasonable questions; am I not seeing family, my friends back in London? And I couldn't answer them. I had no clue why I wasn't going back home.

Eventually someone asks will I be doing anything with my housemates. I said it's just me and the landlord, so they get to asking about him, you know, what's he like, is he alright, do I get on with him. And at some point I mention his name and a couple of people give me funny looks, one woman laughs at me. I assume I've just said it funny, you know how Irish names are. And someone tells me that Damhán Alla means spider in Irish. I sort of laugh and say I must be saying it wrong, I spell it out on a napkin and someone says, no, that’s definitely just ‘spider’. And they keep on asking questions; is it his first name, full name, do I know if it's a nickname, just finding it absolutely mad that the new fat English bloke at work is claiming his landlord’s full name is Spider.

It makes me feel weird. I think they eventually just accept it as a weird name, like celebrity parents calling their kids Apple or Moonbase, but it really stuck with me. And I didn't really talk the rest of the evening, I just sat thinking about the cobwebs, and how dark the house is, and how dark and empty his eyes were.

At some point I followed someone to the smoking area and made a point of nicking a lighter. I didn't know what it was supposed to do, what I'd use it for, but fuck it, if Damhán didn't want me to have a lighter then I'd make sure to have a lighter. I tucked it into my pocket, and from that point on I always had it hidden somewhere, slept with it under my pillow, even kept it in sight when I was having a shower.

Nothing changed for a while, not really. I had my lighter, and I was thinking about Damhán differently, but honestly, it's not like I'd trusted him for a good while anyway. I was still eating the insane piles of food he put in front of me, still getting fatter and fatter. This goes on for a few months, and remember, I reckon I'm putting on over a pound a day at this point - a few months is a good long time to be putting on that much weight. But, as I got bigger, I felt like Damhán started to act differently towards me. I could see him eyeing me up sometimes, like, I was some fruit he was waiting on to get ripe enough. He even asked me, a couple of times, how much I weighed. I'd always tell him, between my bites of butter. One time I said I wasn't sure and he followed me up to the bathroom and watched me weigh myself. I remember him laughing when I read off the weight - bubbling and clicking and hissing again, making my stomach turn - and telling me I was doing a good job.

One Sunday in March, breakfast was huge. I mean, I was pretty used to eating a lot of food by that point, but this was just a crazy amount of food. He just kept bringing out plates and plates of it, didn't even watch me like he usually did, just kept on going back into the kitchen to whip up more. Eventually the sausages and eggs turn into roast vegetables and chicken and gravy, and there's some steaks in there, a load of it was just ready meals still in the plastic, and it all just keeps coming and coming and I just keep eating and eating. Eventually it got dark and the food stopped coming. He never says what the fuck just happened or that it was over, he just stops coming in with trays of food. Anyway, at some point a bit after that I heard him go through the basement door, which, I mean, I should have realised then that something was about to happen. Because I've never been down there, obviously, but I also don't think I've ever seen him go down there either.

Anyway, I sit there burping and farting and digesting until I feel human enough to pull myself up, and fuck me I was used to putting on weight by that point, but I could literally feel all that sudden extra weight. And I stagger up the stairs, probably travelling about a foot a minute, really fucking sluggish, until I collapse into bed, in the same too small pyjamas I had on that morning, my gut fucking looming over me, not even enough strength to pull the covers over me, fuck knows if I’d even be able to reach over my gut to grab them in the first place, and I’m asleep within a few minutes.

At some point I woke up. I didn't think too much about it at first, because I'd started snoring pretty bad somewhere in the first hundred pounds or so, bad enough that I woke myself up with it sometimes. But eventually, I started to see a shape somewhere above me. Like, the room was pitch black, but there was a section above me that was even darker. And I felt something drop onto my face, like something wet and slimy. I reach over to turn my light on and there's Damhán leaning over me, with his mouth wide open, long lines of saliva falling down onto me.

And his teeth were, fuck, I don't know if I'd ever seen his teeth before. Like, maybe he never opened his mouth when he spoke? Or maybe it was the same as how I didn't think about how much I ate or how big I was getting and he just made me not notice them, but they were… fuck me. His mouth was full of these huge, sharp, black fangs.

And even though he had his mouth wide open, wider than I've ever seen any human ever open their mouth, it sort of felt like he was smiling. Like this sadistic, shit-eating smile.

I backed away, as best as I could, what with my being the size of a small hatchback and the fact that he was close enough that even a normal sized person wouldn't be able to really put that much space between him and them, never mind me with my gut almost touching him. I realised that I was covered in cobwebs, thick ones, so that I had to pull them off as I went. And he laughed. His mouth didn't move, but he laughed, and it was so much worse than any other time I'd heard. It was that same gurgling, hissing, clicking sound, but it was like he wasn't bothering to cover it up anymore. I felt like throwing up.

I reached under my pillow and I grabbed my lighter and held it up to him, lit. It seems mad really, how he reacted to it. A tiny little flame like that, and that fucking monster cowered from it like I was holding a gun up to his head. I’m not particularly maneuverable, these days, so it was a struggle, but I made sure as fuck to keep that little flame between him and me at all times as I heaved myself out of bed.

I backed towards the door, and I think he panicked that I was going to get away because he lunged at me and… fuck. He went up like he was covered in petrol. The flame barely touched him. And he started going around the room, bumping into things, and they went up as well.

I couldn't exactly run, but I turned around and I lumbered out of there as quickly as I could. At one point I turned round and the whole landing had gone up behind me. I couldn't believe how fast it was all burning. I think it was all the cobwebs.

I got downstairs, with my heart pounding, and I turned around one last time to see the basement door open. I heard this clicking and gurgling, like when Damhán laughed, and these legs came out round the door, like spiders’ legs but huge. Six, eight feet long maybe. I didn't wait to see whatever they were attached to. I barrelled the door down, and I think it came off its hinges - this much weight will do that.

A neighbour must have rung 999, because the emergency services got there pretty sharpish. The paramedics put one of those foil blanket things awkwardly over my shoulders, like it was supposed to cover me up, and I got given a cup of tea and sat in an ambulance for a bit, then got taken to the police station for some questioning. I lied, obviously. Just told them I woke up when I heard the fire alarm and that's all I knew. I mean, what was I supposed to tell them? I set fire to my surprisingly flammable landlord because he was fattening me up to feed to a spider god he kept in the basement? Is that… I mean, do you think that's what it was? No, no, I suppose you don't know any more than me.

Someone at the station must have picked something up about why I wasn't giving any details, or they had additional information about the house or something, because someone mentioned I should give you guys a call. That you've smoothed over cases before where some of the details have been, I don't know, weird.

And I guess I thought you might be able to give me some answers. If you've seen anything similar, I mean. Like why did he have to make me so fat? Okay, you've got a spider-thing in your basement and you want to make sure its meals are nice and big and nutritious, but then why take so long? Just feed it a normal-sized person a week, not, fuck, not the fattest person you’ve ever seen after a year.

No. No, I suppose you haven't. Sorry, I just. Yeah.

I've been to a doctor about the weight. They didn't even have any scales that could weigh me, they had to refer me to a specialist who had some bariatric scale things. Fucking four-hundred and eighty something pounds. Thirty-five stone, or near enough. Have you ever even seen someone that big? Ha, I suppose you have now, yeah. Anyway, yeah, they've got me on some special weight loss regime, you know, restricted calories, physical therapy which is basically just walking for ten minutes until I'm knackered. I need to lose a load of weight before they can even talk about surgery.

That's it, I guess. Will you- yeah, no sorry, you've got your own procedures and stuff. Yeah, I can see myself back to reception. I don't suppose you have any more of those biscuits, do you?

[Statement ends.

Final archivist's notes, dated 05/11/23: The details of Mr Barrett’s statement have been verified as far as possible. There is a record of his move to and employment in Dublin, and while there is not a record of his renting with Mr Alla, there is a record of the existence of a building matching Mr Barrett’s description at the address provided and of the fire Mr Barrett described [see supplemental materials].

There are 17 reports of missing persons logged in Dublin where the missing person had gained a significant amount of weight prior to their disappearance, going back to 1909.

The name Damhán Alla appears in four previous statements, dating back to 1907. We have added the name as a searchable tag to these statements, although none seem to deal directly with him.

In recent follow up interviews with Mr Barrett's family, friends and doctors, it would seem that his weight loss plan has been unsuccessful, and he has gained somewhat more weight since moving back to London. His family and friends have noted that he seems in good spirits, despite his rather unique trauma and ongoing circumstances. His father made a mention of a new hobby - a newfound interest in spiders.]

[gingerbreadmonsters]

something strange

or: who you gonna call?

gn!reader, warnings for mild innuendo and discussion of death, halloween hijinks except it’s literally spring, oopsie. hello, operator? there’s something weird, and it - well, it’s not looking great… it’s time for yet another weirdo DAMN crew AU! cheers as always to agent of the google docs surveillance state @zozo-01 who keeps figuring out when i’m working on this at 4am, and to all the gang on discord who have tolerated the frankly disturbingly-morbid questions that it’s prompted. please keep all arms and legs inside the vehicle - don't worry, we'll reattach those for you at the end of the ride. dear having a dose of a freaky ghost (or five) in just over 13,600 words.

Every day's a school day, or so you're told.

For most people, that's more of a figurative thing. For you, you've been going to school basically non-stop since you were three years old or something, so it's pretty literal.

It's not necessarily a bad thing, you suppose. Teaching at DAMN is pretty good, the faculty and students are nice enough, and it pays… well, it pays. More than your last job, though that's not really saying much, and enough to afford the mortgage on this new house you've moved into.

It’s weird. You’d heard nothing but terrible things about the housing market in California lately, and Dahlia was no exception - it still isn’t, if you’re honest. Rent is extortionate, but even that barely matters when there’s hardly anything available in the first place.

You'd been so surprised when you'd seen it online. A proper, two-bedroom detached house, with a garden and a garage and everything, going for a lot less than the - admittedly-few - other houses nearby. How had nobody snapped it up already? Pleasantly surprised, you'd called the estate agent to see about putting in an offer, and you'd barely been able to get the words out before she'd set you up with an appointment the next day.

She'd been… cagey, is probably the best way to put it. Reluctant to tell you why it was so cheap. She couldn't stall forever, though - you remember the resigned, slightly apologetic look on her face as she took a deep breath, before plastering on a grin and telling you what was going on.

Now then, she'd said. I know it's unpleasant, but I'm required by law to disclose to you that, within the last three years, a number of previous tenants sadly passed away on the property.

You’d certainly been surprised, but she’d clearly just wanted to get this conversation over with, and just breezed on. As far as we understand, none of the tenants were affiliated with each other, and only two of the deaths were directly caused by an issue with the property - some minor faulty wiring, and one of the older sections of the roof was damaged during a storm and collapsed unexpectedly. It’s since been repaired, though, so no need to worry!

Somehow, the worst part about that sentence wasn’t the news that someone had been crushed to death in the house you were trying to buy, but was instead the cheery smile with which she delivered the news, like she thought you’d be delighted. Are all real estate agents in California like this?

How many, exactly? Were there any before that? you’d asked, and she hadn’t quite been able to hide her grimace. And how did they die? Should I be concerned about the local area?

Unfortunately for her, you’d been reading up on the sorts of laws that estate agents like her have to follow in California. No matter what, they have to tell you if anyone died in the house in the last three years - but if you ask for more information about it, or about any other deaths from before then, they’re legally required to tell you the truth about that as well.

Well, I don’t mean to alarm you… Nervously, she’d clicked away on her computer for a few minutes, before turning back to you. The four tenants before you all passed away on the property - not under suspicious circumstances, of course. Just… you know. These things happen.

Yes, you’d said flatly. Obviously.

Three out of the four were accidental - one was the result of a fall, one was the aforementioned issue with the roof, and I believe the other was due to an electrical fault. The fourth was the most recent - an altercation with an intruder during a break-in - but we’ve been assured by the local police department that this sort of thing is highly unusual for the area, and is very unlikely to happen again.

As she spoke, you’d felt a horrible feeling of resignation settle in your stomach. Of course the one place you can actually afford to buy is the one where tenants keep dying inexplicably.

How old were they, would you say?

Some more clicking, and if her expression had been anything to go by, a spreadsheet that was loading a lot slower than it should. It looks like… yeah, it looks like most were in their mid-twenties, or thereabouts.

Perfect. Of course they were. Were they living alone?

She’d clearly been dreading the question, gritted teeth forced into a smile. I believe so, yes. The implied like you will be hangs heavy in the air between you, and her eyes dart momentarily back to her screen before flicking back to yours.

Great. Everything about it had been great. A new city, a new job, living alone in a literal, actual death trap of a house. What could possibly go wrong?

Well then, you’d said, crossing your fingers behind your back. I have a good feeling about this.

For the first few weeks, things had been more or less normal - you’d been a little on edge, but nothing especially deadly had happened to you. No wardrobes falling on you, no rugs pulled out from underneath you, no invisible gas leaking into your lungs. In fact, it had been a perfectly ordinary house. If you were more suspicious, you might even say it was too ordinary. But that would be a silly thing to say, and you’re not, so you don’t.

Just a normal person, moving into a normal house. What could be simpler?

The start of term is a blur, and all too soon you’re so caught up in the semester that you barely have the energy to drag yourself upstairs to bed when you get home, let alone worry about anything else. Introducing yourself to your new coworkers, meeting your new classes, sorting through lesson plans and worksheets and your stupid fucking institutional login, being reset for the fifth time in as many days because apparently the IT department here is just as overworked and underpaid as anywhere else and if you have to go and beg them to reset your password again you’re going to-

Wait, it’s nearly the end of the semester already? What?

Finals season at DAMN is a particularly vicious mistress, it seems, and you've been going out of your mind trying to stay on top of all your work. One of the other Water Elemental professors went on maternity leave a month into the semester, so you've been forced to take over her class for the rest of the year - and you can safely say that you're never doing this again.

Twice as many lectures, twice as many emails, twice as much chasing students for late assignments. Right now, basically your whole day is taken up with running practicals, and your evenings are nothing but marking, marking, marking.

Yeah. That’s all that happens in the evenings. You don’t have time to think about anything else at all, nothing whatsoever, because there’s nothing else to think about.

You don’t think about the odd sounds from downstairs while you’re trying to sleep, muffled whispers of what could almost be conversation, echoing quietly in the hallway. You don’t think about the fact that you definitely turned the TV off before you left the house, and how it definitely wasn’t turned to the news when you did. You especially don’t think about how the plants in the garden never seem to need watering, or how the shelves never seem to get dusty, or how the curtains in the living room always seem to be open in the morning, even though you’re sure you closed them before you went to bed.

The doors that open and close on their own - well, it’s just a bit draughty, isn’t it? The strange chill in the air that seems to linger in certain places in the house, no matter how much you turn up the heating - well, all these old houses have their quirks, don’t they? That faint, blurry figure that you could have sworn you saw ducking past you in the mirror, disappearing so quickly that it can’t have really been there at all - and when you turn, there’s nothing behind you but air…

Condensation on the mirror before you’ve even had your shower, the sweet scent of a perfume you don’t wear. You’re going out of your mind.

You’ve started spending more time at work, waking up even earlier than before and going home even later. Organising lesson plans, sorting through papers, picking up extra invigilation, desperate to spend as long as you can at the university - anything, to get you out of that house. Practically the only thing you do at home now is sleep, and even that’s not for very long before you’re dashing out the door again in the morning. You’ll get breakfast on the way. Maybe if you’re not there as often, whatever it is will just… go away?

Only that doesn’t happen - if anything, it’s the complete opposite. The whole place feels strangely uneasy now, like the house itself is on edge, watching you. Something in the corner of your eye, the feeling of something breathing that surely shouldn’t be able to. Something tense and creeping in the air, stretching and stretching, ready to snap.

Fitful dreams, sleepless nights, keys jangling in your hand. Is it still paranoia if your house is really haunted?

It all comes to a head on - well, to be honest, you’re not so sure what day it is. Wednesday, maybe? Thursday? Whatever the case, you’ve been running on practically empty for longer than you should have been, and you’re really starting to feel it now.

Head pounding, you shut your eyes as you lean over the coffee maker. One for now, and one in your flask for later - oh, and you’ve run out of energy drinks in your office, so you’ll have to get a few out of the fridge to take with you.

Stressed at work, stressed at home, and barely sleeping in between. You’ve been forced to live on barely anything but coffee and energy drinks for almost a week now, just to keep yourself upright, and you think… um, you think it might be…

Fuck, your head is spinning. Just a minute, and you’ll be fine. It’s fine. Your laptop’s upstairs by your bed, so you’ve just got to grab that, and then you can be off to work. Just - just wait for the walls to stop moving, alright? You’ll only be a second…

The coffee’s slightly too hot as you gulp it down, and you hiss as it burns your tongue, scorching the inside of your mouth - something cold, you want something cold, make it stop it hurts it hurts - cracking, fizzing, oh, that’s nice, it’s cold, it’s cold - wait, what is it?

Oh, that’s bad. You look down at the half-empty can in your hand, lovely and cold from the fridge, condensation dripping slowly down the metal. Oops. That can’t be good for you.

Now that you’ve opened it, you might as well finish it. You won’t be able to carry an open can with you and it’ll go all weird if you just leave it out. What a waste!

Sip by sip, you gradually empty the can. Why does your stomach feel so weird? That’s not fun. Wasn’t there something you were supposed to remember…?

Laptop, you need to get your laptop. Upstairs. Right.

Well, if your heart explodes, your heart explodes. Giggling to yourself as you stumble past the front door and up the stairs, you imagine the look on that stupid estate agent’s face when she realises what’s happened - shit, they’ll have to put the price down even further, won’t they? That’ll be a hell of a hard sell. Yeah, they all died in mysterious accidents, all very strange and creepy, no idea how it happened - oh, except the last one. That one died of coffee disease when their blood turned into caffeine and their brain caught fire. Tragic.

It’s all fine. If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry. Smiling, you grab your laptop case from the bedside table, ignoring the way your heart hammers against your ribs like it’s trying to fight its way out of you. Don't even think about it.

Don't think about the way you’re tripping over your own feet as you narrowly miss bumping into the bed, clinging to the doorframe to keep yourself upright. Don't think about the rushing, racing headache that's building in your skull as you drag yourself back down the corridor, that restless pressure in your chest that won't stop growing as you fumble for the bannister. Don't think about the dizzy, blurry world that shudders around you, the strange lightness in your mind as something gives way, the floor that suddenly isn't there beneath you-

STOP!

the horrible sound of your body as it falters and falls, the terrifying space under your feet where the stairs should be

I don't know, they just - I just - oh, God…

the aftertaste of adrenaline flooding through your blood, bitter and strange

Don't just fucking stand there!

as your heart chokes on its own frantic rhythm

Get out of - here, I can do it-

and there's somebody there

What are you even going to do?

and the world goes black

Don't ask.

and everything

disappears.

You don’t wake up for a while.

Shit, your head hurts.

Slowly, you start to feel something on your face, something cold and hard that’s pressing uncomfortably against your cheek. What is that?

You reach up, and - oh. It’s the floor.

Still too lightheaded to sit up, you gradually come back to consciousness in fits and starts, lazy thoughts swimming through your heavy head. You’re lying in the corridor on your side, staring at the skirting board - which is looking a bit grubby, now that you really look at it - and your laptop case is on the floor by the bedroom door a few feet away. The zip is open, and you can see about half of the actual laptop peeking out.

Thankfully, it looks okay. You’re not sure you could deal with having to buy a new one right now, especially with all the work you’ve got to-

Panicked, you jolt upright, one hand coming up to clutch at your skull as it feels like it’s on fire. You’ve got work!

Wait, what’s the time - how late are you? God, you really couldn’t have picked a worse time to fall down the fucking stairs, could you? You’ll have to call the office and tell them what’s happened, that you’re so, so, sorry, that if they can just get someone to cover your second period lecture you should be in by then…

Hold on.

Confused, you look down. Yeah, that’s what you thought - you’re sitting on the floor, sprawled out in the hallway and facing the wall. There’s nothing around you except your laptop case, and your bedroom door is open.

This isn’t right. How are you looking at your upstairs bedroom door, when you’re sure you fell down the stairs?

And that’s only the first thing - now that you really look, of course you’re not downstairs. The stairs go right down by the front door, but there are no shoes on the ground or coats hanging on the wall. Your laptop case must have been open when you dropped it, but the laptop itself is still inside - surely it would have fallen out when it slid down the stairs, or at least be in much worse shape than it is now?

You’re so confused by the whole thing that it doesn’t even occur to you that, besides the throbbing ache in your head, you’re not actually in any pain. Your heart has slowed back down to normal so you don’t feel quite so sick, and you can’t even feel any bruises or soreness from where you must have hit the ground. It’s as if you’d just… decided to lie down.

It doesn’t really matter, though, because you don’t notice it. You slowly pick yourself back up and stagger into your bedroom, reaching for the glass of water that sits on your bedside table, and the telltale fizzle of healing magic that was left on your tongue disappears without a trace.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. The ladies at the front office are very kind when you call to let them know you might be a bit late, but you hadn’t been unconscious for as long as you thought. You only end up missing half of the first period, after all, and even your headache gradually disappears over the course of the day.

The idea of going to the hospital does occur to you - you did lose consciousness, after all - but you decide against it. You feel fine, and it was probably just your body telling you to cut back on the caffeine for a little while. The winning combination of coffee and a can of whatever-it-was probably wasn’t the best idea on an empty stomach.

Ironically, if you had a student who this happened to, you’d probably have dragged them halfway to A&E yourself by now. Funny how that works, isn’t it?

Unfortunately, you can’t pretend that everything’s normal once you’ve finally arrived - your department head comes in at lunchtime to find you ankle deep in a pile of second-year practical write-ups, and all but kicks you out of your office so you can go home early and recover. For my sake, if anything, she says with a grin, although you know she’s only half-joking. Think of my reputation - I can’t let my newest lecturer spend more time here than I do, can I?

It’s certainly very kind of her, probably more so than you deserve, and before you know it you’ve been unceremoniously booted out of the building and onto the quad. Looks like it’s hometime, then.

The bus is warm, but not too crowded, so you’re lucky enough to get a seat by the window. There are worse things to do than watch the world go by on your way back home, and the nice view makes the trip go faster - in no time at all, you’re getting off again.

It’s so bizarre, going home in the middle of the day. Normally it’s long been dark by the time you get back, and everything looks so different in the light that you almost walk straight past your street entirely. Has the house on the opposite side of the road always had those flowers in the front garden? Or has it just always been too dark for you to notice them?

Fishing your keys out of your pocket, you have a horrible feeling that you don’t really know anything about this place. What really happens here in Dahlia? How much of it have you actually seen, that isn’t the inside of a university building?

Unsettled, you unlock the door and step inside, shutting the door behind you with a sigh. Home at last. You’ll have to-

I swear, if you-

Wait, was that the door?

Hold on. What was that sound…?

You listen for a second, but you can’t hear anything unusual. Huh. Must have been nothing.

In any case, now that you’re home, you’re really starting to feel that tiredness creeping in. With a sigh of relief, you toe your shoes off and leave them by the door, before sliding your bag off your shoulder and dropping your keys into th-

There’s no way. It’s, like, lunchtime or something, right?

Okay, this is really starting to get weird now. You could have sworn you heard someone, muffled and ever-so-quiet underneath the noise of your keys falling into the bowl that you normally keep them in.

Is there someone else here? There can’t be, surely. You peer around the hallway, looking for any sign that someone might have broken in, but you don’t see anything weird - although it’s not like you really know what you’d be looking for. The door was locked when you came in, and you know that when you left for work, all the windows were shut and the back door was locked too.

Besides, everyone said this part of the city was pretty safe, didn’t they?

(Okay, so the last tenant did die horribly when someone broke in a few months ago, but something, something, never strikes twice or whatever.)

Your aura flickers as you try to reach out and see if you can feel something there, but there’s nothing at all. No sign of anyone, empowered or otherwise, and nothing out of the ordinary happening with the ambient magic in the house.

To tell the truth, you’d been surprised at how strong it was when you moved in. At least one of the previous tenants must have been magical, and really powerful - this house is full of magic left behind, traces of a forgotten aura, echoing softly in the walls and floors. It happens to most places where empowered people live or work, so it’s not like you’re not used to it, but even so… wow. It’s very strong.

Gingerly, you creep across the hallway and nudge the door to the living room just slightly open, before holding your breath and peeking inside.

And… there’s nothing there.

Just your boring, ordinary living room.

You check all the other rooms just to make sure, but they’re exactly the same. Nothing out of place, everything just as you’d left it. Nothing missing, nothing moved, nothing weird at all. There’s no trace of an intruder, and you’re starting to feel a bit silly, really. Surely you’re just imagining things, right?

Well, that or you’re hearing voices. God, all that caffeine really has fucked you up.

Perhaps a nap might be in order, now that you think about it. Yeah, a nap would be good. You’re getting tired just thinking about it - falling asleep, not having to worry about anything, relaxing after all the bizarre things that have been happening to you today. It sounds wonderful.

Quickly, you change into your pyjamas and get into bed, getting a glass of water from the kitchen before you go upstairs - you briefly consider having a shower beforehand, but you’re too sleepy to bother. Your bed is warm and soft and quiet, and that’s what matters right now.

Oh, it’s so nice. No more headache, no more confusion. The duvet is thick and comfy as you pull it around you, and just like that, you’re asleep almost immediately.

While you’re sleeping, do you dream?

I don’t get it. Why come back so soon?

Maybe it’s a timetabling thing? For finals? Like, an exam got cancelled so they didn’t have to stay? But it really could be anything - it’s always a miserable time for everyone, even the staff, so who even knows what it was…

Yeah, that’s true.

Do you think it’ll be back to normal tomorrow?

We’ll just have to wait and see. Hopefully we don’t get another scare like earlier.

Oh my God, that was fucking terrifying… I thought I was going to have a heart attack! Again!

Is that what happened? I thought it - oh, yeah, I guess it sort of counts. But it’s not like anyone can see us, anyway, so it shouldn’t really matter.

Well… But, like, it’s still kind of stressful though, don’t you think?

A bit, I guess. But you could probably say we’ve had worse.

Yeah. Yeah, that’s fair enough.

…No, you probably don’t.

When you wake up, it’s nighttime, weak moonlight sneaking through the gap in the curtains and falling across the floor. Mm, it’s so nice and warm under the covers. What’s the time? Everything feels weird.

Blearily, you reach for your phone - it’s about eight o’clock. Shit. Has it really been that long? You’d only meant to be asleep for a few hours, not the whole rest of the day…

Ah, whatever. You must have needed it. And anyway, you can’t really be bothered to try and think about work now - whatever you were going to do, you’ll just deal with it tomorrow. Maybe you’ll go downstairs and have a little something for dinner, and then relax a bit more before going to bed properly.

You rub your eyes with one hand as you push yourself up to sitting, swinging your legs over the side of the bed with a groan. Getting up is the worst. The glass of water on your bedside table is nice, though, and you gulp down about half of it while you get used to being upright again.

…Is it just you, or can you hear something coming from the next room?

Nope, nope, you’re not doing this again - it was nothing last time, and it’s probably nothing again. You’re just a little bit on edge. Perfectly understandable. You’re going to get up and go out of your room, and walk over to the stairs. Then you’re going to go down the stairs, and go to the kitchen to make some dinner, and absolutely nothing strange is going to happen while you do it.

With that in mind, you stand up and walk towards the door with a lot more confidence than you feel, although it’s slightly undermined when you have to backtrack a few steps in because you forgot to pick up your phone. But with that in hand, you pull the bedroom door open and step out into the corridor, safe in the knowledge that everything is exactly as it should be-

“Ah!”

It’s not. Oh, fuck, it’s really, really not.

There’s a shadow in the corridor - your breath freezes as you see it, a paralysing chill slicing down your spine. Floorboards creaking quietly, the faintest sound of breathing. Something moving, just inside the doorway to the guest bedroom down the hall.

There’s someone else in the house.

The door is slightly open, letting you see just a tiny bit inside the room, and you stare in shock as you catch a glimpse of a definitely-there, definitely-real hand suddenly reaching out to grasp at the doorframe. Whoever it belongs to, the angle makes it look like they’re leaning against the wall - the hand trembles slightly as it clutches at the wood, clumsy and frantic, nails scratching at the paint.

Terrified, you’re frozen to the floor as the hand slips down a fraction, and the arm it’s attached to knocks the side of the door. The hinges creak faintly as the door slowly swings open, only to reveal-

“Mmm…”

Wait, what?

Okay, you realise that you screwed up with the whole caffeine thing earlier. And you’ve been running yourself ragged for weeks. And you just woke up from a nap. So all in all, you’re probably not operating at full capacity right now. But even so, even with all that going on, you have to admit that you really weren’t expecting to see a couple very enthusiastically making out against the wall of your guest bedroom.

The two of them are utterly lost in each other and totally ignoring you - in fact, it doesn’t even look like they’ve noticed you standing here at all. If your brain could stop bluescreening, you’d almost be offended.

The - um, demon? Is that really a demon? You’ve only ever seen a few from afar, mostly on campus, but the distinctive flavour of magic that soaks into your aura even from here is a dead giveaway - the demon presses himself against the human-looking one as he kisses them, horns knocking softly against the wall above their head as he leans over them. The human clings to his shoulders in return, and you watch as a hand that you now recognise slides down the demon’s chest to tug impatiently at the hem of his shirt.

They’re also both very, very hot. Woah.

(Look, it’s been a while, okay? And anyway, it’s just an observation. An idle, ordinary observation. It’s not your fault that they look… fuck, they look really good. Like, really good.)

The human sighs softly as the demon nudges their head to the side with the tip of his tail, kissing avidly across their jaw and down their throat. Are those fangs? Does he have fangs? Because it certainly looks like it from here - the human’s eyelids flutter as he nips sweetly at their skin, only for their gaze to fall on-

“Mm - mmm!” The human splutters as they finally notice you, eyes going wide and hands clutching frantically at the demon’s back as they try to nudge him away. Is it fear or surprise? “It - baby, baby, there - there’s s-”

“Yeah - mhm, I-”

The demon shushes them breathlessly, chasing their lips with a quiet whine, one arm locking tight around their middle to keep them close as his other hand cups the back of their head, presumably to protect them from hitting their head against the wall. “They can’t see, deviant, ‘s okay-”

“You - mm, fuck! - Gav, they’re right - they’re right there!”

Somewhat belatedly, you realise that you’ve just been kind of standing there and staring at these two - with a start, you stumble backwards a step and drop your gaze to the floorboards in embarrassment. Should you be embarrassed? You’re a little bit embarrassed.

(It’s kind of rude to stare at people who are making out. Although, it’s also kind of rude to break into someone else’s house and start making out against the wall while the owner of the house is trying to sleep in the next room, so maybe you’re even.)

You scramble hastily for words, half-formed syllables spilling out of your mouth, but you have no idea what to say - what can you say in a situation like this? How do you - what do you - where do you even begin?

Luckily, the demon speaks up before you can make too much of a fool of yourself - you notice that he’s stepped slightly in front of the human, tail coiling around their calf in a way that you can only describe as deeply, deliberately possessive. Does he think you’re going to… to do what? Hurt them?

“I suppose we ought to explain…?”

He sounds a bit surprised, which is unexpected, considering that this is the weirdest break-in on Earth, and also that this isn’t his house. Aren’t you the one who should be surprised?

“I think they’re in the living room,” says the human in a total non-sequitur, gently extricating themselves from the demon’s tail and backing away towards the end of the corridor. “I’ll go and get them.”

“No - no, we’ll come down,” the demon calls back to them as they disappear downstairs. “I think our new friend might want to sit down for this.”

You don’t really have a chance to protest, utterly lost in shock - numbly, you follow the demon as he beckons you over, with a smile that looks easy, but you’re sure it’s taking a lot more effort than he’d like.

“My name’s Gavin,” he says conversationally, gesturing towards the stairs. “Nice to meet you.”

He motions again towards the stairs, but you’re too dazed to really get what he means - with a good-natured sigh, he takes a step in front of you and starts walking backwards down the stairs, one hand drifting just slightly above the bannister as the other keeps urging you forwards. “And you might be…?”

Oh - oh, that’s what he wants! You wouldn’t say that the jumble of syllables that falls out of your mouth is exactly your name, but it’s close enough, and he nods in acquiescence.

“Well, then. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

There’s a funny sort of smile in his voice when he says that, but you can’t quite put your finger on what it might be. And anyway, what does he mean by finally?

The demon - Gavin, what a strange name for a demon, you’ll have to remember that - he turns when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, and you see that the door to the living room is open now. You can hear a sort of whispered argument going on in there, between what sounds like two or three people, but you can’t see wh-

“Um, yeah - yeah, I’ll just go and get something from the - fuck! - sorry, sorry, I’m just - oh my God!”

Totally stunned, all you can do is watch as a man comes hurrying out of the living room towards you, talking at lightning speed over his shoulder and almost tripping over Gavin’s tail before the demon whips it out of the way just in time. He stumbles forwards as he tries to get his balance back, grabbing the end of the bannister to keep himself upright - you catch a glimpse of something silver around his neck, tucked into his shirt, before you’re suddenly face-to-face with a very large pair of glasses, and the very flustered-looking man who’s right behind them.

(Oh, for the love of - did anyone break into your house who isn’t ridiculously pretty? What sort of home invader beauty pageant did these people all come from?)

“Shit.”

Both of you stare at each other for a confused second, unblinking, before the strange man jerks backwards away from you, hands fluttering awkwardly in the air as he starts to ramble.

“I mean, um, sorry! Not to, like, call you - not you, obviously - that would be rude, and - and I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just, you know…”

“Smooth,” murmurs Gavin behind him, leaning against the wall and not even trying to hide his grin. “Now do one of those pick-up lines we practised.”

The man shuts his eyes like he’s trying to stave off a headache, taking what’s clearly a blood-pressure-lowering deep breath. “Please, please fuck off.”

Gavin shrugs, blowing him an unapologetic kiss and waving at you with the tip of his tail, before disappearing through the door to the living room with a cackle.

“Whatever you say, Lasky!”

“Oh, not again-!”

He turns to you, almost pleadingly, and he looks so comically weary that you’re not sure whether to laugh or cry. “It’s Lasko, not Lasky, he does this every time and I…”

“It’s - um, it’s alright,” you reply, and give him your nicest smile. “Nice to meet you, Lasko.”

He blinks owlishly at you for a second, like he’s not sure what to say, before smiling back at you. “Nice to… uh, nice to meet you too!”

Idly, you notice that his hand has come up to fiddle with the chain of his necklace, although the actual pendant is hidden under his shirt. It must be pretty sizeable, though, because you can just about see the shape of it through the material - a kind of sphere, or a round-ish chunk of some gemstone, maybe?

“I was just going to get some water for - well, for you, actually, just ‘cause Hux said he thought it might be nice? Like, obviously it’s a lot to get used to, and if you’re holding a drink then you don’t have to, um - you know, when you don’t know what to do with your hands? Or if you don’t know what to say, then you’ve got something to do, and anyway, it’s just kind of nice to… to, uh…”

Lasky - nope, Lasko, it’s Lasko - trails off, apparently only just noticing that he’s blocking the bottom of the stairs, and hurriedly sidesteps out of the way to let you past. “You can go in, by the way! I’ll just be a minute.”

Before you have a chance to say anything, he disappears off towards the kitchen, white ankle socks sliding slightly on the wooden floor, and all you can think is that you’ve never heard of a burglar who took off his shoes when he broke into the house.

Well, you might as well do what he says…?

Timidly, you creep up to the living room door and peer around the doorframe, dreading what you’ll find. These people all seem very nice, but what the hell are they doing here, anyway? Are they going to do something to you? How long have they been planning this? You couldn’t run, even if you tried - if they’ve got a demon on their side, you’d barely be able to get out the front door before they’d catch you again.

Being brave, you’ve got to be brave. Whatever they want, just give it to them, and maybe they’ll go away.

“Hey, uh… you okay?”

You jolt as another man pops into view, leaning into your field of vision from where he’s sitting on the sofa. He waves, and his smile is awfully sweet as he motions for you to come into the room.

“You can stay there if you want, but, like… it’s your house, right?” he laughs, not unkindly. “You can go wherever you like, dude, we won’t stop you.”

He sits back upright from where he was leaning over as you walk nervously into the room, and you notice that there’s another man sitting next to him on the sofa. It’s hard to tell, seeing as they’re sitting down, but this one looks slightly shorter than the first, flicking his dark hair out of his face and fiddling with the hem of his sleeve.

(Fucking hell, they’re literally all so beautiful. Do the cast of Vogue normally spend their free time breaking and entering, or are you just really lucky?)

“Damien,” the shorter man says, standing up and walking around the coffee table with one hand outstretched. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Well, he’s certainly cutting to the chase, isn’t he? Fair enough. You introduce yourself in turn as you shake his hand, but you can’t help but think there’s something… something odd about the feeling of his skin. He’s not cold, per se, but it’s something like that - a strange feeling that runs down your spine like ice water, like your mind can’t place it but your body instinctively knows that something isn’t quite right.

In any case, he sits back down and the man next to him lifts a hand in greeting, looking slightly embarrassed that Damien beat him to the punch.

“Ah, I’m Huxley,” he says, “but Hux is fine, if that’s better for you.”

Damien rolls his eyes with unmistakable fondness, which is a bizarre choice for a home invader. “You can just say which one you prefer, you know. It’s your name.”

“Well, yeah, but…”

Huxley shrugs, and you can tell they’ve had this conversation a thousand times. “I don’t really mind, you know? Like, whichever one you say, I still know what you mean, ‘cause it’s all still me. And anyway, if I changed my mind, I’d just say later.”

He grins, sharp and painfully handsome, and turns his head to look past Damien over to the loveseat, where you belatedly realise Gavin and his human, um, friend from before are sprawled out across the cushions.

“Besides, I feel like there’s worse culprits, y’know?”

Damien drops his head in his hands. “Don’t even get me started on Freelancer.”

Apparently-Freelancer lifts a lazy middle finger in his direction. “It gets the point across, doesn’t it?”

“There’s got to be more to a name than just gets the point across,” he moans. “Just because you happen to be a Freelancer doesn't mean that's all you are.”

They huff, turning their face away haughtily. “It’s a name if I say it's a name.”

“It's literally a nickname! You have a different name! That we know and also call you!”

Freelancer’s eyes narrow wickedly. “Want me to choose a different nickname?”

Gavin lifts his head interestedly from where he’s draped across their lap. “I might have some suggestions-”

“No!” shrieks Damien, and the temperature in the room unexpectedly spikes as he flops backwards against the sofa cushions, decidedly not looking over at the loveseat. “God, no, we already hear enough of those when you’re-”

“Jesus,” Lasko mutters as he comes in through the door behind you, silently passing you a glass of water and motioning for you to sit down in the one empty armchair that's opposite the sofa. “Sorry about them. It happens a lot.”

You nod noncommittally as you sit down, watching it all with a sort of vague detachment as he goes to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Huxley. The three of them are facing you across the coffee table, with Gavin and Freelancer occupying the loveseat on the right, and something about the way they’re all looking at you is strangely… interrogative? Like you’re here for the world’s weirdest job interview or something - like they’re trying to get the measure of you.

It’s quite awkward, to be honest. You take a sip of your water, feeling oddly grateful for Lasko’s foresight about not having to wonder what to do with your hands.

“Okay, look.”

Damien breaks the ice, leaning forward slightly as he looks seriously at you. “This is going to sound kind of - kind of unusual. And we get that. But it’s true, and you deserve to know, so we’ll just… we’ll just say it, I guess.”

He takes a deep breath. Huxley quietly holds out his hand, palm up, and Damien takes it.

“When you bought this place, they told you about the previous owners, right?”

You nod, remembering that uncomfortable meeting with the estate agent. “Yeah.”

“Well, you’re, um…” Damien’s gaze slides to the side, uncomfortable, before returning to you. “You’re looking at them, I’m afraid.”

Sorry, you’re what?

He gives you a second to process that, not that a second is nearly enough, and carries on. “All of us owned this house before you. Whenever they said anything about previous occupants, or ex-tenants, or whatever bullshit word they used - they were talking about us.”

“You’re joking,” you manage to force out, incredulous. “But you - she said you - she said-”

“That we died?” says Gavin, with a grim smile. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“No. No, no - that’s impossible!”

Your mind reels in confusion at this utterly bizarre story, trying to make sense of it all. So what - so they’re all dead, then? Like, ghosts or something? That can’t be right - the closest thing you’ve ever heard of to that were Shades, and they definitely aren’t Shades.

There’s no magic in the world that can reanimate the dead. For as long as humans have had magic, they’ve tried and tried, but it just doesn’t work. So what the hell are these people playing at?

(And anyway, didn’t the woman at the estate agency say there were four ex-tenants? How can there suddenly be five of them?)

You shake your head in disbelief. “You’re joking. This has to be a joke.”

“I said the same thing,” Lasko says mournfully, looking down at the floor. “If it is a joke, it looks like it’s on us.”

“You’re magical, right?”

Freelancer’s voice is quiet, but something about it is strangely urgent. “You can feel other people’s auras, can’t you?”

“Yes…?” you reply, unsure of what they’re getting at. “What about it?”

“We are, too,” they say, and a flame dances to life in their palm. “So shouldn’t you be able to feel us?”

Reflexively, your aura ripples around you as you search for what you know must be right in front of you - they’re doing magic right now, so surely you’ll be able to feel something…?

Nothing. Not them, not anyone else. It’s as if nobody’s there at all - only that insistent thrum of magic that flows through the bones of this house, that you remember thinking was unusually strong. Those noises you couldn’t explain, things in strange places that shouldn’t have been able to move. You’ve never had to water the plants once.

Was this what that feeling was all along? Were they what you were feeling?

You don’t know what to say. This shouldn’t be possible.

“I don’t get it,” you mumble, feeling awfully small and scared. “I don’t - I don’t understand.”

“Then we’ll explain it a different way,” says Huxley, with so much patience that you could almost cry. “Is that cool with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He starts to stand up like he’s going to come over to you, but there’s not really any room on the chair next to you, so he just sort of awkwardly sits back down again. “Okay, we’ll start from the beginning. Lasko?”

Lasko waves, an awkward little half-gesture. “Hi.”

You take another sip of your water - it’s slightly lukewarm now, but it’s still comforting.

“I was - well, I was first,” he says, trembling fingers tugging at his necklace chain again. “I used to work at DAMN, like you, and I ended up renting this place - I remember thinking it was unusually cheap, but I needed somewhere to live, right?”

He laughs, slightly shakily. “I guess it must have been a problem with the electrics, or something, ‘cause I’m sure it wasn’t me. But I was in the, um - I was in the bath, and I remember the lights flickering like there was a storm, or something? It felt odd, like something in the air, and there must have been a power surge…”

A horrible feeling blossoms in the pit of your stomach when you realise what he’s saying - he must see it on your face, shrugging sheepishly. “I don’t really know how it actually happened…? I mean, I think it was a heart attack, or it stopped my heart or something like that, but I - I guess I normally just say I got electrocuted. It’s - uh, I mean, I don’t have to explain it a lot, but it’s easier than saying the whole thing, I think.”

Dimly, you recall the estate agent’s voice in your head. An electrical fault.

“Afterwards, the rental company didn’t want the place anymore,” Lasko says, surprisingly cheerily. “You can’t really blame them, though.”

“I think you can,” grumbles Freelancer. “They did kill you.”

Lasko shrugs. “How were they supposed to know?”

“They sold you a house that zapped you to death!”

“They rented me a house that zapped me to death,” Lasko fires back, waving a hand in Freelancer’s direction as they stick their tongue out at him. “It’s probably different.”

Damien rolls his eyes - you’re getting the distinct impression he does that a lot - and elbows Huxley lightly in the side. “For the love of God, please distract them.”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, and turns to you. “I used to be a student at DAMN, and I needed somewhere to live after the semester ended, right? Like, my lease was up, and I didn't really know what I was gonna do - you know what it's like.”

“You were at DAMN?” you ask, surprised. “What were you studying?”

“Oh, uh, Earth Elemental Studies,” Huxley replies, with a melancholy smile. “I had a teaching gig lined up for after graduation, but… you know.”

He gestures down at himself and shrugs. Lasko looks away.

“I ended up renting this place after Lasko had his, uh, accident - they said everything had been fixed, but I guess they didn't get it all…? The weather in Dahlia isn't normally so bad, so I must've just been unlucky with the storm. You know how the ceiling in the kitchen is a different colour to the walls? Like it's been repaired recently?”

Oh, you have a bad feeling about this. “Yeah.”

He grimaces. “It, uh… well, it wasn't like that before I moved in.”

Fucking hell. When she said there has been an issue with the roof she’d been putting it mildly.

Huxley must see your horrified expression, quickly cutting back in. “Don’t worry about it, dude - it didn't hurt that bad, not for long. It was pretty quick, when you think about it.”

“I mean, most people don't like thinking about it at all,” Damien murmurs under his breath. “We’re not exactly in the majority here.”

Huxley tips his head to the side in acquiescence. “It was a while ago. Gotta get over this kind of shit eventually.”

Gavin’s jaw drops. “You're over it?”

“Well, no…” he replies. “But it'll probably happen at some point, yeah?”

Freelancer, half-buried underneath their human-blanket (demon-blanket?) over on the loveseat, blinks in apparent wonder. “Hux, you're my hero.”

Huxley grins. “Don't let Gav hear you saying that.”

“Oh, he's not listening,” they scoff, tipping Gavin’s face up to kiss the tip of his nose. “Are you, darling?”

Gavin shakes his head, eyes closed and wearing a wide, lazy smile. “Didn't hear a thing.”

Damien sighs fondly at their antics, gaze all soft and sticky, before turning back to you. “In any case, I was the next one. Moved in a few weeks after the storm, when they said everything was fixed. When they were telling you about us, did anyone mention a fall?”

You’d been kind of preoccupied by the more unusual deaths, so you don't really remember if the lady did or not, but it sounds about right. “I think so…?”

“Then there's not much more to say.”

He shifts slightly in his seat. “I was rushing, and I slipped - it's my own fault, really. I’d overslept and I thought I was going to be late for a lecture, so I wasn't really looking where I was going. You know how slippery the stairs can get.”

You wince. “They’re pretty bad, yeah.”

“You'd have thought they'd at least put some carpet down or something after I died, but apparently not,” Damien grumbles. “First they had to dig Hux out from under whatever cheap roofing shit they had before, then five minutes later we were all watching some poor contractor scrubbing my goddamned blood out of the floorboards, because it would have been too fucking expensive to replace it all - do they just like having to scrape their tenants off the floor, or something? Because that's what would have happened to you earlier if we hadn't done anything, for fuck’s sake…”

He looks up sharply when he says that, like he's just remembered something. “Oh, um - yeah, that was us. Sorry about that. But also, like, the espresso-Monster thing you drank probably wasn’t the best breakfast.”

This morning. All those things that didn't add up. Falling down the stairs, and landing at the top of them. That was them?

“How did it…” You're not quite sure how to put it. “How did you do it?”

“Oh, you can thank Lasko for that,” he replies. “He managed to slow you down enough that Gavin was able to heal you without anything being too serious.”

You look over at Lasko, nervously waving his hands in front of his face like it’ll ward off any sort of thanks. “It was just luck, that's all! I just, you know - I was in the right place at the right time, and I - well, the whole air thing is kind of easy for me, so it wasn't even that complicated or anything - I mean, not that it wasn't important, obviously, but-”

“Lasko.”

“Yes?”

You smile. “Thank you.”

Nervously, he smiles back, with an charmingly-awkward little thumbs up. “Not, uh, no problem.”

“If you’re trying to join us, you’ll have to try harder than that,” Damien quips, blackly. “Dying like that isn't fun, believe me.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you say. “Next time, I’ll just let the caffeine poison me all by itself.”

He nods approvingly, the hint of a held-back smile brightening his handsome face. “See, now you’re getting it.”

Idly, you lift the glass to your mouth, only to realise that - wait, it’s empty? No, it can’t be. When did you drink all of that? How bizarre. Hearing about people dying must be thirsty work. Quietly, you put it down on the coffee table in front of you.

“Freelancer.”

“Mm?” Freelancer looks up, distracted from whatever sweet nothings Gavin seems to be mumbling into their neck. “What?”

Damien tips his head slightly in your direction. “You’re up to bat, I’m afraid.”

“Already? That was quick.” With a little bit of fidgeting, they push themselves up to sit facing you, one hand holding Gavin’s, and the other around his back as he sits sideways with his legs across their lap.

“So, it’s… it’s not the nicest thing,” they say, eyes darting away before sliding back to meet yours. “And it probably isn’t going to make a huge amount of sense, just ‘cause when the - actually, that reminds me - did they say something about a break-in? And - and a trespasser?”

The most recent. Altercation with an intruder. Highly unusual. Shouldn’t happen again.

You look down. “They did, yeah.”

“Well, it’s mostly true,” Freelancer says, “although it’s not the full thing. The unempowered police had to come and investigate, and that was the best they could come up with, so that’s what the estate agent will have told you.”

“Was it magical, then?” you ask, slightly hesitantly.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was,” they reply hesitantly. “I’d only just moved here to come to DAMN. I was humanborn, so I didn’t really know a whole lot about magic, but I had a - well, there was an… uh…”

Nervously, they look at Gavin - he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, and they swallow.

“I heard about DAMN from a friend, so I thought it would be good to come and try and learn some, like, actual magic, right? And Gavin and I met here, just after I moved - it’s kind of a long story, but he ended up basically moving in here as well after a while. So that’s why we - well, that’s how we’re, uh, here. Together.”

Their leg bounces as they tap their heel against the floor, over and over. You’re not getting the feeling that this story is going to end well.

“There was a… a problem,” they mumble, after a little pause. “A friend of ours was being chased by a demon - a different demon, a really strong one, who we didn’t know. He was hurt, so he came here for help - but the demon chasing him followed him here.”

Attacked? By a demon? God, what sort of city is this? If this is the sort of thing that’s happening here, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that you don’t go out much.

Freelancer continues, gaze now fixed firmly on their feet. “He attacked us - and our friend. There was no time to do anything, so we - we did what we could, but…”

Gavin’s tail wraps and unwraps around Freelancer’s wrist, winding around their arm first one way, then the other.

“This demon, he was… powerful,” he says, carefully. “He was old - much older than me, and it wasn’t exactly like we could have seen him coming. We were lucky to do as much as we did.”

Silently, Lasko picks up your glass from the coffee table, and walks out of the living room.

“Our friend got away, at least,” Freelancer says, through what you think is meant to be a smile. “And we did sort-of win - Gavin managed to knock him out, and took him to the Department. He’s probably in a prison somewhere, now.”

So… they won? But then how are they…?

Freelancer must see the question written across your face. “By the time Gavin got him, I’d already, um… you know. The old coffee table in here was pretty heavy, and when it hit me, it was kind of, uh - yeah. It wasn’t great.”

The thought of it turns your blood to ice. They died in here? This room? The same room you’re in right now, where they’re sitting on the loveseat like it’s nothing - this room? How can they even stand to be in here like this, after everything that’s happened?

“I’m - I’m sorry,” you manage to say, painfully aware of how hollow it must sound. “That must have been awful.”

Strangely enough, they shake their head. “Gavin got the worst of it. The rift, when he came back…”

They trail off into silence, and Gavin doesn’t say anything either. Frozen in place, unmoving - like this, they could almost be stone. Alive and undead. Sobbing but never crying, rainwater dripping down the marble.

“When we died, we became… this.”

You look over at Huxley, speaking softly. “We can’t be seen by living people, and we can’t leave this place. Touching objects - like, physical stuff like doors and books and water - it takes more effort, but it’s still okay. We can still do most magic, too, but it’s not as easy as it used to be.”

You nod, slightly confused. Why is he telling you this now…?

“It happens pretty quickly,” he adds, “the whole transformation, resurrection, whatever. But it… well. Yeah.”

“It doesn’t take much to kill a human.”

Gavin’s voice is raw and venomous, glaring at the floor, fangs bared in a bitter snarl.

“Demons last a little bit longer.”

In your mind’s eye, the horrifying scene unfolds. A human body, shattered and bloody, lifted gently from the wreckage and cradled in the fading arms of a dying demon. Gavin, tears streaming down his crumbling face, clutching the corpse of his human lover - no magic left, an immortal being surrendering to an impossible death. Freelancer, imprisoned in the silent space between sleeping and waking, screaming in terror yet doomed to go unheard. Forced to watch as Gavin’s form falters and dissolves, scattered back into the nothingness of stardust.

Of course. Five deaths, four tenants. No body left to bury.

There’s nothing you can say to that. Nothing at all.

Behind you, Lasko comes back in from the kitchen, passing you a refilled glass of water before walking back over to the sofa. It’s freezing cold in your hand, and you can’t help but shiver involuntarily.

“Ow!”

Startled, all of your heads snap towards Lasko - he’s tripped over the stack of papers that you were marking last night, catching himself on the side of the loveseat and accidentally smacking face-first into Gavin’s shoulder. Freelancer jerks backwards out of the way as he hisses in surprise, jolting forwards with the unexpected weight against his back, and Damien bursts into laughter as Lasko stutters his way through a flustered apology, wrenching himself back upright and scurrying off to the sofa to hide behind Huxley.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry! I didn’t see it - I just tripped, and oh, I didn’t mean to hit you - are you okay? Like, I didn’t hurt you, did I? God, I don’t know how I forgot it was there - and your back, are you-”

“If you want to get your hands on me, you can just ask,” Gavin purrs over the top of him, rubbing his shoulder blade where Lasko’s face presumably impacted with the flat spade of his tail. “And yes, I’m fine, thank you. Unless you wanted to kiss it better?”

Lasko’s breath visibly stops, the poor thing, as Gavin fixes him with a smirk so ridiculously charming that you almost can’t tear your eyes away. Fuck, he’s so beautiful, wicked gaze dragging slowly down the length of Lasko’s body, painted claws catching the light as they just barely start to flirt with the hem of Freelancer’s shirt…

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Huxley trying not to laugh as Lasko peeks out from over his shoulder. “Keep it together there, Gav. We’ve got an audience, y’know.”

Lasko buries his face in his hands. “Please, God, don’t-”

“Oh, Hux,” Gavin sighs plaintively, although the impish smile across his face gives him away. “Why do you think I offered?”

A quiet rustle of fabric, and underneath him, Freelancer lets out a long, slow breath that you hadn’t noticed they were holding. You, um… you can’t see the end of Gavin’s tail any more, and you’re not entirely sure if you want to know where it is.

“I’m so sorry,” Damien groans, flinging a stray sofa cushion at Gavin’s head as he gives you an apologetic look, ignoring the confused squawking from the loveseat when it accidentally hits Freelancer in the shoulder and ricochets into Gavin’s face. “You’re all dead to me.”

Huxley pats him on the shoulder. “We’re dead to everyone, babe.”

“Not helping.”

“Love you too.”

“That was so rude!” comes a gasp from your right. Amused, you look over to find an outraged Gavin, holding up the projectile cushion in one clawed hand, eyes narrowed sulkily at Damien for ruining the fun. “Don’t you think, deviant?”

Freelancer nods sagely. “Very rude.”

“He didn’t even let us finish! We could have been doing something entirely innocent.”

“We’re so nice to him, and he’s always so mean to us.”

“Spoiling our fun.”

“Getting in our way.”

“Getting in our bed-”

“Will you two stop it!” Damien hisses, pointing an accusing finger at Gavin when the demon actually hisses back at him. “I wouldn’t have to be rude if you two would stop being so - so… lascivious!”

Freelancer grins, eyes scrunched up into happy little half-moons and arms wrapped possessively around Gavin’s waist. “He thinks we’re lascivious.”

“What about tea?” interrupts Lasko, standing up suddenly and motioning behind his back for you to follow him. “We’ll have tea, that’ll be nice, does anyone want some? Good, okay, we’ll just go and make the - the, um - we’ll just go, won’t be long, back in a minute-”

You’re not sure if ghosts can get high blood pressure, but you say a silent prayer for whatever nightmare must be going on in Damien’s undead arteries. Huxley jokingly salutes the pair of you as you scramble after Lasko - shaky hands all but push you out of the door, and he pulls it swiftly shut behind him with a decisive psychokinetic flourish, muffling the enthusiastic bickering inside.

It's finally quiet again.

Just you and Lasko.

“Is it always like this?”

He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the door, laughing weakly. “Basically, yeah.”

Well. Considering everything that could have gone wrong with finding out that your house is haunted and practically infested with the undead, at least the ghosts that you've got are fun ghosts.

“Kind of you to volunteer my tea for everyone,” you say breezily, motioning for Lasko to follow you into the kitchen and stifling your smile when his face turns to almost comical panic. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Are - are you sure?” He wrings his hands as he trails after you, teeth digging into his bottom lip in a way that really shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. “Sorry, I just - we’d be there all day otherwise, and I just wanted to distract them for a bit, but I didn’t really think about it, you know, and…”

He takes a slow, deep breath, shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. “I mean, uh, thank you.”

The kettle’s empty, so you go to fill it up at the sink while Lasko silently gets some mugs out of the cupboard, along with a handful of teaspoons and some teabags.

Too silently, in fact.

“Tea’s in the right hand drawer, by the way.”

Lasko freezes guiltily as you say it, wrist deep in the box of Earl Grey. “You know. Because I didn’t tell you, so there’s no way you could have known.”

He winces. “Sorry…”

“I mean, it’s not the worst thing you could be looking at.” You’re not actually that angry, all things considered, but it needs to be said. “Do I need a ghost-proof shower curtain, too?”

“What? No - God, no!” he stammers, seemingly horrified by the implication. “I swear none of us would do anything like that - we would never! We have never! No, that’d be - no!”

He shakes his head emphatically, nearly knocking his glasses off in the process. “We don’t go into the bathroom when you’re there, and your bedroom is always off-limits. Promise. You can ask the others.”

“I should hope so.” Next to you, the kettle starts to steam, although it’s not quite hot enough yet. “Am I - wait, you were the first one, right?”

He nods, quietly shuffling through the tea drawer again. “Yeah.”

“Could the others see you… before? Like me?” you ask, walking over to the fridge. “Milk?”

“If that’s okay.”

Without looking, you reach in and grab the carton, before putting it down on the counter next to him. “I just don’t understand. How come I can see you now, but I couldn’t before?”

“That’s what we were talking about before you came in,” he replies. “Hux thinks it’s something to do with this morning - like, that you had some sort of near-death experience? And then that means you can see us, because we’re dead and you were nearly-dead…? I don’t know, it’s a work in progress.”

Wait, so does that mean you actually did poison yourself this morning? Or is he talking about falling down the stairs? Of course you’d accidentally manage to find a way to nearly kick the bucket twice in a single day. What a liability they all must think you are…

“The others couldn’t see like you do,” Lasko continues, oblivious to your spiralling. “Not until they were already gone. You’re the first one who’s been able to see us while you were still - actually, um, that reminds me…”

The kettle clicks, having boiled. He reaches over to get it, but you wave him away, picking it up and moving to fill up the collection of mugs - and, oddly, an entire teapot that you’re sure you’ve never seen before - he’s arranged on the countertop.

“If you wanted to leave now that you’ve heard all of - uh, all of this… well, we wouldn’t be upset. We’re not gonna, like, make you stay here or anything.”

Confused, you frown down at the mug in front of you. “What do you mean?”

“You know, ah…” Out of the corner of your eye, you can see him fiddling with his necklace again. “We’re not the luckiest people in the world. None of us lasted very long in this house - and the whole ‘being undead’ thing isn’t really something we understand. Like, why us? What did we ever do? Is it the house? Is it us? Is it, like, destiny or fate or something - because it kind of brings up a whole new set of problems about the existence of life after death - and, you know, are we the only ghosts in the world, and if so then why, or are there others? Does this happen to everyone, and living people just can’t see them? We wouldn’t blame you for wanting to get out before, you know…”

You put the kettle back on the stand. It doesn’t look like he’s going to stop for breath any time soon.

“Not that we’re going to like, do something to you! No, no, that’s - I didn’t mean we were going to kill you or anything - oh, fuck, now it just sounds like we were going to do something and now I’ve put the fucking idea in your head, and now you’re going to be all stressed about it, and, like, ‘is it cursed?’ - and it’s not cursed, I think, but we don’t know for sure because even though curses aren’t a thing like unempowered people say, none of us have been able to figure out if there’s any, uh - any magic that might be like a curse, right?

“Lasko.”

“Just, you know, magic is so unpredictable and there’s so much we don’t know, so maybe it is cursed but we just can’t recognise it because we don’t know what we’re even looking for, and Gavin’s been trying to come up with ideas, but it’s been really difficult ‘cause we didn’t want to use your computer or anything, that’s a huge breach of privacy, right? And - and we can’t leave the house to go and talk to anyone - well, really it’s the property, so we can still go out in the garden and stuff - which reminds me, I was meant to tell you about-”

“Lasko!”

You can practically see the words falling out of his mouth before he cuts himself off, the poor thing. “Mm-hmm?”

“The tea,” you say calmly, stepping back from the counter to give him room. “I don’t know how they like it.”

“Oh, right! Yeah, I’ll, um - I can do that.”

He starts sorting out the different mugs, taking teabags out of some sooner than others, adding milk and sugar and what-have-you, leaving one to the side for you and nervously chattering away.

“I’ll never understand how Gavin and Hux have it so sweet - although, I think Gavin’s like that with everything, you know? He says it’s just because he likes the taste, but Damien told me - um, you shouldn’t say I said this, but he thinks when Gavin gave himself a human form - ‘cause demons don’t have physical bodies normally, right? Well, Damien thinks he accidentally got his body addicted to sugar or something like that, because - oh, I don't know, something, something, pleasure centres or pleasure receptors, whatever - it probably lit up a similar part of his brain to the bit that he associated with eating, and being full - wait, did he say he was an incubus? Because he is, he definitely is - oh, we probably should have mentioned that…”

Slowly, Lasko’s voice settles into the back of your mind as you make your tea, head too full of everything else he’s said to really be listening. It’s not on purpose. You’ve just got a lot to think about.

Yes, he makes a good point about the house, and the strange coincidences that have happened here. Yes, he makes a good point about what might happen to you if you choose to stay. Yes, he makes a good point about how you’ll have to actually accept the undeniable proof of the existence of life after death, and everything that means for your worldview.

Looking up, your eyes are drawn to the faint line where the ceiling and the wall meet, and the two shades of paint that don’t quite match.

Wow. In about an hour, this is going to be a magnificent existential crisis.

But those aren’t problems for now, are they? If you try and deal with all of this at once, you’re fairly sure your head is going to explode just thinking about it. All of this, all of the fucked-up undead weirdness that’s just fallen into your lap out of thin air - all of it can wait.

First, tea.

Lasko seems to have sorted out all the different cups of tea, stirring a final spoonful of sugar into the one second from the right with one hand. Luckily, he’s picked cups that are all different colours, so hopefully it shouldn’t be too hard to stop them getting mixed up.

“That one’s for Hux, then Damien’s is the jasmine, then the middle one is for Freelancer. Gavin’s is the penguin one, and then this one is for me.”

He points at them from left to right, explaining whose they are as you get a tray out of the cupboard and put it down on the counter. You’re just about to start transferring everything onto it when - oh, that’s what’s missing!

Lasko takes over, looking confused as you suddenly turn on your heel and start rifling through the cupboard by the microwave. “Are you… okay?”

“Just a second…” Where are they? You could have sworn they were just… ah, there they are. You’ll have to get some more at the supermarket when you go next. “Do you think they’ll want plates?”

Lasko’s face brightens when he sees what you’re holding, and it belatedly occurs to you that he probably hasn’t eaten much since - well, since everything. If the owner of the house can’t see you, then they’re not going to give you anything, and if you can’t leave the house, you can’t buy anything yourself. If he’s a demon, then maybe Gavin could magic something up, but didn’t Huxley say that doing magic was harder for all of them then it used to be? What’s the limit?

Besides, even if ghosts probably don’t need to eat, that doesn’t mean that they can’t, right? It might not be necessary, but it might still be nice.

“Mm, probably not,” Lasko muses, but he gets a few out of the cupboard anyway as you open the packet of biscuits and put it down on the tray next to Freelancer’s tea. “I don’t think they’ll, uh, last that long.”

He moves the penguin mug slightly to make room for the teapot and an empty cup - oh, that must be the jasmine tea he was talking about. But where did he…?

“Damien used to have one like this.”

Lasko’s voice is quiet, presumably having noticed you staring in confusion at the tray. “It got taken away with all his things when Freelancer moved in, but Gavin made him a new one. The cup, too. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s close enough.”

He looks away, eyes closed. There’s not really anything you can say to that.

“If there’s…”

As you speak, you can hear the faintest sound of laughter from the other room. Presumably they’ve kissed and made up, in what you get the feeling isn’t always an entirely metaphorical sense. “If there’s anything I can get you, then you just need to ask. Anything.”

Lasko smiles down at the tray, and you don’t look at how his eyes are a little bit shinier than they were a minute ago. “Thanks.”

“Come on, then,” you say with a smile, nudging him out of the way and picking up the tray. “It’ll be stone cold in a minute, if we’re not careful.”

Lasko protests, fluttering around beside you as you head back towards the living room, insisting that he doesn’t want to be rude, please please please let him carry it, it was his idea and now you’re doing all the work, oh he’s so sorry - but you don’t let him. It’s a bit heavy, but it’s not that bad, and didn’t one of them say that it’s harder to interact with physical objects now than it was when they were alive? You don’t know exactly how much harder, but you’d feel kind of bad if you made Lasko hold all the stuff when it’s not as easy for him.

Darting ahead of you down the corridor, he opens the living room door for you, and you - well, you were going to put it down on the coffee table in the middle, but it’s not actually there anymore. Instead, it’s been pushed out of the way towards the window, to make space for the sofa to be tilted a little bit more towards the TV.

Lasko, the bastard, takes advantage of your momentary surprise. You’re going to have to ask if he’s an Air Elemental or something, because you feel a suspiciously-timed air current rushing past your arm and almost pushing the tray towards him, letting him lift it deftly out of your hands and carry it over.

Freelancer and Gavin, chastised but utterly unrepentant, appear to have commandeered most of the sofa, along with its previous occupants. Huxley idly strokes his fingers over Gavin’s horns as Freelancer flips through channels on the TV, while Damien, sitting cross-legged on the rug against the front of the sofa, pats the ground next to him when Lasko bends down to put his teapot and cup in front of him.

“Join me. I’ve been exiled.”

“We’ll call the Pope,” Lasko replies thoughtfully, “he might be able to get you excommunicated as well. Two for one.”

Damien raises an eyebrow, just barely failing to resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “See, now you’re talking.”

Lasko laughs, standing back up and offering the tray to the others on the sofa. “Clever of you to move the table out of the way,” he notes dryly, as Freelancer goes to take their tea from the tray and recoils at the heat of the ceramic. “Do you want me to leave it over there until it cools down?”

Huxley nods gratefully, taking a biscuit from the packet and batting away Gavin’s tail without even looking when the incubus tries to surreptitiously steal it out of his hand. “Aw, would you? Thanks, dude.”

Now that he says it, that might actually be a good idea - you reach over to get a biscuit for yourself as well, before going round to perch on the arm of the sofa next to Freelancer while Lasko puts the tray down on the coffee table. They seem to have found a programme they like, some cooking competition show you’ve never seen, and pass the remote down to Damien with a satisfied hum so he can put it on the floor next to him.

“Is this a new series?” he asks quietly, head resting against the side of their leg. “I thought you already watched all of them.”

Freelancer shrugs, absentmindedly twirling Gavin’s tail between their fingers as he readjusts his legs across their lap. “We did, yeah. But this one is a good one.”

The rest of the evening passes in something of a blur - warm tea and good company and some truly ridiculous commentary on the TV that has you laughing harder than you think you have in weeks, maybe even months. After the first programme finishes and the next one is starting, Damien seems to remember that you’d never actually had that dinner you were going to make, and drags you into the kitchen to get you something a bit more substantial than a biscuit.

Gavin trails after you, too, sitting himself on the countertop next to the fridge and watching you two cook. It doesn’t seem malicious or mean - rather, his eyes follow you curiously around the room in a way that distinctly reminds you of an intrigued housecat. He seems to have magicked up a lollipop or something to amuse himself with as well, idly moving the stick back and forth in his mouth as the hard sugar clicks against his teeth.

The feline comparison apparently occurs to Damien as well, who, for some reason, quickly moves everything within about a metre of the fridge on the counter out of easy reach. At first you’re surprised, but then you see Gavin’s tail droop in mock-disappointment, hanging limply down in front of the cabinets, and you realise what’s going on.

“Don’t mind him,” he stage-whispers to you as you wait for the stove to heat up. “He’s not so bad. Freelancer just spoils him something rotten.”

Gavin sniffs haughtily, clawed fingers pulling the - apparently heart-shaped - lolly out of his mouth and sticking his red-stained tongue out at Damien. “I am very cute and sexy and worthy of spoiling.”

“What you are is in the way, genius,” Damien replies, deadpan, pointing at the cutlery drawer that Gavin’s legs are currently blocking. “Fork, please.”

You can practically see Gavin vibrating as he tries to hold back the obvious joke, in favour of reaching down and taking a metal fork from the drawer, holding it out in one hand.

“Ah, ah-”

He snatches it back when Damien reaches for it, holding out the lollipop in his other hand instead. “I got you a present.”

Damien eyes it with interest, shiny and red, and you’re not sure if you should still be watching. “What flavour?”

“Cherry.”

Damien thinks about it for a second, before opening his mouth and letting Gavin put the lolly on his tongue. “Mmm. Thanks.”

Gavin smirks lazily, and hands him the fork. “Mwah.”

Neither of them seem embarrassed afterwards, like it was something you weren’t supposed to see, or like they’d forgotten you were there. It’s… kind of pleasant, in an unexpected way. Being around people who are funny, who are friendly, who don’t seem to be uncomfortable around you. You don’t really know anyone like that in Dahlia yet, and you hadn’t realised quite how much you’d missed it until now.

It’s just the same when you go back into the living room to eat, sitting properly on the sofa this time, next to Huxley. All of them just seem so nice - a far cry from the terrifying criminals you’d thought they might have been. Just ordinary, good people. Sweet and kind and silly. The sort of people that you’ve always wanted to be friends with, but that you’ve never been good at finding.

Damien makes a joke about one of the cooking judges on the screen, and Lasko splutters as he laughs and his tea goes down the wrong way. Huxley wraps his arm around Gavin’s waist to pull him closer against his side, and Freelancer follows suit, draping themselves over Gavin’s back and gleefully making themself comfortable on his shoulder.

There’s a lot to think about, that much is clear. The reality of the situation, the fear of what might be waiting for you if you choose to stay - in a very real sense, they might very well be the death of you. But looking around at them, these people, trusting you with their secret and hoping that you’ll keep it for them, you’re struck with a new and frightening question.

Maybe it really is dangerous. Maybe this would be the biggest mistake of your life - the end of your life. But could you do it? Could you walk away now, knowing what you know, and not regret it?

Lasko leans his head against the front of the sofa, turning his head slightly to look up at you, and gives you a tiny, bashful wave with one hand.

You wave back. He smiles, warm light reflecting softly off his glasses, and perhaps the question isn’t quite as frightening as it used to be.

masterlist

this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

[ask-me-what-my-sideblog-is]

PSA: ALWAYS NEGOTIATE YOUR RENT

Real Life Scenario That Just Happened: My lease is about to end, I reached out to find out about renewal options, and my landlord told me he was raising my rent by $400 (~10%).

Now first off, where I live that's an illegally high rent increase (always know your rights!). If he wants to raise it more than 5%, he needs to give me 3 months notice (he did not). But I knew that if I replied with that information, he would probably adjust the rent increase to exactly 5%, which would be over $200 more a month.

So instead, I started even lower. I said look I've been in this apartment for over 3 years, it's not as nice as it was when I moved in, a lot of the appliances don't work as well anymore, etc and comparable apartments in the area are going for less. So I don't think my rent should increase AT ALL. (Quite honestly none of the "comparable" apartments were quite as nice as mine, but that didn't stop me).

Now I admit, I didn't actually think that would work. My plan was to start low, figuring we would compromise somewhere in the middle, but hopefully less than the full 5%. And worst case, if he wouldn't budge from $400, then I would start quoting legal code at him and force him down to 5%.

But you know what happened??? He just said "fine" and now my rent is staying the same for another year! That's $4800 saved because I gave him (what I thought was) a lowball offer to start and he caved.

Now some important context: I knew I had some power in this situation. I live in a 3-apartment building and the other two apartments are both currently empty, so I knew the landlord would be scared to lose more rent. I'm a good tenant who always pays rent on time, so I knew the landlord would have to weigh losing me (and all the costs associated with flipping the apartment, hiring a realtor to show it, etc) vs. the extra bucks he might be able to make on the free market. And as I predicted, keeping me around was more important than the $400/month!

BUT here's the kicker, if you try to negotiate and it doesn't work?? It is highly unlikely that the landlord won't accept the original offer. If he says $400 and you say $0 and he says "no way", in 99.9% of cases, he'll still accept $400! So there is literally zero harm in trying.

Quick Lease Renewal Negotiation Guide, for Recap:

Before you enter the conversation

Know your rights as a renter

Look up what similar apartments are going for in the area

Decide what your final # is (that you won't go above)

Consider if there are other things you'd be willing to offer that would sweeten the deal for the landlord (longer lease term, higher gross rent in exchange for some free months / lower net rent**, etc)

**This will likely screw you over for the following renewal, so only do this if you are planning not to renew again

During the Negotiation

Start Low! Don't start by offering your final number

Don't throw everything out all at once! Have some things in your back pocket

Don't Panic! I know this can be scary, but there's a good chance it will work and a very low chance it will make anything worse (landlords expect this!) so it's worth trying

[leona-florianova]

it's weird to store personal shit in a place you're renting to another person and I did have a landlord who was arrested for kidnapping his tenants so sorry for assuming the worst with creepy pillaried. Also I live in Ukraine so please don't try to be like oh westerners don't get it.

The stocks werent our personal shit, they were left after our prepreprevious tenants who didnt pay their rent so we kept their stocks. So we just thought of them as furniture as any other...which they were

Since you have such experience, your caution absolutely makes sense. And im sorry to hear that that happened in the place you lived in.

**was it the stocks that were indicative that the guy did those things? Or was it something else, or were they just a part of his dungeon?

In any case, my question on what do you think cops would do still stands tho.. if you dont mind answering to quell my curiosity on the practices of ukrainian cops..cause their czech counter parts would either...

1)ask what is happening and after you told them they would laugh it off n tell you that you should call after you find a dead body.

2)Come and snicker while posing at the stocks, and then they would leave without checking anything.

3) come and snicker while posing at the stocks, then call the house owners to check why theres stocks to which theyd get an answer that it is just a piece of furniture left after the last tenants. And then they would leave without checking anything further.

4)same as 3) but this time they would also ask you the question posed by the owners - what were you doing in the part of the house in which you were told not to go..you even got yourself your own ladder just to get into the closed attic, well thats interesting.

5) same as 3) this time a picture of the cops posing in the stocks gets into the newspapers with a title like "policemen from brno were educated on medieval torture devices, are we too deep in the "okurková sezóna" (silly season)?.

[burning-sol-but-ocs]

i was struggling to think of how to at all design this character and my friend was like "picrew" so!! this is alexa's landlord, braelin. he is ummm honestly really terrible and awful but it cycles back around to being good for alexa. he fuckingg doesnt care about her and when she tries to talk to him about anything he ignores her- like at some point he straight up blocks her phone number, for better AND for worst. he forgets she's living in the basement (AHEM totally a flat) and everytime he runs into her he tells her to leave him alone. it's pretty good for her because she won't be able to pay rent and he just tells her to go back to the basement so other people dont see her and make the complex look worse.

he will NOT call anyone to fix your plumbing, he WILL harass you to pay your rent EXACTLY on time, and he has NOT responded to the police any time they try to get in contact. he has a tiktok where he vagues about his tenants and everyone with a braincell hates him and do NOT want to claim him as a part of the community. he is autistic but NOT valid. i also just realised he probably gets comments "aren't you black?? how could you be a landlord" and responds "you're racist if you don't think poc can be landlords" im holding my head in my hands and screaming.

he is a terrible person. everytime he sees alexa he's like "ew.. i forget you're a cat girl" and when he sees nol he does not even care she has moved in, he just finds her annoying and wants her as equally out of his sight as alexa. i hope he goes to jail one day but honestly alexa needs him to be the landlord so she doesnt have to move somewhere more expensive.

[park298]

How to Find a Manager For a Mobile Home Park

Mobile home parks are a very low management type of real estate. Unlike most other forms of real estate (apartments, self-storage, duplex, etc.) not much happens on a daily basis. This is because the "business" is renting small plots of land for people to put trailers. Nothing new ever happens with the land, and the tenant is responsible for just about everything except the water and sewer pipes, and potholes in the road. In fact, almost every tenant problem ends in explaining to them that they need to call 911 to resolve the petty issue between them and their neighbor. As long as the water and sewer is flowing, the roads are flat, the common areas are mowed, and the tenants are paying, there is not much for a mobile home park manager to do.

Obviously, the performance hurdle is not high in managing a mobile home park. But you still need to have a "warm body" that can take care of the minor items, and act as you eyes and ears at the property between visits. So how do you find someone?

The most important quality of a successful manager

I bet you're thinking that it's some certification or personality trait. But it's not. It's much more simple: the manager has to live in the mobile home park.

Living in a mobile home park is not something that you would voluntarily throw out at a job interview. But for this job, it is more essential than the "where do you see yourself in five years" question of most interviews. I have never had a manager who did not live in the mobile home park work out. And I don't think they possibly could, if you think about it rationally.

There are no regular office hours

What derails normal real estate management in a mobile home park is that an office that's open from 9 to 5 is the most inappropriate concept ever. If there is going to be a problem in a mobile home park, it's always going to be any time other than 9 to 5 on Monday through Friday. Because nobody's home then. And the real problems only occur when everyone is home. The sewer normally only backs up when you apply new water to a sewer clog. When nobody is home, there is no water usage. Further, the peak water usage occurs at about 7:30 am (getting ready for work and school) and 6:00 pm (washing off after a day of work). The same is true of the peak amount of pull on all the utilities. In some parks, you find master-metered electrical systems. When do they "brown out" or catch fire? Normally after work when everyone turns on their air-conditioning simultaneously. Even tenant disputes among themselves (which the park is not even going to get involved in, except to suggest calling 911) happen at night. And collections, if you give the manager that duty, will not work when everybody's gone during the day.

So if you are trying to manage a park, 9 to 5 is the worst time to select for on-site management.

Walk a mile in their shoes

Most managers who do not live in mobile home parks have great difficulty understanding the mentality and choices of your customers. Due to this communications gap, many individuals who have successfully managed apartments or other properties have trouble replicating that success in a park.

For example, park residents are often different than those in other real estate niches. Much of what they store in and around their yard is part of their lifestyle and cultural adaptation. If you are to enforce the park rules, you have to know what is acceptable from what is not acceptable - and only someone who thinks like a park resident can discriminate from what is normal and what is abuse of the rules. Many managers from outside the park business have a long learning curve ahead, and in the interim, will create many problems for you by being overly tough on tenants and decrease your rate of customer retention.

In addition, they will often "look down" on residents, and create problems just from their attitude and manner. An effective manager needs to understand the customer and how to get the job done without offending them - and an outsider just can't.

So how do you find a manager in your own park?

First, drive through your park. Make a list of the nicest lots (it does not have to be just the newer homes) - ones that clearly show taste and pride of ownership. These are your top candidates. Now match that list to your collections list, and see if any of these folks pay on time every month. If they can't manage their own affairs, they surely cannot manage yours.

Then send a letter to each of these residents describing the job and the amount you will pay, and then see who contacts you. You want a manager with enough ambition and energy to make the first call, if you can find one. If none call, then you call them and see if they are interested.

From that pool, I have found that the most effective managers are home 24/7 - either stay-at-home housewives, or retired people. These two groups are also beneficial since they are not trying to make being a manager their "day job", and this will minimize your risk of embezzlement.

And guess the best office location?

That's right. It's in their house. If you follow the logic of the earlier statements, then the only appropriate office in the park is in your manager's house. Once you have made this adjustment, you now have a manager who is on-duty 24/7. They don't have to have any set office hours - everyone knows where to go with their problems used mobile home for sale in New Braunfels .

And what do you do with the old park office? Put a sign on the door that says "I am out on property right now. Call my cell at () -_". It's that easy.

And did I mention the fact that you now have no more park office telephone, electrical or gas charges? In many cases, that alone will pay for the manager.

Conclusion

There are many ways to manage a park. But there is only one way to succeed in hiring a manager. And that is from within. If you want to find a winning manager in your park, look no farther than your rent roll.

For over a decade, Frank has been involved in all facets of the mobile home park business as an owner/operator of parks in four different states. His experience includes: Purchasing and operating over 25 mobile home parks as an investor Performing "due diligence" on hundreds of other mobile home parks. At one point, ranking as the 63rd largest owner of mobile home parks in the U.S. Frank has achieved a high-level of expertise in evaluating, buying, operating, turning around, financing, and selling mobile home parks. His experiences are real life, and he can provide you with real life scenarios and solutions on almost any issue that you can face as an investor or operator. His knowledge can be yours through the unique offerings at "Mobile Home Park College" as a Faculty Member.

[noroi1000]

„Nyan III” !

Part two

A/n: This is the part I wanted to write today. After this time, I send the third part... It was supposed to end up with two, but I'm sending you this!

@wake-uptoreality this fluff is for you! Thank you for everything! I dedicate it to you for your help!

Cw: 2,4 k

No warnings! This is fluff. Only Satoru is a bit perverted.

The images used in this belong to their creators. I just remade them and just used them.

Satoru and Suguru as cats! Only fluff!

You don't know if it's a good thing that instead of leaving the house you spend time with cats.

Or rather, your boys.

Your cats are your boyfriends too...

No matter how weird it may sound.

It is really so, and no one can tell you this is a mistake.

You are not wrong. Don't think you're crazy.

Satoru and Suguru understand you. Even though when they are in the form of cats, things are a bit different.

Then they don't talk to you. But you often see their emotions on their faces.

You know when they are pissed off, annoyed, happy and also sad. 

You don't know by what miracle, but really as cats they can communicate with you somehow.

They will show you something, give you something.

You wish they could stay in their human form any longer.

Once a day for several hours or more often. So you can't complain.

But they are often cats. 

You don't mind the presence of these two purrs, but you prefer your boyfriends.

You don't know why they prefer to be cats.

Honestly, you wish your apartment was a little louder. More conversations. More people.

But you have cats.

And Satoru as a cat is obnoxious anyway.

You often say something or irritate you for fun as a human.

As a cat...

This is different. Meows, purrs... 

He sometimes hisses at Suguru when you give him more attention.

And you have seen more than once how both of them are beating each other with their fluffy paws.

It was sweet for you, so you recorded it.

During their quarrel, they are better as cats. Nobody speaks. There are no screams.

They just meow. 

Most of the time they are very playful cats.

Tails up, mouth with a small smile.

Additionally, they are energetic cats. 

They don't sleep very much.

Not like normal cats that sleep half their lives. They are everywhere. They run and jump.

They are not like normal cats...

After all, they are human.

Plus, they're both your boys.

This may sound very strange. But your boyfriends are cats.

That's why you can't tell anyone.

And you also don't want to say you live with them.

You pay cheaper for an apartment.

You have fewer tenants, and they live with you anyway.

You pay neither more nor less for animals.

You rent an apartment for one person. So having two cats/people you pay nothing.

This is where it comes in handy.

You don't feel lonely, and you don't have to waste anything. The only waste is your body. You have claw scratches on your skin. Especially after Satoru's claws. 

It climbed on you to lie on your shoulders.

You even woke up once with a scratched neck.

Why? Because Satoru is a person who constantly bites you to leave traces. As a human and as a cat. He bit you mostly as a human. 

Only Suguru has any respect for your whole body.

As a cat.

As a human, he becomes more like Satoru. He hugs you, lifts you up and wants to bite you.

You are their girlfriend after all.

That's why you always have marks on both sides of your neck. One for Satoru and one for Suguru. 

You don't like when they fight, so you let them equal.

But sometimes the boundaries go wrong.

And especially the white cat is not interested in sticking to the rules.

That's why they get jealous together. That is your worst problem. 

You treat both of them equally, but they really go overboard sometimes.

If you forbid them something, they will do it anyway. Even if you love them, sometimes it's unbearable. 

When you don't let them lie on you and they don't know enough reason why they can't, they'll just lie down anyway.

When you take offense at them, they turn into people and both hug you in bed at the same time. 

Cats that turn into humans every day.

For you.

Their meowing shows you that you have someone in your life. That someone loves you. 

·°~★~°·

You're tired after work... 

Even if you work in a company as a secretary. Even that is not an exact term. You just fill out paperwork all day. You get paid by doing almost nothing. At least that's what others think. This is so tiring. Your back, eyes and head hurt. Almost every day. 

Your position is not important in the company. You just work there and fill out some paperwork. Almost every day. And that's always something to do.

As soon as you came back, you weren't looking at anything else.

You just fell on the bed without looking where your cats are.

They may not even be there. They also go out sometimes. And you just want to rest.

Especially now. You don't care about emails from work anymore. You don't care what else you have to do.

Satoru and Suguru can have their own dinner...

Besides, as cats, they eat no less than humans. And they should eat less because they have smaller stomachs as fluffy animals. But still, appearances are deceptive. They confuse you very much. They eat as much as they eat as humans. So it doesn't mean anything. You can wake up with an empty fridge anyway...

Now, when you think about food, you have gotten hungry.

You don't want to interfere with you to do anything...

You think you'll go to sleep...

You just quickly checked the hour on your phone before putting the touchscreen device down on the bed next to you, and closing your eyes.

It felt so heavy lying on your stomach. But it was comfortable to feel the soft mattress all over my body. At least your poor spine doesn't have to keep you upright now. You can completely lie down and relax.

Probably neither Suguru nor Satoru are at home. Since they have not come to you so far, they are not here.

If they were with you, they'd both be adjacent to you already. It does not matter whether in the form of a cat or a human. It is enough that it is them.

And now you could use a soft, relaxing cat fur or the warm skin of your lovers... 

Anyway, so that they don't tire you anymore...

Or better, make you dinner...

Or have them come back after you've been asleep for at least half an hour...

You were thinking with your eyes closed, and it made your body fall asleep. 

But as always, something must wake you up...

You felt a prickle on your thigh.

You got a muscle cramp or lay down on something. Or you may also have some living creature there...

One answer was correct.

And that was the third answer.

You turned to see the white fur.

You sighed. You rested a bit.

"Hi, Satoru." you said smiling slightly.

Suddenly he jumped on your back. His paws almost massaged you, but he was heavy... 

You don't know if this fur weighs so much or because it's a big cat... If any of them lay on your face, you would choke you. And they themselves weigh a lot when they are human.

You could at least die strangled in soft fur... It is also some friendly death...

You saw and felt him climb onto your ass.

"...The pervert cat... Who would have thought they existed..." you laughed as he lay down, pressing into your body. He began to purr.

You closed your eyes but you looked there again when you heard a loud meowing.

You no longer felt Satoru on your body. That's why you looked over there and sat down on the bed.

Satoru clawed on the bed as Suguru's cat pulled on his tail.

The white cat meowed sadly.

"Sugu, leave him alone." You grunted and held out your hand to the dark cat. 

You put your hand on his head and let go of the white's tail.

Satoru climbed onto the bed and sat down next to you. 

"Welcome home, (y/n)-chan." suddenly you heard Satoru's voice. You turned to see him in human form.

He leaned in to place a kiss on your lips.

"I finally came back..." you grunted and rested your head against his chest. You patted the seat next to you to make Suguru jump there.

He was still in the form of a cat.

You stroked his back.

"Sugu, why don't you turn into a human?" you asked holding in your hand the paw he gave you.

"He lost the bet."

"What?"  You turned to Satoru.

"I made a bet with him that when I jumped on you whether you would throw me off or not. Suguru said you would be tired and throw me off right away. So we made a bet. If you don't dump me, he becomes a cat for another hour. If you dump me, I'll be a cat for two hours."

"And he lost...?" you laughed. 

You showed him any jumped on your lap.

He sat down there, surrendering to your caresses.

"Have a look. He can't beat me!"

Suddenly Satoru stood up, taking Suguru's paws in his hands and picked him up, leaning against his chest. He picked it up slightly and then lowered it.

You saw Suguru's face twist in dissatisfaction. 

"Satoru, but as a cat he can too–"

You didn't have time to finish before you saw Suguru push away from Satoru, land on the bed, and suddenly he jumped back on Satoru with his claws. 

"Hisss–" you only heard it, and then Satoru's loud groan as he tried to protect himself.

The dark cat clung to Satoru's clothes and waved its paws to attack him whenever he tried to push him away.

You laughed softly at the sight, but you came quickly and pulled Suguru off him. 

"If this is what your punishment for losing is going to be, you can change!" White-haired groaned. "This is worse than pissing you off as a human..."

Suguru calmed down.

You put him on the floor and he turned into a human. 

You now have two men.

"Now you've you lost by saying I can't attack you." Suguru laughed. You heard his voice for the first time today.

"Okay Okay..." Satoru muttered with a smile before walking up to you and kissing you passionately. 

As he pulled away, with a cocky smile he turned into a cat at the sight of your blush.

He proudly went into the kitchen.

Suguru hugged you and kissed you gently on the cheek.

You grabbed his waist. It's nice to cuddle with them when they're human. Even though it is the same when they are cats. 

"I'll go check where he went." He spoke and turned into a cat again and followed his friend.

You laughed. It was always fun at home. Especially with them. It doesn't matter if cats or people.

You didn't have time to turn around and Satoru already appeared in front of you.

You got scared...

He was sitting on the floor with a mochi box in front of him.

Suguru sat down next to him. 

"The mochi are out?" you asked, knowing exactly the answer. "Satoru I have to pay the rent for the apartment this week. I'll buy you a supply some other time."

Suddenly a banknote appeared in his mouth. From where?

"You know it's only enough for one box, right?" you laughed.

And now you widened your eyes to see that he was holding a black credit card instead of a banknote... You sat on the edge of the bed.

"Okay..." you looked at him strangely. It wasn't your credit card. "You didn't steal it from anyone, did you?"

"Meow." you looked at Suguru who was meowing. He was pointing his paw at his white friend. 

"So that's his card. Why I didn't know about this?" 

They both purred. 

"We have to eat dinner?" you said and you wanted to get up.

 When you were about to get up, Satoru jumped on you, causing you to roll over on the bed.

"Hey!" 

"Purr..." 

He lay down on your stomach before he left.

They both disappeared into the kitchen.

Were you supposed to rest while the cats were in the kitchen?

That is a bit strange.

After all, they don't have grippy thumbs to grab anything...

Or maybe they turned into people...

You stayed like that for a while.

They are cute.

You could never leave them.

Same with the fact that they are also dangerous as cats.

Even as friends, they do everything for you. And they are jealous...

But you have two hands. So you can pet them both at once.

You haven't felt the smoke of burning fur in the house yet.  

  °~-★-~°

 Ten minutes later you went to the kitchen. They really did cook as cats... 

Suguru was standing by the pot. By the fire...

And Satoru was sitting in the chair. There were several plates on the kitchen island.

You walked quickly to Suguru.

"Sugu, watch your tail." You said quickly, taking it from the stove. 

You know they have clean feet. Sometimes they are able to wash them under water. Soap. 

But for now, only a pot of water is on fire. Next to it, a packet of pasta. 

"You cannot cook when you are cats!" 

They both looked at you.

You picked up the black cat.

You hugged Suguru, keeping him with you.

Moments later you felt the weight increase a lot. 

Suddenly you were hugged by him as a human. He was standing on his own legs, and you were a little pulled up. They were so tall...

"Okay. Sweetheart~." he muttered with a smile.

You saw him wincing a little, and then you saw Satoru climbing over his clothes. Until he lay on his shoulders.

As always, they made up with each other. 

You walked over to them. You put your hand on Satoru-cat's head, and on Suguru's cheek. 

They both came closer to your touch.

He watched Suguru cook supper. He made pasta and sauce.

You always enjoyed Suguru's cooking.

You were sitting with Satoru until he suddenly turned into a human as well. 

You sat on his lap while you waited for food.

Happy evening with your "cats". 

You felt the fatigue go away.

You went to the bathroom to take a shower and when you came back you saw them lying in bed. 

Both without shirts. They lay facing each other with a gap between their bodies.

They showed you that this was the place for you.

You slipped between them, pressing your back against Satoru's chest as you put your head against Suguru's chest. 

Relax after tiring hours.

You're not crazy. Really your boyfriends are two people who turn into cats.

Your life is very enjoyable.

Next part

[energon-goodies]

i very possibly found the only two landlords who actually give a crap about their tenants. I have barely been in this new place for 3 weeks and my roommate broke lease and moved out to go live with his abusive ex bf again claiming they were ~just taking a break~ and has left me alone in an apartment I cannot afford with nowhere to go and no savings (since I used them on security deposit/first month rent). he enlisted the help of my other friend to move and they no longer speaking to me at all

but my landlords are actually trying to help me find somewhere to go and called and told him he's still responsible for paying half the rent this month bc his name is one the lease so there's that. even tho he hasn't answered the phone or his email. so I still have to pay full amount. and I don't have funds to move somewhere new bc I spent all I had moving into this place

but tl;dr- im having one of the top 10 worst times of my life to date

[upthewitchypunx]

This week at the Spiral house in photos:

Went on a run to the post office dressed like the first picture and stopped by a shop to buy beer and got carded. I was not asked to remove my mask, hat or glasses.

I made some fig and balsamic jam with figs from my sister's tree I had in the fridge. Then I made vegan thyme and cracked black pepper thumbprint cookies with the fig balsamic jam.

Finished up two huge button orders that will probably be the last for a long time. I was able to buy new stock and we should be okay through May even if my housemate/tenants don't pay rent. I still haven't received my stimulus check and that would definitely help.

We also ordered a bunch of button parts as the factory that makes them in the US shut down so now we have a good supply and won't have to worry too much. That photo shows 12,000 parts.

Speaking of new stock, we got the new Fiddler's Green in the catalog. Something about the aesthetic just feels like home to me.

The rest of time is spent being sad about a couple specific things and a few general things plus working in the yard. We got veggies in the ground, walkways with wood chip put in, lots of weeding of sneaky grass, and I traded old planting pots for raspberries and horseradish plants. My shitty neighbor sprayed Roundup at our fence line and killed some of my plants including foxgloves I've grown from seed and reseed for over a decade. My sister offered me some foxgloves from her yard and so I went a dug those up and they seem to be doing well in their new home.

There's a crow baby in a tree out of back door and we can hear it making a racket. I'm really excited for the crow parents to eventually introduce me. I've known known my crow neighbors for over 5 years and they are just great.

This week we are digging up the back strip of our yard to put in a patio type area with leftover bricks. I still need to tame the huge jasmine hedge and figure out if our neighbor also killed my hops in that area. My neighbor is the worst. I can't even speak to him because I'm so upset about my foxgloves.

Anyway, I'll make a separate post with yard photos. The irises started blooming this week any the wisteria is looking to be a complete explosion of purple.

[ramshacklefey]

This morning I found out that the Roman Empire is to blame for the fact that you work 40 hrs a week and still don't make enough to live.

Quick disclaimer: I’m not a historian, so if any of my friends who are wanna chime in and corroborate/disprove what I’m about to say, feel free!

As I’m still stuck at home waiting to find out if I’m dying or not, I have a lot of time to spend rummaging around online. This morning, that took the form of a quest sparked by a post from Tumblr: working 40 hours a week should earn the means for a comfortable life.

It got me to thinking, “Why 40 hours?” So I wandered off to the wide spaces of the internet to find out. A few hours later, I had discovered that the Romans were to blame.

Rome, as we all learned in school, was a big empire. They were very good at this and conquered most of Europe. Most of their conquered lands were owned by aristocrats and worked by slaves. If you weren’t a slave, but also weren’t rich, you could be a coloni. Colonii were tenants to landowners who, like sharecroppers, paid their rent in the form of a portion of their harvests. They had legal protections that let them do things like move from one landowner to another at the end of yearly contracts.

But, Emrys, you may be asking, what does this have to do with my minimum wage job? Patience, friend. The plot will thicken.

Some other things that Rome was super good at were keeping records and taxing people. By about the third century CE, Roman landowners in Europe started relying more on colonii and less on slaves. Colonii didn’t have to pay taxes, but the landowners did. And Emperor Dieocletian decided, sometime that century, that landowners should be taxed on TWO things: 1) How much land they owned and 2) How many people lived on that land.

Remember how I said Rome was really good at keeping records? Yeah, turns out having people moving around all the time makes it really hard to keep records of how many people are living on one plot of land. And if you don’t know THAT, you don’t know how much you need to charge ol’ Sextus there in taxes. Can’t be having that, now can we?

Emperor Constantine certainly couldn’t be having it. So he instituted laws that made it a lot harder for colonii to move around between years. They had to pick one landowner and stick with them. There, problem solved.

Sort of. See, Rome imploded, and control of Europe changed hands a couple times, and eventually the Carolingians had most of western Europe. The Carolingians also fell apart after a couple centuries, and then no one was really in charge of Europe for the first time in about a thousand years (this was at the beginning of the 10th century, and Rome had more or less finished conquering Europe at the beginning of the 1st century).

At which point the continent promptly fractured into a heap of little feudal states. The lords running those states were whoever could afford to pay the most dudes with swords to fend off the neighbors’ dudes with swords. And those lords tended, on the whole, to be pretty fond of the idea of having a bunch of tenants stuck farming their land and not allowed to leave. Enter serfdom.

Serfdom worked out pretty well for a few centuries. Long enough for France and Britain to get their shit together and become real countries, but not long enough for Germany to realize that it couldn’t just keep being ten fiefdoms in a trenchcoat forever.

It started changing because people did a lot of dying in the 1300s. There was a big famine, and then the Black Death, and then it got really cold. Somewhere around ⅓ of the population of Europe died, mostly in the second half of the century. Living in Europe int the 13- and 1400s sucked so much it got its very own name: “The Crisis of the Late Middle Ages.”

While all that was going on, power all over Europe was centralizing in big cities, and kings were really coming into fashion. It is hard to make a living as a feudal lord when you’ve got a king breathing down your neck. Land was getting cheaper, because a lot of feudal lords were dead, so there was lots to go around. And serfs were really getting sick of being serfs, and started getting pissy about it.

So a lot of lords said, “Fuck it, I’m done with farming for grain. Let’s try cows. Hey, all you serfs, you’re free. Now get off my land, I’m gonna use it for cows.” Then they hired some people to take care of their cows, because paying them cash was waaaaaay cheaper than keeping serfs alive.

Like all terrible things though, it had to end. Europe’s population had finally recovered from all the plagues and famine and freezing to death sometime in the 1500s. The Renaissance had seen a nice population boom, and then we had the whole Exploration age, but most people in Europe were still living in the countryside and farming. They weren’t officially serfs any more, but the majority of them were still tenant farming on someone else’s land or working as paid labor.

Then the Industrial Revolution happened. And that was very complicated, but the short of it is that most people in Britain were starving, because no one had their own land and lots of the people who DID own the land were raising rents, or dropping wages, or deciding that they had other stuff they wanted to do with their land and getting rid of everyone again.

So some people who were very into manufacturing shit came up with the bright idea of having a pyramid scheme for manufacturing. They’d bring the raw materials out to your cottage, you’d make stuff for them, and they’d come pick up the materials next week (and if you made enough stuff you could become a recruiter and get your neighbors making stuff and…) 

This worked until the demand for more stuff got too big and some people in Britain started inventing very clever machines for making stuff faster. Only, well… see, you could have Mrs. Winston sit at home and spin in the evening or in the winter when there wasn’t much farming to do. She could probably even weave on a normal loom. But her cottage was a bit small for a powered loom, let alone needing to be able to power it.

“Hey, new plan,” said the enterprising bastards, “I’mma build a big building with all the supplies and machinery that you need, and you’ll come here and work, just like you did at home, and we’ll all be the better for it.”

Only remember how none of the poor people had enough food? And no one was farming their own land?

Yeah, that didn’t stop happening. So all the poor people were starving, and then these new manufacturing companies said, “Hey, come work for us, we’ll give you money!” And they did. Only, they kinda also made them work 12 - 14 hours a day, six days a week, because they could. You could work for this factory, or that one, but there wasn’t much to choose between them. And you were probably going to starve either way but you might starve SLOWER if you had a job than if you didn’t.

And THIS went on for a good hundred years more or so, until finally enough workers got angry enough that they formed unions and started fighting the factory owners. And after about a century of fighting, we all decided that it was fair that a person should work 40 hours a week for someone else’s profit in exchange for a comfortable living.

Cool. Let’s run that backwards real quick.

The reason we have a 40 hr work week is because it was the best deal the unions could wrangle out of capitalists, and was a hell of a lot better than an 80 hour work week for starvation wages.

The reason people were working that much is because they had moved to working in factories to earn money because everyone was starving in Britain. Also rich people wanted stuff made faster than was possible.

Everyone was starving in Britain because the landed gentry were closing off their lands and kicking out tenant farmers in order to try and do more profitable things with said land.

They were able to do that because no one in Europe except the obscenely wealthy owned land, so the only way to BE a farmer was to be a tenant or paid laborer.

That was the case because of the system of serfdom, which feudal lords liked because it kept them fed for cheap.

Serfdom came about because of Roman tax law.

And thus we see yet another reason why Rome was the worst thing that ever happened to the world. Fuck Rome.

[park298]

How to Find a Manager For a Mobile Home Park

Mobile home parks are a very low management type of real estate. Unlike most other forms of real estate (apartments, self-storage, duplex, etc.) not much happens on a daily basis. This is because the "business" is renting small plots of land for people to put trailers. Nothing new ever happens with the land, and the tenant is responsible for just about everything except the water and sewer pipes, and potholes in the road. In fact, almost every tenant problem ends in explaining to them that they need to call 911 to resolve the petty issue between them and their neighbor. As long as the water and sewer is flowing, the roads are flat, the common areas are mowed, and the tenants are paying, there is not much for a mobile home park manager to do.

Obviously, the performance hurdle is not high in managing a mobile home park. But you still need to have a "warm body" that can take care of the minor items, and act as you eyes and ears at the property between visits. So how do you find someone?

The most important quality of a successful manager

I bet you're thinking that it's some certification or personality trait. But it's not. It's much more simple: the manager has to live in the mobile home park.

Living in a mobile home park is not something that you would voluntarily throw out at a job interview. But for this job, it is more essential than the "where do you see yourself in five years" question of most interviews. I have never had a manager who did not live in the mobile home park work out. And I don't think they possibly could, if you think about it rationally.

There are no regular office hours

What derails normal real estate management in a mobile home park is that an office that's open from 9 to 5 is the most inappropriate concept ever. If there is going to be a problem in a mobile home park, it's always going to be any time other than 9 to 5 on Monday through Friday. Because nobody's home then. And the real problems only occur when everyone is home. The sewer normally only backs up when you apply new water to a sewer clog. When nobody is home, there is no water usage. Further, the peak water usage occurs at about 7:30 am (getting ready for work and school) and 6:00 pm (washing off after a day of work). The same is true of the peak amount of pull on all the utilities. In some parks, you find master-metered electrical systems. When do they "brown out" or catch fire? Normally after work when everyone turns on their air-conditioning simultaneously. Even tenant disputes among themselves (which the park is not even going to get involved in, except to suggest calling 911) happen at night. And collections, if you give the manager that duty, will not work when everybody's gone during the day.

So if you are trying to manage a park, 9 to 5 is the worst time to select for on-site management.

Walk a mile in their shoes

Most managers who do not live in mobile home parks have great difficulty understanding the mentality and choices of your customers. Due to this communications gap, many individuals who have successfully managed apartments or other properties have trouble replicating that success in a park.

For example, park residents are often different than those in other real estate niches. Much of what they store in and around their yard is part of their lifestyle and cultural adaptation. If you are to enforce the park rules, you have to know what is acceptable from what is not acceptable - and only someone who thinks like a park resident can discriminate from what is normal and what is abuse of the rules. Many managers from outside the park business have a long learning curve ahead, and in the interim, will create many problems for you by being overly tough on tenants and decrease your rate of customer retention.

In addition, they will often "look down" on residents, and create problems just from their attitude and manner. An effective manager needs to understand the customer and how to get the job done without offending them - and an outsider just can't.

So how do you find a manager in your own park?

First, drive through your park. Make a list of the nicest lots (it does not have to be just the newer homes) - ones that clearly show taste and pride of ownership. These are your top candidates. Now match that list to your collections list, and see if any of these folks pay on time every month. If they can't manage their own affairs, they surely cannot manage yours.

Then send a letter to each of these residents describing the job and the amount you will pay, and then see who contacts you. You want a manager with enough ambition and energy to make the first call, if you can find one. If none call, then you call them and see if they are interested.

From that pool, I have found that the most effective managers are home 24/7 - either stay-at-home housewives, or retired people. These two groups are also beneficial since they are not trying to make being a manager their "day job", and this will minimize your risk of embezzlement used mobile home for sale in New Braunfels .

And guess the best office location?

That's right. It's in their house. If you follow the logic of the earlier statements, then the only appropriate office in the park is in your manager's house. Once you have made this adjustment, you now have a manager who is on-duty 24/7. They don't have to have any set office hours - everyone knows where to go with their problems.

And what do you do with the old park office? Put a sign on the door that says "I am out on property right now. Call my cell at () -_". It's that easy.

And did I mention the fact that you now have no more park office telephone, electrical or gas charges? In many cases, that alone will pay for the manager.

Conclusion

There are many ways to manage a park. But there is only one way to succeed in hiring a manager. And that is from within. If you want to find a winning manager in your park, look no farther than your rent roll.

For over a decade, Frank has been involved in all facets of the mobile home park business as an owner/operator of parks in four different states. His experience includes: Purchasing and operating over 25 mobile home parks as an investor Performing "due diligence" on hundreds of other mobile home parks. At one point, ranking as the 63rd largest owner of mobile home parks in the U.S. Frank has achieved a high-level of expertise in evaluating, buying, operating, turning around, financing, and selling mobile home parks. His experiences are real life, and he can provide you with real life scenarios and solutions on almost any issue that you can face as an investor or operator. His knowledge can be yours through the unique offerings at "Mobile Home Park College" as a Faculty Member.