Chapter Text
Invisible. Something about that word resonated deeply within her. Invisible. Because that was how she felt now. With her mother gone, Lydia Deetz was unequivocally invisible. There were well wishers at her mother’s funeral. All of them dressed somberly in black with large hats and umbrellas. They spoke in hushed tones and whispered murmurs. They kept their gazes cast towards the ground. And yet, the world around Lydia kept moving, even as hers had fallen apart at the seams. Clocks ticked, the phones still rang. The pastor spoke of coming together, of having no words for times like these. He spoke of scripture, of the idea that no one truly walked alone so long as the Lord was there to guide them. But all of it felt so hollow and removed. Because Lydia had never felt so alone or unseen before now. Lydia stared at the cold and dismal headstone that rainy day, unseeing and yet aware. Aware of how the other mourners whispered behind their hands, speaking as though she wasn’t there at all. Any words spoken to her were platitudes, things to say when you had nothing to say. No one understood the depth of sorrow this had put the young woman in. Lydia stood there, long and still and silent. Watching as everyone left, as they always did and always would.
She knelt down, curling up besides her mother’s headstone. The bouquet of calla lilies clutched tightly in her fist now hanging limply from her grasp. The cemetery was empty save for those heading back to their cars, the storm clouds rolled in overhead. It would figure, Lydia thought. She wondered how many people had wanted to help fix things, to help save what couldn’t have been saved, or could it have? Lydia hadn’t been able to see her mother in her final moments, her father had assured her the doctors were the best money could buy. Even so, she’d noticed that he’d refused to look at anything during the funeral. Not the flowers, not the casket, not the headstone. Where she had been riveted, more than anxious to soak up anything left of her mother, Charles had simply looked away. Lydia wondered if it was because he’d felt ashamed. Adults tended to do things like that, look away from any problem they couldn’t fix. But what about this problem? What about her? Was she a problem that they couldn’t fix? Was that why they wouldn’t look at her? Did they think she was beyond help?
Emily had been the one person who encouraged Lydia’s love for the oddities of life. Anything strange, or out of the ordinary, Emily had always said that those were the special treasures of life. Lydia remembered how her mother used to call her as a child, “Come here my little strange one,”
A pained smile briefly surfaced as Lydia heard the echo of her mother’s voice within her mind. Joy at remembering, sorrow at the realization that never again would she hear that name. Or that voice. Emily was nothing more than a memory now. And so was the experience of being seen, understood. Was Lydia selfish? Was it being too greedy to need someone to see her? To say her name? To prove to the world that if only for a brief moment, she existed, she mattered? Lydia looked around at the dispersing crowds still at the gate, where her father waited. She noticed many of them already taking off the airs they’d put on the funeral. The hats, the veils, the pancake makeup. Some of them were even taking off their black jackets. Lydia cast her gaze to Emily’s grave a final time before standing and slowly beginning to make her way back. The sun began to peek out from the storm clouds. It seemed to her that when someone lost their mother, no one turned off the light. The sun still shone, the birds still sang, folks carried on and that was that. You were simply invisible when you were sad.
Lydia got into the back seat of the car, unwilling to head to the front because that was where her mother always sat when dad drove. They went home, to that empty abysmal house. But it was still home. Mom’s stuff was still there. A lifetime’s worth of memories in those halls and walls. But Lydia wasn’t in the mood for a nostalgia trip tonight. Neither was Charles it seemed, because all he did was say he’d order something for dinner and retreat to his study. Lydia returned to her room. All the decorations, reminders of the strange and unusual things she had gotten into with her mother’s encouragement now only served to cause her further pain. Lydia returned to the hall and found one of many empty boxes that always seemed to be laying about and started taking things down. But even that proved too much to bear for Lydia at the moment. Nothing held any appeal, nothing except laying down face first and trying to forget that this was now her reality. As if she could wake up and this would all have been a horrible nightmare and Mom would still be there, probably hiding in one of the hall closets ready to scare the next unsuspecting person that walked by -which usually meant her husband. And Lydia could simply stand in the doorway, waiting, and laughing because it didn’t matter how long they’d been married, her father would still fall for that same prank every single time. And he’d get exasperated and flustered but then they’d all share a good laugh and go figure out what they wanted to order for dinner.
But the hallway was dark. The closet was empty. Her parents room held only the faintest trace of her mother’s scent. Lydia knew it by heart; that perfume her mother wore that reminded her of dark and spooky things, the slight smell of incense that despite her mother never being seen using it always seemed to hang around her, and the scent of the laundry detergent she favored. Now, more than anything all Lydia could smell was the scent of her father; expensive cologne and tobacco from his pipe. Lydia sat on her mother’s side of the bed, running her hands across the texture of the comforter. With a sigh, she fell back against the rest of the mattress, hair spilling around her. Lydia closed her eyes tightly, hoping, wishing, almost praying that this wasn’t her reality. That her mother was still here, and not buried below in some cold and distant cemetery. But it was to no avail. Her eyes opened to an empty ceiling and Lydia left. She passed her father’s study and heard him talking on the phone,
“Yes Ms… Schlimmer, was it? Yes I’m sorry about the rather late hour but I wanted to call and ask about your advertisement as a… what was it you call yourself again?” he paused, “Yes, that. Well you see, I’m afraid my daughter is in need of a bit of assistance and I’d like to make an appointment to meet with you as soon as possible,”
Oh great, now father was calling a therapist. Just what Lydia needed. Someone picking apart her brain and trying to fix what wasn’t broken. Why couldn’t they just let her be sad? Why couldn’t they just accept her as she was? Mom had. She always had. Dad had never tried to change her. Lydia returned to her room and softly closed the door. She had never before felt so completely and utterly alone.
BJ BJ BJ
The whole being dead thing was not as bad as most breathers worried. Mostly, it was a whole lot of boredom. But there was fun to be had if you hung around long enough. You could pull off any number of tricks, from the mundane parlor one -levitating, ventriloquism, possession- to more complex stuff like manipulating the weather and shapeshifting. Beetlejuice himself could even replicate and make Beetleclones. Those guys were always good for a laugh. Besides, the thing with life that he’d learned over countless centuries of observation was that no one made it out alive. Life was temporary, death was forever. A bit of magic was still a nice consolation prize. Of course, with power came those who were scared of it. Not breathers, though you could scare the shit out of them with just about anything. No, there were higher powers in the afterlife. Those who were afraid of him. He didn’t blame them, he was the result of a union between a ghost and a demon; they classified him as a poltergeist but really they were at a lack of words for what to call him. Popular titles included abomination, monster, thing, creature. Words hurt, but pranks tended to make everything better. His mother was the best at inflicting pain, it had been her idea to restrict him in the world of the living. He couldn’t be seen by most breathers, and he couldn’t even affect the world of the living unless someone said his name three times.
Of course, there were always exceptions to every rule. In the past, there had been plenty of superstitious people. They believed in gods, they believed in the afterlife, they believed in demons, and they were afraid. Those people had set him loose on more than one occasion, because he’d lied and told them the only way to get rid of him was by saying his name three times. Well, technically that wasn’t a lie, he’d just neglected to tell them he was already “away”. Though it kind of sucked when science took hold and people stopped believing as fervently in matters outside their own meaningless little lives, sometimes when he caused chaos in the Netherworld and was banished back to the world of breathers he’d get stuck somewhere fun. One time he’d been placed in a local sanitarium. That had been a barrel of laughs, crazy people were the best kinds of people, since they could usually see him. A bit more frequently, though still rarely, he got stuck in a place with someone paranormally minded but not smart enough to figure out how to say his name, or too stubborn to once they figured it out. He’d gotten his revenge by making everyone around them think they were crazy. Sending off schmucks for lobotomies was always a good time. At least, in the moment, then he remembered he was alone and invisible again before ultimately returning to the land of the dead.
But this time, oh his mother had really had it in for him this time. She’d sent him to the middle of nowheresville. A small town in Connecticut. His haunting perimeters confined to this one house far removed from everything and everyone. And for whatever reason, extremely attractive to whitebred yuppies. Those who were so basic it physically hurt. For the last ten years or so, he’d been rooming with a young couple called the Maitlands. Adam and Barbara. Two young kids with their whole lives ahead of them. And Beetlejuice was going to have to wait for them to either move out or die. Here was hoping for the latter. But as for right now, this was snore central. Adam and Barbara were the most boring people on the face of the planet. Nothing salacious about them, no hidden secrets or vices. Just two suburban, middle class white kids. Snore. If they could see and interact with him he might have been able to have more fun. Barbara was hot. And Adam looked like he had such a stick up his ass that Beetlejuice could get some fun out of flirting with him, regardless of whether he meant it or not.
But for right now? He was ready to go insane, more so than he already was. The Maitlands were more boring than Brigadoon, which yes, he’d watched because of course the Maitlands owned it. And it figured that it was one of their favorite movies. Beetlejuice mostly lurked in the attic and on the roof nowadays. Why? Because for the last seven or so of these almost ten years he’d been sharing a space with them, all he’d heard almost constantly was arguments on whether or not they were ready to have a kid and start a family. And it seemed like today wasn’t going to be any different. Adam was restoring an antique crib. Yep, nothing to get your mind off of whether or not you think you’re ready to have a screaming little brat of your own than an old as shit piece of baby furniture. Something which Adam detailed as he talked to himself.
“Why restore a crib when you don’t have a kid?” Adam’s tone made the demon think he was supposedly emulating naysayers who found he hobby just as boring as Beetlejuice himself did, “I mean even if you did have a kid, a crib like this is too precious to put a baby inside. And your perfectionism in restoring it seems to just be a reminder that you’re not mentally prepared to have a kid,” then again, maybe he was repeating the words of a therapist. Christ, even the Maitlands psychological issues were dull as dirt.
But Adam continued, “Why not take a chance, why not live Adam? The whole point of being married is to have kids isn’t it?” No, no, definitely that one asshole friend who fancied themselves a shrink because they took one psychology class in college, Beej would have bet any amount of money on that.
But thankfully before Adam could go off on a tangent, Barbara showed up. She hadn’t been feeling well the last couple of days and had even gone to the doctor, but it hadn’t stopped her from playing with her clays. She was very much into ceramics at the moment, which according to at least one of her bitch friends, maybe that same dumbass who’d made stick in the mud Adam panic -was just a manifestation of motherly panic. Being able to make a baby that’s breakable and just put it away so she didn’t have to face the prospect of being a bad mom. God these people needed cooler friends. But, being around for as long as he had, Beetlejuice could read body language quite easily.
“Big news?” he asked, even though he knew he wasn’t going to get an answer.
“So, that was the O’Briens calling,” Barbara said, rubbing her stomach like she was still in pain while holding one of her stupid jugs.
“Oh really?” Adam asked, “Well don’t worry, I’ll have this crib finished before that baby gets here,”
“Well…” Barabra replied, “Actually she had it yesterday; it’s a girl!”
“That’s…” Adam looked awkward and uncomfortable, “Great news! Well, I guess I’ll have to have it finished after lunch huh? I’m famished, do you want anything?”
“Oh, could you make me a sandwich?” Barbara asked, turning as her husband passed her.
“One sandwich, coming up,” Adam said as he placed a kiss on her cheek and headed for the kitchen.
Knowing he couldn’t be heard, Beetlejuice spoke up, “Oh Barbara, you don’t need a sandwich when you’re already a snack,” he snorted at his own joke. The biggest issue with being invisible was that there was no one around to bear witness to his genius comedy.
Beetlejuice watched her cradle the piece like an infant, speaking to it like it really was a child. Oh brother, he simply didn’t get these people. The same argument, on and off, for years . Typically time moved differently for the dead, but being stuck with these yuppies had made every second torturously apparent. And yet, Adam came back a few minutes later with no sandwich, and they started adding more things to the list of why they couldn’t have a baby just yet. Like a creaky floorboard. A creaky floorboard! God slash Satan why did he have to be stuck with these yahoos? At this rate they’d be grandparents before they had kids. And to be quite honest, Beetlejuice was done listening to this for the day. He didn’t even care about the phone ringing or who was on the other end. He was going up to the attic, or to the roof, he’d decide when he got there what he wanted to do. Playing with the Maitlands’ stuff was always a fun time, even if all he could do was phase himself through it and see what was going on. He wasn’t worried, the Maitlands were boring as bricks, he doubted they’d be dying anytime soon.
Barbara had gone to answer the phone downstairs. Adam waited in the living room, still polishing up that antique crib. A few moments later Barbara came back, looking awed and amazed, and scared. Terrified, even. Adam wondered what was going on. Was something wrong?
“Honey?” he questioned, immediately dropping the polishing rag to go over to her, “Who was that on the phone? Is everything okay?”
“It…” Barbara seemed far away even as she tried to share what she had learned with her spouse, “It was the doctor’s office.”
“Doctor’s office, why would they be calling?” Adam asked. As far as he knew it was just a slight stomach bug Barbara had come down with.
“Well…” Barbara shrugged, “I went to visit them yesterday, and I described my symptoms… and they wanted me to take a test. But, I got scared and said they could call me with the results later. And that’s what they did,” she let out a nervous little laugh.
“A test? A test for what?”
“Adam I-” Barbara took a deep breath. This was earth shattering news and she herself was still trying to process it. But as terrified as she was, she was also hopeful and excited, “I’m pregnant Adam,”
Adam was silent. And then, a soft, disbelieving, “What?” came out of his mouth.
“I’m, we’re going to have a baby, Adam,” Barbara couldn’t contain the grin that stretched across her face, “I can’t believe it, we’re having a baby!”
“This… is…” Adam began slowly, “So incredible!” he picked up Barbara and spun her around, “Well, I guess we have to get going I mean we have so much to do to prepare and-” he stopped as he set her down, “I can’t believe it, we’re actually… taking the next step,”
Barbara nodded, goofy grin still in place, “Are you ready to take the next step?”
“Ready,” Adam nodded, “Set,” he grabbed her hands, “Here we go,”
“I’m just… so happy Adam,” Barbara told him, a tear welling up in her eyes.
“Me too,” he agreed. And then, like giddy children they squeezed tightly and began jumping up and down. But that creaky floorboard had been an omen. And with a pitiful groan of surrender, the boards snapped, the floor gave out beneath them, and the Maitlands fell into the basement. Ready, set, not yet.