Chapter Text
“It fucking schtinks in here,” Murderface said, blandly observing the over-sized, decorative forks that the stupid flippers had mounted onto the wall for some reason. Why did they do that? he thought, Did they think we wouldn’t know that this is the kitchen without them?
“I’m, ah, not sure what you mean Murderface, the house was recently remodeled and deep cleaned in preparation for your arrival,” Charles said, his hands clasped behind his back. Will decided that he could hear a tinge of irritation in Charles’ voice, and he felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle in anger and shame.
He turned away from the ridiculous forks, and crossed his arms, “It fucking schtinks. Like an old refrigerator in a dump.”
Offdensen rocked back on his heels and turned with the precision of a solider, and walked to the sleek chrome fridge that sat glistening in the corner of the kitchen.
“I can assure you,” Offdensen says in his smooth, calming voice, “this home has been refurbished, sanitized, and rid of any vermin. All the appliances have been replaced. The fridge is new, and fully stocked.” He opened the door and made a ‘Voila!’ gesture with his hand, as if to show off the groceries inside.
Murderface couldn't think of anything to say in return, so he rolled his eyes instead, and crossed over to the fridge to evaluate the goods inside, ready to find something that would piss him off, something he could direct his discomfort towards.
But he found nothing. All his favorites, and everyone else's were present; Toki's sugar free cans of frosting, Skwisgaar's jams and cheeses, Pickles’ preferred brand of hard ice tea, Nathan’s favorite kind of lunchables, and his own favorite snack, SlimJims with Hawaiian Punch. Irritated, he pulled a tube of dried meat out of the crisper drawer and grabbed a small chilled bottle. He set the bottle on the countertop behind him and tore at the plastic wrapping with his teeth.
“Ya know,” he said, spitting a bit of the wrapper onto the dark-colored wood flooring, “you could've gotten usch schome whole foodsch. Organic schtuff.”
Offdensen raised an eyebrow, “Every time I've gotten you guys anything that couldn't be microwaved or eaten out of a can, you’ve all left it in the fridge to rot.”
“Scho? That means you should take away our opportunity to eat right? How are we schupposed to learn about healthy eating habisch?”
“Yeah!” Exclaimed Toki, who had suddenly burst into the kitchen, alongside Skwisgaar and Pickles, “How are we supposed to learns?”
Offdensen looked at the newcomers and touched his eyebrow lightly with his middle and ring finger in an expression of exasperation. Murderface had noticed that he seemed to tire more easily these days and felt uncomfortable with the gesture. If Offdensen could tire, it meant he was human, and if was human, he couldn’t always keep them safe.
Will thought of the hospital room, where a balding wimpy-looking doctor had told him and his grandmother about the severity of Thunderbolt’s stroke, how intense his caregiving needs would be, how badly his cognitive abilities had been affected, how it would be unlikely that he would ever return to the person he used to be. Will had been 15, barefaced and frightened. It was the first time he’d ever seen his grandmother cry.
He folded his arms around himself, looked away, and took another bite of his SlimJim.
“The staff kitchen is in the other wing, and is fully stocked with fresh meats, fruits, and vegetables. Should you ever want a healthy, homemade meal, all you have to do is place an order, just like at home.”
“Well,” said Toki, thinking, “the other wing is colds! And draftys!”
“Yeah!” said Murderface. “And it fucking schtinks!”
“I didn’t smell anythings,” said Skwisgaar, sounding confused. Murderface rolled his eyes, of course Skwisgaar didn’t smell anything, he had a horrible sense of smell, and often had to be told by Nathan or Charles to shower or change his clothing because he wasn’t aware of his own body odor.
“Well it doesch,” Murderface shot back, with some unintended venom. After the Metalocalypse, after their near death experience, after they’d become closer than they had in years, they all unconsciously tried to be kinder to each other. But the smell, it was awful, and it was putting him on edge.
Skwisgaar looked back at him with watery blue eyes, his face impassive, and Murderface felt absurdly guilty. “Schorry Skwisgaar.”
Skwisgaar raised his eyebrows imperiously and turned away, as distant and cold as a mountain top. Anger returned in Will again and he took a swig of Hawaiian Punch, Whatever, he thought, What the fuck ever. Fuck these guys.
Pickles spoke up suddenly, “Is dis place, uh, ya know, really haunted?” He looked around at the new, impeccable decorated kitchen, with its chrome appliances, wood floors, and trendy green cabinets. “It, uh, looks kinda,” he gave a helpless smile, at a loss for words, “kinda lame. Like da opposite of a haunted house.”
Toki opened a cabinet, closed it, and nodded, like a doctor diagnosing a wart, “No Pickle,” he said, “is haunted.”
Everyone ignored him, like they often did when Toki did something creepy or unexplainable, and looked to Offdensen to give him their answer.
He adjusted his glasses, “Ah, well Toki is right Pickles, this place is a confirmed site of a paranormal activity. Our researchers have formulated a device that scans for psychic energy. Most living things, like most mammals, reptiles, and fish, give off a faint wavelength of sentience. Human beings give off of significantly larger waves, and tend to have more wavelength variation.”
He turned slightly, to gesture to the back wall and door that led out into the expansive dining room, “And this house gives off significant HPE, or Human Psychic Energy, meaning it has retained the energy of the previous occupant. In simpler terms, it’s haunted.”
Murderface scrunched up his face, “And they’re dead? The people who usched to live here?”
Pickles rolled his eyes, “Duh, douchebag! How else could dey be ghosts if dey weren’t dead?”
Murderface felt his cheeks pinken, “He didn’t schay they were literal ghosschts! He schaid psychic energy!”
Charles made a cutting gesture with his hands through the air, “Yes, Murderface, they’re dead. They died in this house, by murder suicide.”
Will took a bite of his SlimJim, and chewed and swallowed without tasting. Pickles looked at him briefly, still-faced, and then looked away when they made eye contact.
“How’d they do it?” asked Nathan, who had appeared from the same door that the others had. Pickles jumped at the sudden sound, and Toki looked up sharply, but Skwisgaar just stared at the microwave on the counter next to him, his face intense and cramped.
“Well,” Charles said, adjusting the collar of his robes, “They were a couple, the ones who flipped this place and did the remodeling. The wife poisoned her husband’s food and then gave herself a lethal dose. She was found in the upstairs bathroom, he was found in here,” he gestured behind himself, to the small, coupled sized breakfast nook underneath the window.
Murderface eyed the gray sheet of formica behind Charles, and felt like it stared back at him. He looked away.
Nathan pursed his lips and nodded, a considerate expression on his face, “Brutal.”
Charles gave a perfunctory nod, “Yes. Quite. Anyways, the house has been completely staffed to better suit your needs. I’m going to be absent for the next week, the Church is holding a summit to discuss its financial future.” He eyed all of them then, the lower half of his face tense, “You guys will be fine until then?”
Nathan threw his head back and groaned, “Ugh, yes Mom , we’ll be fine. Are we allowed to answer the door by ourselves?”
Charles took the sneering comment in stride and nodded, “I’m glad to hear it. Relax, settle in, and see if the environment inspires you. This next album is greatly anticipated.”
“Oh my gawd!” Pickles proclaimed, scrubbing at his face with his hands, “It’s like, non-stop with you! We’ve just been through a fuckin’ apocalypse, you could show a little compassion.”
“Ja,” said Skwisgaar, nodding sagely, “it ams in-sensitives.”
“You all asked me to find you an environment that would inspire you, so you could write a new album for your fans. I’ve done so, but I have other duties to attend to.” He rearranged his robes, “Do you need anything else from me before I take my leave?”
They all grumbled and shook their heads, and Charles nodded, “Good day then.” He swept past Murderface in a flurry of robes and a puff of cologne, and then he was gone, out the same door that the others had entered from.
Pickles walked to the fridge and opened it, inclining his head to take a survey of its contents. He pulled out a hard iced tea and lifted the pull tab.
Toki began to open the cabinets and close them, one after the other, like he might find secret treasure if he kept looking. Skwisgaar popped open the microwave, brushed invisible crumbs off of the glass plate, and closed it again.
Murderface shoved the last bit of meat into his mouth, and chewed and swallowed it, wondering if it was some kind of strange, Scandinavian ritual they were doing.
Pickles leaned against the counter and took a swig of his iced tea, “Dood,” he said, addressing Nathan, “Where were you?”
Nathan quirked a big, black eyebrow at him, “Um, I was right in front of you guys, and then I turned around and you were gone.”
The drummer rolled his eyes and took another sip of iced tea, “Nuh-uh. We were coming down from da second level, and I looked behind me and you weren’t dere!”
“Pickles, I was. In. Front. Of. You. I looked behind me and you three were gone.”
Pickles furrowed his eyebrows together as his forehead grew red and angry, and Murderface wondered if he knew how much he resembled his mother when he did that. “No, Natin! You weren’t! There was no one in front of me, you were behind me!”
“I remember Nathans being in fronts of us,” Skwisgaar interjected suddenly, and looked at Toki to agree with him. Toki, who had been turning the sink on and off, looked over his shoulder at Skwisgaar’s gaze, and nodded.
“Yeps. Nathans was in fronts of us.”
They all looked at Murderface then, and he blinked as he felt a cold sense of disorientation settle into his chest. He didn’t remember going up onto the second level with them, he remembered following them up the walk, and then being in the kitchen with Offdensen. He cleared his throat, “Why are you dildosch looking at me? I wasn’t invited on your trip upstairs to pick out bedroomsch!”
Nathan rolled his eyes, disgusted, “C’mon Murderface, it was your idea to go upstairs!”
Pickles gave Nathan a confused look, “No it wasn’t. It was Toki’s idea.”
Toki looked between them and frowned, “No, I didn’t say nothings.”
Skwisgaar brushed his blonde hair over his shoulder and fixed Murderface with a cool look, “Murderface, how did you ends ups in here?”
Murderface felt the familiar sense of shame, fear, and invasion at the expression on Skwisgaar’s face. Salacia. It seemed like everything in these past couple months came down to him. He would always be between Will and the rest of the world.
The gears in Will’s brain churned as he tried to think of something snappy, or rude, or hateful to say, but he couldn’t think of anything. He cupped his elbows, and picked at a patch of eczema with a fingernail, “I honeschtly don’t remember.”
He kept his eyes down, knowing that they were looking at him and each other, deciding what to do about him, what they should say, wondering if he would ruin things again.
“Oh-kay!” Pickles broke in, clapping his hands. “I’m hungry. Let's order some dinner, huh? Natin, are you hungry?”
Nathan’s voice chimed in, “Yeah, I’m hungry. I want some, some chicken parmesan, like in a sandwich. With some fries maybe.”
“Ooh! And we could gets garlic breads!”
They all began to shuffle out of the room, talking amongst themselves about where they would order food from, and in what quantities and in what combinations, but Will stood where he was, staring at the hardwood floor between his boots.
The smell was stronger now that he was alone in the room. The gray formica table stared at his back with loathing. He turned around to stare back at it. The rancid air punched him in the nose, hitting him sharply in the sinuses, and resting sour and metallic on his tongue. He approached the table and rested his fingertips on the surface, It’s nothing, he told himself, he wasn’t here, neither of them were, it has nothing to do with you and you don’t have to be scared.
The air grew heavy and cold around him, and pressed in on the boundary of his skin. The table was cool too, and growing colder by the second, like it was in a fridge, or something else, and the cold was traveling up his fingers into-
“Hey. Murderface.”
He jumped out of his skin and his head turned on a swivel to look at Pickles, who had reappeared from the side door of the kitchen. He tried to hide his fear with irritation, but failed, “What?”
Pickles’ green eyes flicked from his hand on the tabletop and then up to his face. He broke out in a measured smile, “Cah-man, we’re gonna order Italian and watch Dateline,” his eyes flickered down, to Will’s elbow, “and stahp doin’ dat. It’s gross.”
Will looked down at his elbow, and saw that he had torn his eczema patch open with his fidgeting. Blood ran off of the point of his elbow and dripped onto the floor. He blinked, “Oh yeah. Okay. Let’sch watch some Dateline.”
Pickles gave him a more convincing smile, one with some teeth, and clapped Murderface on the shoulder, “Dere you go!” The drummer’s small, strong hand pressed on Will’s back, more steering than supporting him, and ushered him out the swinging door.
Will looked over his shoulder, at the congealing pool of blood on the floor.