Chapter Text
Gansey’s not quite sure what he expected from 300 Fox Way.
He really tries to keep an open mind when it comes to the supernatural, and also in general; he read somewhere once that an open mind is the first and most important tool to one’s fulfilling exploration into the arcane. But, he also knows how important it is to do the reading before heading out into the unknown. Otherwise, you could miss something important, its significance invisible to untrained eyes. Sometimes, this means reviewing Roger Mallory’s field guide, practically the ley lines bible. Other times, this means watching the relevant episode of Paranormal Investigators. For Fox Way, Gansey didn’t have too much in ways of preparation; there was the old classified section from the Henrietta Gazette advertising psychic readings, another clipping about Fox Way’s closure, and the thread on the neighborhood forum about strange power surges. He had actually been searching for local psychics, which had brought him to learn about Fox Way, which had brought him to notice the building was located directly over the ley line. And then there was its mysterious closure, of course.
This is all to say, then, that standing before the overgrown drive of 300 Fox Way, Gansey already has some sneaking suspicions and budding theories about this place, but less than he typically would.
He checks the time; it’s always good to keep an eye on the progression of time when it comes to the supernatural, and also in general. It’s 6:21. This time of year, there’s still some time until sunset, but the sun floats low in the sky, like it’s just waiting for the moment it can retire for the evening.
It’s too bad Ronan wasn’t interested in joining. Gansey really does prefer company in these sorts of situations. He is certain he mentioned the plan to visit Fox Way to Ronan quite a while ago, but he can’t quite remember the reason for Ronan’s absence tonight. Gansey knows he had discussed it with Noah, but, predictably, his friend had grown pale at the suggestion. So, he steels himself to enter a haunted house alone.
First, he snaps a few pictures of the exterior and takes a few notes. Under the canopy of a large gnarled tree sits a faded painted sign for the psychic business. Beyond the building, Gansey can spot a wooded backyard, a tire swing hanging off the sloping limb of a beech tree. The striations on the tree’s smooth bark look like a dozen hooded eyes in the weak sunlight. Gansey decides he’ll check out that area later. The gravel drive leads into a mossy cobblestone path. There’s a stepping stone with a child’s handprint sunken into it. He takes a picture of that, too.
Finally, he’s at the front door. For some reason, Gansey feels the urge to ring the doorbell. Would it be more wrong to announce his presence or enter uninvited? He decides against it; he’s watched enough horror movies to know that’s a bad idea. Instead, he takes out his semi-recently purchased lockpicking kit (sometimes supernatural adventures also require explorations into dubious legality) and fiddles with the lock for a few minutes.
The door swings open. It’s dark inside. Why did Gansey expect differently?
It’s fine. He switches on his flashlight and sweeps it across the entryway. Dust motes kicked up by the door’s motion float through its beam.
“First impressions,” Gansey writes in his notebook, dictating to himself aloud. On one hand, it’s surprisingly untouched by Aglionby vandals. There’s no graffiti or anything, and the windows seem intact. “A matter of simple disinterest, or repelled by some supernatural ambience?” he asks himself. On the other hand, someone or something has certainly been here before him. A shelf has been upended onto the floor. The flashlight reveals its contents once included a book whose cover was simply The Tower tarot card, a thick volume of “The Joy of Pasta” with handwritten recipes spilling out between the pages, and secondhand physics textbook. The lightbulbs have all been blown out, and Gansey’s careful to avoid broken glass haphazardly scattered on the ground. As he ventures into the kitchen, he finds all of the drawers and cupboards pulled open, with pots and pans strewn about and a few ceramic fragments. Most eerily, there’s one chair slightly askew at the table with a clean place setting, as if awaiting a diner. An animal or vandal didn’t do that. Was it simply left that way, from before?
He was initially eager to focus on the business side of the building, rather than its role as the psychics’ house, but now he’s not so certain. For one, there’s something drawing him to its everyday, human aspects. People once lived out their entire existence here, going about their days in this place, never once imagining it would one day be empty. In all of Gansey’s explorations, this is the first home he’s entered for the purpose of an investigation. But there’s something else, too. He’s not sure he’s ready.
Soon, though, he has walked through every other room on the first floor and detailed them in his notebook, talking aloud to himself all the way to break up the silence. There’s just the reading room left now. He takes a breath, standing outside its closed door. There’s a thing he does at every place he explores, and he tries it now. Gansey closes his eyes and imagines this space a thousand years ago. There’s no house, no reading room, just forest. A cluster of many-eyed beech trees, like the one he had seen outside earlier. A few deer pad through the underbrush. A hundred years ago. A house sits on the plot now, but there’s no sign out front yet and it lacks the more modern-looking expansion. Then, he imagines the house in the present. The faded peeling wallpaper, the dusty corridors, the door before him now. He takes another breath. He feels more ready now, prepared to enter this space where women once saw the past, present, and future.
Gansey opens his eyes.
He reaches for the door handle. As he begins to turn it, something grabs his shoulder. He feels his heart clench as he makes himself turn around.
It’s a girl. A very pissed off girl. Before Gansey can process that he’s not facing an evil spirit or terrible creature, she’s already speaking. “-- and like I said, we don’t take walk-ins. You need an appointment. Do you have an appointment? No, I don’t think you do because then someone would’ve greeted you at the door, and you wouldn’t be wandering around my house like you’re on a tour of working class America, narrating just how old and messy you think it looks. This is exactly why we strictly have a no walk-in policy. So, do you have an appointment? Or are you going to leave my ‘terribly unkempt’ house?”
“Um.” Gansey says. He’s definitely still in the processing phase. “No?”
“And, if you don’t mind, that was a no to which of my questions exactly?” She’s glaring at him in a way that makes Gansey wish he had encountered that evil spirit.
“I’m sorry,” he starts. That’s always a good place to begin when you’ve possibly invaded someone’s potentially not-uninhabited home and have been making some questionable comments about the state of its cleanliness. “I didn’t realize anyone still lived here.”
The girl throws up her hands in exasperation. “Now what’s that supposed to mean!? You think you can just mosey on into a house just ‘cuz it’s not up to your standards? Are you telling me you didn’t see the sign outside? Pretty clear we’re in operation.”
Gansey supposes he did see the sign outside. Still, there’s no way anyone could be living here, right? He could swear it was completely silent, that he had been utterly alone until now. How could he miss this?
At a time like this, he can only fall back on a well-worn Gansey-ism, one that he once echoed tailing his parents into ornate McMansions. “You have a lovely home?”
The girl snorts. “Right. What’s your name, then? So I can make sure Calla looks out for you next time and won’t let you cross our street.”
“Gansey.”
“Hm,” she pauses. “That’s all there is?” The turn of phrase itches something in the back of his brain. A line from something he read recently, maybe?
“Yes, just Gansey.”
“Huh. Well that does sound a bit familiar. Maybe you did have an appointment. You’re not one of Orla’s clients, now are you?”
Scrutiny had slipped into her voice, and Gansey is trying to avoid angering her more, so he answers, “No, I’m not …one of Orla’s.” He thinks for a second. How can he explain his presence in the house? He decides on some honesty. “And I’m sorry for intruding, I really am. I truly meant no harm, it was an accident. You see, I’m doing a project on ley lines and supernatural occurrences in the area. I’ve been tracing the local line, and I thought it couldn’t just be a coincidence there’s a psychic right on the line. I wanted to talk to some of the women who worked here about it, see if they wouldn’t mind sharing what they know about ley lines and their business. The door was wide open when I got here, so I thought I might need to come inside first to speak to a, uh, receptionist, or someone first.”
The girl considers this a second and shrugs. “Well, okay.” She walks a few feet from where they’re standing, to the foot of a stairway. Gansey follows behind her. The beam of his flashlight illuminates only the first few steps, before they lead into inky darkness.
“Mom!” she calls up the stairs. “Persephone!” Gansey doesn’t know who she expects to reply; there’s certainly no one up there. It’s utterly silent. Still, he watches for movement above them. As Gansey stares into nothing, his eyes unfocus and the darkness seems to lift–
“Huh.” The girl’s voice jolts him back to his present reality. It’s pitch black up the stairs. It always has been. “I guess they’re not around. Maybe another time. Mom’s really busy, you might need to actually make an appointment, for real this time.”
“Alright. I’ll do that. But you must know lots about this place, right?”
“ ‘Course. Lived here all my life,” she says with clear pride.
“Do you think you could tell me a bit about it? Even if you don’t know much about the ley lines, that’s okay. I really am interested in learning about 300 Fox Way and how the psychic practice works.”
“Hm. You seem to already have plenty of thoughts about the house, don’t need me telling you more…”
Gansey sighs. “I said sorry! And I am. Sorry, that is.”
She laughs. “Got it. Well, I can’t tell you much about being psychic. You happened to meet the only person here who isn’t psychic.”
Actually, that’s even more interesting to Gansey, but he doesn’t say it. He’s thinking of something else, now that they’re back near the front door. “That’s fine! I actually had a question about something I saw outside, I was thinking we could start there—”
Something in the girl’s face shifts. It’s just a split second, but there’s a different set to her eyes. “I can’t leave the house now. I promised Jimi I would help with laundry. I have to go.” Gansey doesn’t see any evidence someone called Jimi lives in 300 Fox Way or ever would.
But as soon as she finishes speaking, she’s already turning around, like a switch was flipped.
“Wait,” Gansey says. “What’s your name? So I can say we met, when I make my appointment.”
She turns her head over her shoulder, not fully turning to face him. “Blue. Blue Sargent.” Blue takes a step deeper into the house, and then he can’t see her anymore, as she’s swallowed by the dark hallways.
Gansey finds himself back on the other side of the front door. He’s a bit dazed. As he walks down the path, away from the house, Gansey tries to recall, piece by piece, what just occurred.
By the time he’s back at the end of the drive, Gansey can’t believe that for a few minutes, it had seemed feasible that he had rudely intruded on an occupied home. From a distance, 300 Fox Way looks just as desolate as when he had arrived. No one lived there, of course they didn’t. It had been completely dark and quiet there the whole time. Of course it was abandoned. Why had he suddenly doubted what he could see all around him when Blue appeared?
The girl had been impossibly real. But when he tries to conjure an image of her in his mind, he can’t. What did her voice sound like? She had a Henrietta accent, right? What was she wearing? The color of her hair? Gansey remembers every word of their conversation, but the person with whom he spoke is totally absent from his memory. It’s like he had spoken with a – oh.
Gansey checks the time again. It’s only been around half an hour. It had felt longer than that, but it’s not actually all that unbelievable. The sun still lingers just over the horizon, hanging onto the last minutes of the early spring day.
Things are not as they seem at 300 Fox Way, Gansey knows that now. And he knows he’ll be back.