selkiesaoirse | (no subject)

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! plot: silent darrow

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Mrs. Finch's house is a cozy enough looking house surrounded by forest not so very far from the cottage. Saoirse has run into her more times than she can count on morning walks to the bus stop, or out with Cú on a weekend. For as long as Saoirse can remember, Mrs. Finch has lived alone and never gotten Saoirse's name right.

So when she started talking about some Teddy or other in the attic that day, it'd been a surprise, but Saoirse had been too wrapped up in being aghast at being voluntold for cleaning the attic out that she hadn't really considered what that meant, who Teddy could be, or why he was in the attic instead of the rest of the house.

If she's honest, she hadn't realized Mrs. Finch's house had an attic.

She walks up to Mrs. Finch's house with a duffle bag of PPE, like John had suggested, and she brings an itemized receipt, too. Her plan is to show Mrs. Finch how much she'd paid for the equipment — out of her own pocket, mind — and request reimbursement, then tell her how much she expects to be paid in labor besides, and then see if Mrs. Finch has changed her mind about the whole thing. If she has done, then Saoirse can use the receipt to return all of her PPE and she'll be none the poorer for it.

But when she gets to Mrs. Finch's front stoop and knocks, the door swings open at the first rap of her knuckles. She hesitates and looks warily around before clearing her throat.

“Mrs. Finch? It's Saoirse! I've come to talk about the squirrels and all?”

She hikes her duffle higher on her shoulder and bites her lip. There's no answer. In a nearby tree, Muppet hoos softly. It does nothing to calm her.

“Mrs. Finch?” Saoirse calls again. She steps closer and places the toe of her sneaker just over the threshold.

A shape darts across the doorway and Saoirse shrieks, jerking back, but it's just a fat raccoon. Thank goodness.

Wait…

What's a raccoon doing in the house?

“Janey Mackerel,” she gasps. “Are you Teddy? Hello?”

The raccoon chitters and moves deeper into the house. Overhead, Muppet screeches, feathers ruffling, and Saoirse glances back at him before stepping further inside. Maybe she's mental for doing this, but it doesn't seem like Mrs. Finch to leave the door open.

“Mrs. Finch? Teddy?”

There's still no answer, and Saoirse feels her stomach drop like she's in an elevator. Okay. It's okay. Mrs. Finch is old, right? Probably she's hard of hearing. The raccoon has left a bit of poo on the runner that leads, presumably, deeper into the house, and Saoirse sidesteps it with a wrinkle in her nose.

“Mrs. Finch? Your house is dark and creepy, do you wanna talk about it?” Right, because insulting the woman is a good way to start when she's not even sure if she's home — or alive.

The thing is, Mrs. Finch's house is dark and creepy. For all that the outside looks like something out of a cozy storybook, inside, the windows are draped in heavy curtains and the lights are off. The mess from the raccoon has created a musky sort of stink right in the entryway, and the utter quiet deeper into the dark has given Saoirse the impression that she's stepped into a horror movie. The only light now is from the still-open front door. Saoirse can see dust motes fluttering through the air around her own silhouette. It should be charming in its way, but it just adds to the ominous atmosphere.

Saoirse walks by a dark and quiet room on the left and follows the runner further, until her sneakers touch linoleum on her way through a shadowed doorway. She brushes a hand along the wall just inside, finds a switch, and flicks it on.

Mrs. Finch is sitting at the kitchen table, chin to chest and unmoving. The yellowed overhead light casts her face in ghastly shadows, her cheekbones bright like an overexposed photo, and Saoirse gasps sharply.

“Mrs. Finch!” she shrieks.

Mrs. Finch's entire body jolts and she snorts loudly as she lifts her head.

“Oh, Selma!” she chirps, reaching up to wipe a strand of drool from her jowl. “Is it that time already?”

Saoirse's heart is rabbit-quick in her chest and she's frozen with her hand still on the switch.

“Were you just… sleeping?” she asks.

“Oh, I must have dozed off,” she admits. “Did I give you a fright, Dear? I've got some vim and vigor in these old bones yet, don't you worry.”

“Right,” Saoirse gasps, and barks out a slightly hysterical laugh. “Vim and vigor, sure. Erm, Mrs. Finch, I've, I've come to talk about the squi—”

“Oh! Teddy will be delighted to see you, Dear! Come along with me, I'll show you the way.”

“No, but Mrs. Finch,” Saoirse tries, but Mrs. Finch steamrolls her, as always, talking about the bloody squirrels and Teddy and, not even mentioning the racoon in her foyer.

“Now, you work on these squirrels,” she directs, “I'm going to toddle on down to the shelter and see if I can't get a safety trap for the raccoon Teddy let in.”

Saoirse sputters at her, but Mrs. Finch whisks her way down the hallway and back to the front door, and she's gone before Saoirse can say another word about it.

“What?” she says to nobody. Then she sighs and pulls out her phone so she can send out a text.

Guess we're squirrel hunting, the message reads. Could use your help after all, if you're still willing?

[ Mrs. Finch strikes again! This is backdated to March 16th, the Sunday after her EP about it. There are, in fact, squirrels bothering ‘Teddy’... but who the heck is Teddy? It's time to find out! (Or I can tell you, I guess XD) Be the person Saoirse texted, or have already come along with her and experienced the whirlwind of Mrs. Finch XD open for as long as it needs to be! ]

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As soon as Elora sees Saoirse's text — well-timed, as she dusts her hands on her apron, her face and hair dusted with flour, a batch of muffins ready for the oven but not actually put into it yet — she scowls at the screen of her phone. She'd sincerely hoped that that old lady who couldn't even call Saoirse the right name would have forgotten about her request for squirrel removal. No such luck, apparently. Quickly, she fires off a string of angry and nonsensical emojis in response. Before she can get a reply to that, she adds, At her, not you. I'll be right there. Like hell is she going to let Saoirse deal wit this alone. Maybe she'll even have a chance to offer a few choice words to Mrs. Entitled.

After asking for the location and setting off, Elora is fueled mostly by indignation on Saoirse's behalf. That dissipates quickly when she approaches the open door and gets a look into the living room. Dark as it is, it's clearly not right, or safe.

"Okay, so this is even more messed up than I thought," she says to Saoirse in lieu of a greeting. "Are you sure you don't want to just call animal control?" Her nose wrinkles at the sight, and smell, of some sort of animal dropping. There's probably someone else to call, too. Mrs. Whatshername doesn't seem like she's equipped to be living on her own.

"D'you think they'd manage squirrels?" Saoirse asks. It's a genuine question, because she sure doesn't know. "I figured they only did stray pets and large animals. That's what the movies look like, anyway." She shrugs and shoulders her duffle down to the floor.

"Probably it won't be so bad, right?" she adds as she pulls out two pairs of vinyl gloves and hands one to Elora. "Maybe they scare off, and this 'Teddy' thanks us and sends us on our way."

"They might? I have no idea," Elora admits. "They didn't have that where I'm from." They didn't have phones, either. Those little boxes really are the most remarkable inventions, one of her favorite things about this place, and there are many. Regardless, she knows Saoirse is right. It can't be too difficult. For her, it's the principle of the thing — some batty old lady enlisting a child to do work for her when she can't be bothered to remember the girl's name.

She pulls the gloves on and sighs. No way is she leaving Saoirse to deal with this alone, all the more so because something really seems wrong here.

"So we don't know who Teddy is?"

"Not the faintest," Saoirse confirms. "Mrs. Finch's never talked about him before the other day." She pulls out a pair of construction grade dust masks and hands one of those to Elora too. Her voice gets just a little muffled as she pulls her one on. "Just in case there's bats," she explains. "You can get sick breathing in their poo." She wrinkles her nose under the mask. This is such a bad idea... but it feels too late to turn back, now. Besides, there's a stubborn part of her that wants to see it through — and a curious part of her that wants to know who the bollocks 'Teddy' is.

Wrinkling her nose in displeasure, Elora gratefully takes the mask Saoirse offers her. They never would have thought of such things back home, and she's pretty sure it might have saved a lot of trouble if they had. That's beside the point right now, when she just wants to help Saoirse get this over with and then maybe figure out what they can do about Mrs. Finch, who definitely should not be living alone in this condition. Surely there has to be someone who could step in and care for her. Someone other than Teddy — Elora wouldn't be able to pinpoint it, but she has a bad feeling there.

"Thanks," she says, pulling the mask on over her mouth and nose. "All right. I guess we are doing this."

"Right," Saoirse agrees. She finishes gearing up and then points into the house. "It looks like the attic is through one of those little hatches in the ceiling," she says. "Not a regular stairway. I guess that'd be too easy." Maybe that's mean, but Saoirse's starting to feel a little nervous now that they're actually doing this.

"Of course it is," Elora says with a sigh. Evidently this all has to be as complicated and as creepy as possible. Even with the gloves on, she draws her wand as she follows Saoirse further into the house. Under the circumstances, it just seems better to be prepared for anything. If nothing else, it'll help them get up into the attic. A small hook protrudes from the hatch, and there was probably once some tool with which to grab and lower it, but the odds of finding anything useful here seem slim to none.

With her magic, she draws the hatch down, a folding ladder emerging from underneath it. Stepping forward, she grabs the ladder to extend it, then pauses. "Should I go first, or do you want to?"

"I'll go first," she decides after a moment to think about it. "This was my whole thing anyway, right? You don't even know Mrs. Finch, so..." She takes a bracing breath and grabs the edge of the ladder and braces a foot on the very bottom step.

Slowly, she climbs up into it. The attic is dark and creepy, creepier than the house, and cold. With the hatch down, she could hear the whirring of some sort of fan; with how cold it is, she wonders if there's an aircon unit up here, but she can't see well enough to say.

The only source of light is through a small round window, the sun beaming in like a magnifying glass, and Saoirse can see dust motes swirling through it and that's about it.

"Teddy...?" she calls, most of her body still on the ladder, only her head and shoulders through the opening.

Watching Saoirse ascend the ladder, Elora sort of wishes that she had insisted on going first instead. It isn't that she thinks Mrs. Finch would be trying to lure Saoirse into a trap or anything like that; she has no kind thoughts about the woman, but she frankly doesn't seem capable of that sort of manipulation. This whole situation gives her bad vibes, though, and she's older and bigger than Saoirse. It should probably be her job to clear the way first.

It's too late to do anything about that now, though, so she stands at the foot of the ladder, peering up as if she'll be able to get any sort of view, which, of course, she isn't. "Do you see anything?" she asks, shifting her weight uncertainly. "Any squirrels? Maybe they're already gone."

"It's really hard to see," she admits. With her big, anti-bad-guano gloves on, it's hard for her to grab her phone. She should've brought a flashlight. She hadn't thought she'd need one with her phone in such easy reach at all times, but now...

"Elora, d'you have a light handy?" she asks. She looks down the ladder at her, just missing the shape that stalks across the beam of sunlight, momentarily interrupting it.

"Yeah, one second," Elora says, gloved hands fumbling to take out her wand. It'll be easier for her to use under the circumstances than her phone would be, and while she's not exactly prone to handing it off to others, she trusts Saoirse to handle it for the moment. With a murmured word, the tip of the wand illuminates, and she climbs a couple rungs of the ladder to pass it up to Saoirse.

"Here. Hopefully this is light enough."

Saoirse takes the lit wand and lifts it. She really needs to learn how to summon the soilse without singing. Sure, she could start singing a song or two under her breath, but it'd just be loads easier if she could think them into the air. She's glad Elora's here with much more useful magic. Lifting the wand, she takes another step up the ladder, and the light fills the space. Shadows stretch and grow behind beams and boxes, and the light flashes off a the glossy plastic of a—

"There's an aircon up here," she calls down, then notices another, and another, single portable units all feeding to a duct-taped vent like some sort of industrial root system. "Loads of them. I bet it's sucking all the power out of the house."

The hair on the back of her neck prickles, and she frowns. "Teddy?" she calls, trying to spin a little to look behind her to the rest of the attic. "Elora, I don't see any squirrels," she adds.

This really doesn't feel right. It hasn't from the start, but that feeling has only grown since she stepped foot in the house. While there probably is, Elora figures, an extent to which someone elderly and forgetful can't be expected to take perfectly good care of their home, this seems like a step beyond that, unsettling and wrong. She just can't put her finger on why, nor can she rule out the possibility that it's just her residual frustration on Saoirse's part that she got roped into doing this in the first place when she really shouldn't have.

Right now, though, she doesn't feel frustrated. She just feels worried, holding her breath behind the mask Saoirse provided for her.

"Why would there be..." she says to herself. One air conditioner would be fine, although she still wouldn't really understand why it would be in the attic of all places. Loads, though? Yeah, something is going on here, and she feels unfortunately obligated to figure out what it is.

"Hey, I'm coming up," she tells Saoirse, starting up the ladder. Whatever this is, she needs to see it for herself.

Martin had really meant to get Saoirse out of this, but instead he seems to have gotten himself into it. He hadn't been properly prepared for Mrs. Finch, and really, thinking he could handle a pushy old woman not quite in full possession of her wits was probably a little too optimistic. Experience would only be an edge if it had been the right kind of experience.

But he's here now, having wearily promised John he'll do his best to make sure Saoirse's followed all his suggestions. Sounds as if she'd been in better hands with him, ironically. At least John thinks this is all hilarious. And at least, he tells himself, there will be an adult here. Not that he feels very adult now, as Mrs. Finch abandons them to her frankly terrifying little house.

"I really thought she was..." he admits after a moment, and laughs weakly. "Christ. So she can manage a shelter for a raccoon, but not..." Well, maybe the shelter will just send someone who can handle the whole bloody thing. He feels, a bit spitefully, like maybe they should just leave, but curiosity tugs at him, as well as a vague feeling that he should actually help Saoirse see this through.

"Well," he sighs, looking back over the dark house. "Maybe we should find some lights first."

"You know what that makes me think?" Saoirse says as she tugs out her phone to use its flashlight. It's dim enough further back here, with the only light coming from the kitchen and the front door, that she needs it. "That makes me think she's not supposed to have 'Teddy.' D'you know it's illegal for people to take in animals like raccoons and opossums and such? They need a special license. I'll bet you my entire month's Darrallowance, Mrs. Finch hasn't got one." She gives Martin a look as if to add 'I'm right and we both know it' and then she turns to fan her phone's light across the walls, looking for a switch.

Martin listens a bit bemusedly to Saoirse's reasoning, giving her a dutiful nod in response, though he can't help adding, "I thought Teddy wasn't the raccoon? I mean, she said he let the raccoon in." He can hardly keep track of Mrs Finch's bizarre menagerie. He shrugs a moment later. "Of course, I'm not sure she even really knows what she's talking about, but..."

He trails off as he spots the light switch, reaches out and flips it a few times. Nothing happens.

"Are you bloody serious," he mutters. He is, if possible, even less knowledgeable about electricity than he is about squirrels, but the light being on in the kitchen means this isn't a house-wide problem, at least. Not that that's much of a comfort. This is either a burnt out bulb or some sort of... breaker issue? Either way, it seems like a poor omen, and he considers, again, suggesting they just leave.

"Well," he sighs, and pulls out his own phone, adding another flashlight to the mix. "Let's, erm."

He's not sure what he was going to say, but it doesn't matter, because he's quite certain he just heard something from upstairs. He looks up, a bit embarrassed by how fast his heart in his throat about it. It was too quick, half-drowned out by his own voice, to really know if it was a sound like squirrels, or something else. "Did you hear that," he intones softly.

Saoirse tucks her lips between her teeth when the light switch fails to turn on any bloody lights. She's about to suggest finding the breaker box, if only to make their lives easier, but then there's that sound, and she looks up at the attic hatch.

"Probably it was the squirrels," she decides. "Probably Teddy doesn't even exist, right? And she's just got squirrels in her attic, and, and maybe a dead body or two, who can say?" Her imagination is starting to get the better of her, but why else would Mrs. Finch refuse to call animal control but be more than willing to get a Bee-a-deer trap for a bloody raccoon?

"Hah," he laughs weakly. Saoirse's probably right — though, Christ, not about the dead bodies — and honestly, he hopes Teddy doesn't actually exist. Even if 'Teddy' was just a... what, an ordinary shut-in of some kind? Even then, Martin doesn't think he could handle the surprise.

And the noise didn't quite sound like footsteps. It was probably squirrels. It was surely squirrels. And no dead bodies.

All right, he ought to stop being such a bloody coward. He came here to make sure Saoirse would be all right. Mrs Finch is obviously harmless, but neither of them are really qualified to handle squirrels, and if they're going to check on things, it should be him, not the admittedly pluckier teenager.

"Well," he sighs. "I suppose we should at least have a look."

Getting the attic open is a bit awkward, and when it finally unfolds into a creaky set of stairs, Martin feels even less eager about going up there. Can those stairs even hold his weight? He hesitates, feeling like a complete arse about it.

"I'll go first," Saoirse offers, but she drops her duffel and roots through it for the PPE that John encouraged she buy. She doesn't expect it to be entirely necessary, but at this point she'd rather be safe than be accidentally infected with rabies from bat guano. She'd just read about that in science class a couple of weeks ago and no, thank you. She pulls out two packages of construction-grade masks and offers one to Martin before ripping into hers so she can pull it on.

"I bought two of everything, so we'd both be safe," she explains. "We should put it all on before we go up, right? I'm definitely not just saying that because I'm stalling."

All right, this is ridiculous. Saoirse babbles as she edges in front of him, very obviously stalling to the point of outright admitting it, and Martin has to reach out to stop her with a gentle touch to the arm.

"I'll go first," he corrects her. He's the bloody adult, after all. He reaches out to take his mask with a murmur of thanks, and once he's got that affixed he starts up the steps, holding his phone out awkwardly and gripping the rail in his free hand, his knuckles going white.

It's a short ascent, but it feels endless, especially with the steps wobbling every time he moves. When he finally pushes into the attic, it's almost a relief. The weak light of his phone flickers against shadows, creating the illusion of movement everywhere. He tries to tell himself it's fine.

He stands there in the musty space, holding his breath, listening. He feels like there's something else in there with him, but that's crazy, right? Or it's squirrels.

"I think it's—" he starts, then stops abruptly, certain he heard an ominous creak just a little ways away. He shines his phone light forward, his breathing starting to quicken, but still there's nothing.

Confused, but always willing, Aggie sends while she's still buckling her seat belt. She means it too, always happy to help Saoirse, but especially when it comes to this. Something about Mrs. Finch's place felt off last time she tried to assist. She can't place what kind of off, but she knows it's not something she wants her friend to explore alone.

Luckily, the house isn't far and she pulls up ten minutes after she's sent her text. "Okay, I'm here!" she calls, hoping her voice will carry to wherever Saoirse is.

"Watch out for the poo!" Saoirse calls from deeper in the house. She's standing at the attic hatch, looking up at it with the long hook-pole in one hand like an old wizard's staff. She has gloves on, and a mask hanging loose around her neck, as she waits for Aggie. She isn't totally sure she's ready to go up there yet, but Aggie being here makes her feel a little better about it, anyway.

"Take the first right down the hall!" she adds.

"Gotcha," Aggie calls back. The closer she gets to Saoirse and the attic, however, the more concerned she feels about everything other than droppings. Precognition isn't among her abilities but she doesn't think witchcraft is necessary for the way the hairs are rising on the back of her neck.

By the time she's under the attic hatch, her hackles are fully raised. "I'm here!" she says again.

"Hey," she greets. Saoirse straightens up a little and looks up at the hatch above their heads. "I don't suppose you have any sort of witchy, ghosty sense that tells you how many squirrels are up there?" she asks. Probably Daine would have been able to just tell the squirrels from down here to shove off, or at least leave Teddy alone. But nobody since she's left has come close to her magics with animals.

"Just to give us an idea," she adds.

"Not...to my knowledge," Aggie admits. "I can sense energy but I've never tried to actually pinpoint it, except..." Except that something feels so off that she's not sure she could focus that minutely.

"Do you think green flame illusions would scare them into one place?"

"Erm, maybe?" she says, not entirely sure. "I suppose squirrels are afraid of fire, aren't they? Can they tell green from yellow?" She has no idea the color spectrum of squirrels' visual acuity, but it seems worth it to ask just in case Aggie knows.

Aggie can only shrug but she reaches out with her power anyway, creating the appearance of flames that lick around the baseboards of the attic. She tries to infuse them with a more natural color, but the faint green of her own power still shines through.

"Here's hoping."

The sound that answers Aggie's flames is not the sound that a squirrel makes. It's not even the sound a lot of squirrels make. It's a shriek-y sort of snarly sound, and Saoirse's attention snap from Aggie back up to the hatch, eyes going huge.

"What was that," she asks, voice dipping instinctively into a hiss.

Aggie freezes, all too aware of the way goosebumps start rocketing up her skin. The sound is primal and vicious and, worst of all, familiar. What she ought to do is get the hell away from here but she's not leaving Saoirse behind, so Aggie plants her feet and summons up a handful of power that illuminates her fist with a green glow.

"Nothing good. Stay close to me."

Saoirse nods and shuffles closer to her, eyes still up on the hatch. The smart thing would be for them both to leave and call someone much better suited to this sort of thing: Sweeney, maybe, or even John and Martin. But Saoirse is suddenly worried about old Mrs. Finch and what she's been letting up into her attic. She lifts the hook, hovering it near the latch of the hatch.

"Should we open it?" she asks, her voice a whisper.

"We probably shouldn't," Aggie admits. "But I want to get a look at it." The sound it made was wrong, down to the bone, but she also can't imagine just turning around and leaving. Whatever it is could hurt someone or be the harbinger of something worse.

Saoirse nods, swallowing hard. She wants to, too. Whatever this thing is, if it's been living in Mrs. Finch's attic, then Mrs. Finch is probably in real danger. Even if Saoirse isn't much of a fighter, doesn't have the sort of defensive, powerful magic she's known others to have, she can still help, she's certain, and she wants to. Aggie can, too.

She lifts the hook and catches the latch in the hatch door, then tugs, pulling it down so the ladder can slide out.

There's a second where Aggie thinks the ladder has slipped its bearings and hit her, because one moment she's standing there and, the next, she's on her back and unable to quite draw breath. There's a tangle of limbs but no body, save for a strange, flower-like growth that snaps open and closed like jaws. It reeks and she can catch the shine of teeth.

Seconds feel like hours before she can draw in a single, creaking breath, but it's enough to snap time back into its normal tempo.

"Fuck!" Her hands flail as she tries to find its closest equivalent to a neck and shoulders, grabbing for purchase to push it away.

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