Saoirse (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
selkiesaoirse) wrote2025-03-16 07:21 am
selkiesaoirse) wrote2025-03-16 07:21 am
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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! ]
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! ]
no subject
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.
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"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."
no subject
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."
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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.
no subject
"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?