Archive of Our Own

“I’m seriously starting to get worried.”

Marcy is spinning around in her office chair, frantically checking her phone. It’s 9:47, approximately 2 minutes since she last looked. You could describe Marcy as punctual, but it’s more of an excitement rather than her being professional. She’s still a host though, and damn it, she wants to be taken seriously once and awhile.

“Did she text or email you anything?” Anne asks from across the room, restlessly fiddling with a camera and tripod stand.  It was working perfectly fine, both of them had checked it over and over again already, but with nothing left to do but nervously wait, Marcy doesn’t really blame her.

“Nada. I’d just wish she would have said something by now, we have to head off to Portland by tonight.” Marcy sighs, and droops her head on the table with a smack. 

She’d been researching new places to check out when she saw someone comment about a site they haven’t seen anyone visit yet. Andrias Mansion, they called it, and it was open to certain spectators. She’d probably be able to woo her way in with the cameras. Intrigued, she dug deeper and researched the place herself. It had all the good stuff. Betrayal, apparitions appearing and vanishing from thin air, creaking hallways and too many rooms to count. Even murder. That was a selling point. These stories never got old to her.

A phone rings and it snaps Marcy’s head up so fast she almost suffers from whiplash. It’s Anne’s, disappointedly enough, and she receives a pitiful smile and a waved hand as she exits the room to take the call. Her head drops back down, all of her hope flying out of it when it hits the desk. This hadn’t happened for quite some time, Maggie was-- workable with, and fans liked her well enough. She added curious commentary from here and there. Unreliable. But that was really all there was to her. Marcy wasn’t trying to take her for granted, but maybe she should’ve been more cooperative, or put in more of an effort in order for it to rub off on her, so they had the opportunity to record one final episode and a proper send-off. She drags a palm across her face. I love my job, but sometimes, it’s really stressful.

The office that surrounds her was built off of years of hard work. To score the show in general took a lot of convincing and more ass-kissing then she’d like to admit. A bit embarrassing, but worth it in the end. Shelves are stacked with souvenirs and props collected from trips taken across the globe. It feels a little bit like a second home to her, despite being filled with miscellaneous objects that had no true correlation besides the fact that they were Marcy’s. A piece of her heart carved and sculpted into a room. It’s eminent proof of how far she’s come. She supposes Maggie didn’t have the same devotion.

By the time Anne comes back, her face has seemed to have been wincing for quite awhile. It makes Marcy’s mood even worse than it was before, against all of her hype for the trip.

“Okay, Anna-Banana, what’s the news?” Marcy tiredly urges her, hands whisking the air.

“Good or bad first?”

The small evidence of good news shines a little bit of light. “Bad. Duh!”

“Maggie ditched us. For good. You probably could tell that already, though.” Anne replies, quick, wanting to move on.

“Could’ve given us two weeks. Any explanation?”

“Radio Silence. Getting too scary?” Anne wonders out loud, hand on her chin.

“Hah! I bet.” Marcy snaps her fingers and laughs despite a sour mood. “Okay. Good news. We need some.”

“We found a replacement for this weekend’s trip. One-time deal. A girl from Block C, I haven’t talked to her all that much, at all, even.” Anne seems to be trying to remember their interactions, which fills Marcy with even more worry. The last thing she needs is to be locked in a creepy, demonic, old house with a stranger awkwardly for a night. Lack of chemistry or pure interest would have a lasting effect on the quality of the video. “She’s headed down now.”

“Alright. Let’s pray she isn’t-”

A loud knock makes them both freeze. Anne’s still standing near the door, and she grabs the gold handle to allow the person in. When Anne steps out of the way, she catches sight of her partner for the weekend. She looks unbelievably pissed off, arms crossed over her chest, eyes decorated with purple bags and sharp eyeliner. Her hair is an annoying blonde, and pulled tightly up. She’s leaning on the doorframe, like she’d been waiting for hours. A jerk. Marcy finishes. A really, really, pretty jerk. 

We are not going to get along.

“Is this the trip I was told about?” The girl asks, eyebrow raised. She starts to lean off of the frame and looks between Marcy and Anne a couple of times. They blankly stare back.

Marcy grimaces. Stuck with freeloaders. “Sure.”

“Sick.” She lets herself in, doing a quick spin to look across the room, marveling  at objects she deems worthy of approval. Then, she plops herself down right on top of the desk, startling Marcy.

Nonchalantly, Sasha reminds herself of their compromise. “So, What do I have to do again? Just act scared, right?” She clicks her teeth, as a way of saying easy money. “I’ll act my ass off.”

“Well, no, it’s supposed to be an honest reaction.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, though.” She admits, shrugging a bit in response.

The world seemingly stops spinning. Marcy cannot believe what she’s just heard. She doesn’t even know this chick’s name and her life work is already being disrespected. Who accepts a job as a ghostbuster when you don’t even believe in them! There’s corruption in the relation. Sucking in a deep breath, she storms ahead.

“That's fine, I guess. A different point of view could work for our audience.” Marcy manages to get out without smacking documents of research on the girl’s head, fake politeness included. “I’m Marcy Wu, by the way, and you are?”

“Sasha Waybright.”

Even her name is pretty. Damn it. Marcy thinks.

“Well, Sasha, I guess I should probably tell you the details. Basically, We’ll be going to a haunted mansion-”

“Mansion. Just an old mansion.” Sasha waggles her finger.

Marcy fights the urge to kick Sasha into the sun. “ Presumed haunted mansion, does that work for you? Built by a rich old dude that did a lot of morally insensitive things and then died in the same house. I’ll delve into it better when we do our filmed introduction at the place, I mean, this thing is gigantic. And there's supposedly an apparition there that takes the form of a widow. Y’know.” She waves her hand around, trying to grasp a hold of words that she can’t find in her brain. “Ghost stuff.”

Sasha picks up a telephone prop off of the table where she’s seated, raising it to her ear to check if it is working. It does not, but it acts as a distraction for her. “More like ‘coincidental noises and crazy people seeing things’ stuff.

Look, Marcy is trying, really trying, to have some civility and mutual respect built in-between the two of them, nevermind Anne, but Sasha’s meticulous I don’t care about it myself but I care enough to make it known that I don’t care type of conversing is putting a damper on her excitement, considering she’ll be stuck with her for an entire day. She reminds herself it could always be worse, she could always have another fire hoop to jump through, and that it is decidedly best to play the long game. This isn’t just her job as she inconsiderately thought before, it is also Anne’s. So this is the best course of action for both of them. She suits up for battle.

“Quick Q. Are you running circles around the topic of ghosts possibly being a reality to flaunt some sort of asshole demeanor, or do you not believe in them, genuinely?” Marcy rolls back from the desk and spins out of her chair, pivoting to move in front of Sasha, so she’ll stop looking and messing with the things that are irreplaceable, not only in rarity but in what they mean to Marcy. She leans in with her palms splayed on the table.

“I was forced to attend catholic school when I was a kid.” An imperceptible pause. In this, Marcy underlines the word forced twice. “But I don’t believe in anything spiritual like ghosts and demons, or even an afterlife.” There’s coarseness in the way she says that, like it leaves scratches and bruises on it’s way out, like she’s thought about it so often but has barely, if ever, said it out loud. Like more is threatening to follow. Her eyes are still trained on the phone. This makes Marcy regret asking.

“Oh,” She starts, lacking in transitional fluidity. Anne and I went to a catholic school too, I guess that’s a contrast on why we believe.”

“Guess so, Marcy.”

Somewhere near the door, Anne coughs like there’s a frog in her throat. Right. Sasha doesn’t even know who Anne is.

“Er, This is our camera-man and my personal best friend since diapers, Anne Boonchuy!”  Marcy scatters over towards the door, doing a presenting pose on her. Anne shifts awkwardly at the attention, rubbing her neck, cheeks tinted with embarrassment.

Turning over to where Marcy ran, Sasha rakes her eyes over the two of them, drinking up their appearances like fresh water. Marcy can’t help but notice how quick Sasha is able to cover up how she actually feels, whatever was close to slipping out just a few moments ago was already sealed up with caution tape wrapping the edges.

“If she wasn’t already preoccupied with the camera stuff, she could totally be your co-host, she’s got the face for it.”

Anne raises an eyebrow, as if she’s daring Sasha to say more. Sasha raises one back. Marcy steps in between the two of them before things can get any worse.

“Stop it! Stop flirting with my friend! This is a business trip!” Marcy scolds her.

“I wasn’t, it’s just facts!” 

“Then what was that?”

“What was what?’

Marcy grows irritated, rare for her, and even rarer to be caused by another human instead of her editing program crashing or a failed game level. Sasha is full of surprises. “The-” she puts on a mimicry with air quotes. “It’s just facts!”

“I literally was explaining how it isn’t flirting to observe how pretty someone is!” 

Anne sighs and taps Marcy on the top of the head to make her give way, tired of their bickering. Marcy looks back towards her, determination to prove her point still indicative in her stance. Anne didn’t need her shielding, Marcy knew that, but she also wasn’t going to allow this newbie to rub her boots around the place and cause Anne annoyance.

Anne seems to be the only thing that can catch Sasha’s attention. “Listen, Sasha. We’ll be leaving as soon as we possibly can so we can catch our flight. If you want out, speak now or forever hold your peace!” She pauses before finishing with “Although, I’m not letting you say no. We kind of need you here.”

“I’m in.” Sasha reiterates, arms crossed against her chest. She hops off the table and gives one more affirming glance towards Marcy. Sealing the deal. “After all, nothing to be afraid of. Ghosts aren’t real.”

-

The car ride there is going about as well as Marcy expects it too. Allowing her the aux, Anne lets Marcy play all of her vocaloid music, much to Sasha’s dismay. Anne was chosen to drive, Marcy in the passenger seat, leaving Sasha to fend for herself in the back, covered with bags that wouldn’t fit in the trunk with all the other equipment they needed for filming. Marcy watches Sasha mutter to herself in the rearview, sulking like she didn’t have a choice out of this. She bites the inside cheek to catch a laugh.

“Why didn’t I get to sit in the front?” Sasha sputters. Pleasantry doesn’t seem to be her forte, Marcy stores this in her mental notes about her co-host. So far it lists: ridiculously stubborn, non-believer in ghosts, internalized religious guilt going on, and that she stands an annoying 4 inches taller than her. 

“Because you’re a special guest, and you need to get the most authentic experience out of this as possible!” Marcy smirks, fully turning her body back toward Sasha.

Sasha huffs. “That’s stupid.” 

Anne juts in before Marcy can reply, whispering to her. “Don’t reply with ‘you’re stupid’, please, Marcy.”

“I would never.”

Anne sees through the obvious lie. Her own voice lowers, a signal of her being serious. “Don’t you think she’s kind of, I don’t know, a lot? So far all you two have been doing is pretty much bickering.”

“I mean, yeah, but people will eat her personality up. Everyone loves a mean pretty girl. I can deal with her if you can.”

“Pretty girl, eh?” Anne leers, snorting to herself. Marcy leans and throws a vigorous smack to her arm.

“It’s basic information, why did you say it like that ? Do you not agree?”

Anne gives herself time to glance off the road and at Marcy like she’s grown a second head, dazed from her panicked reaction. “Woof, chill dude, I was just messing with you.”

Marcy slinks back into her seat. “Of course, yeah, knew that.”

The topic of conversation makes herself known. “What the hell are you two gossiping about up there?”

“It’s confidential.” Anne yaps back, “Employees only up here!”

That does not bring Sasha any satisfaction. “Are we there yet?”

Marcy puts her head in her hands. The botched itinerary she’d scrambled together was being followed as precisely as possible, and they were making good time considering when they left. She does her best to keep her apprehensiveness to a minimum as to not distract Anne, and to not make Sasha tuck and roll in the back seat, seeing the iceberg before the captains of the ship. And, despite her misplaced confidence, she’s still creeped out over the things the three of them could encounter. Believing in ghosts and demons means she also has a sort of childish fear of them, and no matter how many unexplained footsteps, or wind that sounds too much like a voice she’ll experience, she still gets jitters every single time.

Sasha must have been staring, which is frustrating because when you’re gripping the reins, others are not supposed to take the notion that you are stressed. She leans as far as the seat belt lets her into the gap between her door and passenger seat.

“Thought you were a pro?” Her voice is loud enough for only Marcy to hear. Anne would probably throw her straight through the windshield if she had caught it.

Marcy’s head lifts slowly from her palms, still close enough to have her peripheral blocked out. The pressure leaves her cheeks stained red, tingling.

“I write up the scripts, select the locations, and direct the shots. This doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fear of ghosts anymore, or if an episode is going to tank.”

“Psh, we got this, if anyone knows how to run a ghost hunting internet show, it’s you.”

Marcy evaluates this information. Brings out test tubes and scales. Even makes a spreadsheet. The hypothesis becomes truth. “You’ve watched our episodes?”

Sasha’s eyes shoot from Marcy and out the window in a split-second, and Marcy feels the weight leave more than she sees it. She watches the billboards and passing cars, as they are much more intriguing to her than continuing the conversation, apparently. “A couple. Just supporting my fellow creative co-workers.” She spits, cowering in on herself.

“Uh-huh, totally didn’t reel you in with our excellent production abilities.” Marcy knows she’s being a huge jerk, but she thinks of it as deserved payback. “What one was your favorite?”

A body pummels against the backseat along with a puff of air and crossed arms. “Wake me up when we get there.”

Marcy hates how disappointed she gets. Hates how close she was to finally getting something she could use out of Sasha. Hates how she lets the moment pass. “Will do, partner.”

The car is quiet for a bit, except for Anne’s soft humming, until an otherworldly force mangages to drive a sentence out of Sasha. If there’s one place where they can find common ground, it’s the fact the both of them can never seem to shut up. “Pennhurst. That was a good one. Very funny to see you running around and jumping six feet in the air at the littlest noises.”

Marcy cringes at herself. That was one of their earliest episodes, and being unused to an environment as unnerving as that made her more prone to freak-outs. Not that she’s really any better now, perpetually paranoid of a ghost following her home, or possessing her body and making her go on an outrage, and other things that will kill her from fright if she thinks about them any longer. She wishes, for a brief but evident moment, that she had someone like Sasha in the early days to ground her to reality, instead of being surrounded by other people who were almost as terrified as her. When she becomes conscious of that thought, she cringes again. Predictably corny.

“I’m not that bad anymore.” The reply comes late and she doubts Sasha even heard her. It leaves her mouth like a desperate plea, a chance to prove capable in case of demented situations she worms into. She needs to remind herself who is in charge.

“Don’t worry. I know. I watched more recent episodes too. You still have wide-eyes, but it’s less, er, you’re more accustomed to it.”

“For someone that doesn’t believe in ghosts, you sure watch a lot of our episodes.” Anne questions, now being able to hear them. Marcy was so preoccupied with her own thoughts she forgot Anne was even there, selfishly enough. She feels embarrassed.

“I said I’ve watched a couple. To support my co-workers. Can’t I just give some feedback?”

“You sound like our biggest fan to me!” Anne replies cheerfully instead. “You even recognize Marcy’s facial patterns. Did you take notes for this?”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Shut up and drive, Anne.”

“I’ll be bringing that up again.” And she shifts into the right lane to make an exit.

-

God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers. If said quote is true, then Marcy must be Hercules. This claim may seem a bit extreme, but there is no other explanation to why she was so unconventionally placed in the aisle seat right next to Sasha Waybright, while an unbothered Anne Boonchuy looks behind her and pokes fun, seemingly getting along just fine with the girl in the seat next to her. Marcy rolls the dice on a topic of conversation, sorts them into neat little boxes in her head, and prepares herself for suspected counter-attacks and reciprocated questions. Before she can even start on topic five, Sasha is already bored of the flight attendant’s monotone droning.

“They couldn’t spare us just a bit more leg room, huh?” Marcy watches the practically childish movement of Sasha sprawling her feet out in every which way to get a stretch in, groaning and rolling her eyes at the 5 inches of space between the end of her seat and the back of the next. The two of them are really shoved in there, and with every kick of her foot, Marcy can feel the shake in her own seat.

“Cut it out before the person in front of us gets pissed and decides to take it out on me.”

Sasha takes this as a personal threat. “I’m not even kicking the seat, see?” She motions her leg to shut down Marcy’s suspicions. She is indeed hitting the seat. Sasha’s face slowly unravels with the revelation, and her foot slows to a stop. Of course, not without a fight. She concentrates on this task Marcy hadn’t even realized she’d given to her, swinging her foot with the utmost care as to not disrupt her flow.

“Good talk, co-host.” Marcy rubs her palm against her wrist.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” The leg that's being thrown around their seat area doesn’t quit.

“You know, to get chummy. So filming with you is natural.”

A lightbulb appears above Sasha’s head. Marcy sees this because Sasha wears a smile that’s evil and commonplace for her all at the same time. 

“Are you dating anyone currently? Well, does your audience know?”

Marcy didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t that. She guesses she has yet to map Sasha out as a person. She’s got the western side of Europe, and she can put her toes into the shore of the beach of the Mediterranean coast, but there’s this daunting, gaping space where she can’t see anything five miles out and nobody she knows has been past the horizon line, either. It taunts and it frightens and it sends shockwaves in moments of least suspicion. She decides it’s time to grab her sails.

“No. To both of those questions.”

Clicking her tongue, Sasha adjusts in her seat and leans over her armrest. “If you’re so bent out of shape over how the chemistry on-screen is gonna be perceived even though I’m great,” Marcy almost opens the plane window in hopes she’ll get sucked out. “Then, to introduce them to a narrative that’s new, but feasible in adjustment and so we can get along, why don’t we just act like I’m your girlfriend?”

In this light, Marcy tragically becomes conscience of the curve of Sasha’s sly smile, and the black eyeliner, slightly smudged from a nap in the car with a beauty mark right underneath, and the few pieces of hair that have just got to be tickling her nose, so much so that it would just be human decency to brush it back behind her ear.

Not like she does anything about it. Because that’s the sort of stuff you find in shoujo manga she liked when she was a kid, and she’s twenty-something with a stable job and already more than she can chew on her plate, and she’s not going to let the thought of a pretty girl with an ego that rivals the sun take up her mind palace, area that could be used for work will not be replaced a stupid summer camp crush.

“It was just a suggestion!” Sasha scoffs, her leg returning its role as a pendulum when she still hasn’t gotten a response yet.

This could work. If they were to play this situation off as a special episode where Marcy has a girlfriend that she has never mentioned before, but manage to make a simple timeline, then they could string together a character dynamic of sorts between them. She plays DND. She knows how to perform a role.

“Let’s do it.” Marcy says, with no idea where to even begin. “I’m with you. But we need to set out some ground rules.” She shuffles in her hoodie pocket for a spare piece of paper and a pen, balancing it against her thigh.

Sasha smiles again. Genuine. “Lay ‘em on me, baby.”

Marcy sticks out her tongue. “Rule one: Absolutely none of whatever you just did.”

 “Not a fan of pet names?”

“Well, not that one. Not most.”

Cooing, Sasha seemingly has no self-preservation skills, as she just throws herself at the wolves to market a reply she can laugh at. “But you do like some? That’s what I’m getting from you. How’s sweetie-”

“Please tell me we land soon”

“Forty-Five minutes.”

“In that time, will you let me talk without any of your-” Marcy gestures at Sasha with the hand that holds her pen. “Antics.”

“Course, do your thing.” Hands cross over her chest, still titling towards Marcy, with eyes open.

“Rule two: We met through a company party, and clicked instantly. Keep our relationship information short and sweet. Do not try to fabricate some bizarre story that the audience is going to want photo proof from!” 

“Right, right. Wait, we’ll still need some sort of proof though. Quick, take a selfie of us right now!” Sasha reaches over and grabs Marcy’s phone from her lap, swiping open to the camera and putting up a peace sign. “Get in here!”

Her hands curl into a fist at her side. “What happened to letting me talk?” Marcy obliges, against all of her will, and sticks a portion of her head in the frame, getting tucked underneath Sasha's chin.

“Say Air-hunting!” Sasha beams.

The picture is taken before Marcy really registers what Sasha said. The two of them look cute, Sasha’s bright eyes and big grin, with Marcy’s slightly forced smile, looking at Sasha instead of the camera, which fits the part they’re playing into, but she didn’t do it on purpose.

“Air-hunting?” 

“We can’t be hunting ghosts if they don’t exist, isn’t that right Marcy?”

Oh. Right. She had forgotten about that aspect.

“Rule Three: As much as it pains me to say, no faking your reactions just because we’re together. Together on screen, I meant.”

Sasha nods smugly. That didn’t take much convincing.

“Rule Four: Nobody knows this is fake except for Me, you, and Anne.”

“We’re telling Anne?” Do you think she’ll appreciate the hard work I’m putting in? Does she like persevering girls?”

“She can’t stand you.” And Marcy would know. She’s seen the way Anne acts around people she isn’t fond of. Sasha falls under that category, poor thing.

“You couldn’t either, now look at us.” Sasha subtracts the space between the two of them, making overdramatic kissing noises and fluttering eyelashes. “Just two lovebirds.”

“This is strictly business.” Marcy says accusingly, shoving a hand in her face, a laugh bubbling in her throat.

“Sure it is. Let me add my own rule, please?”

Begrudgingly, she hands over her notepad to an eager Sasha, giggling like a schoolgirl. She hears the harsh scribbling of a pen. When finished, she flips it over for Marcy to read.

Rule Five: Strictly Business. No Real Feelings Involved.

“See that, Marcy? Your words, not mine! No falling in love!”

Marcy snatches back her list, shoving into the depths of her pockets. That’s the easiest rule in the world.

“Should that even be a rule? It’s a little simplistic, honestly.”

Sasha kicks her foot with Marcy's, light and playful. Calculated. “Sometimes you have to prepare for the worst.”

Marcy laughs and kicks back. “I’m a pro at that. Worry about yourself.”

When they grow silent, Marcy knows it isn’t the turbulence that’s making her light-headed.

-

“What the actual hell.”

A finger snapping in her face makes Marcy jolt awake. Or, she would jolt, but there’s an unfamiliar weight that’s placed itself on her shoulder, accompanied with steady breathing and drool. They must’ve been out for the last thirty minutes of the flight. She hadn’t told Anne about what they decided on. Which would make the lie that this was an intentional position not sound as crazy.

Marcy decides to play dumb. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re cuddling with someone you met a few hours ago.” 

“What’s your definition of cuddling? This is supporting someone’s cranium.”

“Fraternizing with a non-believer, who would've thought.” Sighing, Anne shakes her head and walks back to her own seat, grabbing her luggage from the overhead bin. Becoming sentient, Marcy listens to the rummaging around her, and figures it’s only a matter of time before Sasha wakes up, so she should do it herself. She delivers a sturdy flick to her forehead.

“Ow, shit.” Sasha mumbles, eyes clenched shut and a sour look on her face. Her fingers go up to rub the sore spot, and when she finally opens her eyes, she shoots back from Marcy like she’s a Salem Witch.

“Take me out to dinner first.” Marcy replies, stretching out the stiffness. She rises and reaches above them to grab her own bags, but is stopped by Sasha waving a hand.

“Wait. Sorry about-” An exaggerated groan. “I drool. In my sleep. It’s all over your shoulder.”

“It’s fine.” Marcy shrugs. She disgustingly notes that now that it’s been pointed out, she can feel it through her hoodie. It does drown out the burning that her head had left though.

“Here, let me get it.” She shoves Marcy out of the way so she can stand up in front of her and grab the stuff she was already reaching for. There’s an amalgamation of things Marcy is inclined to ask her. Like if she’s always so grumpy and pushy in the mornings. She bites her tongue. Weird question.

“I’m gonna wait with Anne, she’s heading off now and I don’t want to lose her in the crowd.” Marcy says, mostly to get out of this tensioned air.  She waves her hand towards her, and Anne waves back as a “I see you”. After she collides into the sides of the entire flight, she walks off with Anne and lulls by the exit door, taking in a deep breath.

“I’m sure you’re just dying to know why Sasha was asleep on me.” 

“It’s really has been killing me.” Anne replies, honest.

“So remember that one anime I tried to get you to watch, with the uh, pink haired dude.”

Marcy watches her fiddle with the zipper of her bag, staring down at it with no recollection of said anime. 

“Okay, well. Whatever. We’re gonna fake date so we can have our audience not be too freaked out by her sudden appearance.” Marcy explains. Maybe if she says it fast enough, Anne will be too tired to fully comprehend and yell at her.

“Did you or Sasha suggest this?”

The speeding-by plan is a colossal failure. “Sasha, actually.”

Anne prods her, a quizzical look on her face. “And this is the conclusion you came to because?”

“Uh, it made sense? We can’t say Maggie quit on us!”

“We don’t have to say that directly .” Anne utters, but it’s too late and already awkward enough to talk about, let alone a backtrack because… Why?

“Why does it matter anyway? It’s faux, fake, pretend, roleplay-”

Anne grabs her by the shoulders, sincere with worry lines on her forehead.“Look, take this as lightly as possible, but I don’t want you getting hurt because you start to think it’s real.”

Marcy does not take this lightly, recoiling out of Anne’s touch. Anne winces when she realizes what she’s said.

“Think what’s real?” Sasha yawns, heaving two duffle bags over her shoulders. “Those stinkin’ ghosts she’s always rambling about?” She looks at them, waiting for a laugh, and it makes Marcy dig her nails into her palms.

“Let’s go, guys.” Marcy’s anger lingers in her voice. It hisses and crackles underneath her skin, leaving blisters. She keeps her eyes straight forward, the gazes of Sasha and Anne pierce her back like throwing darts. She prays that these don’t cause her to burst.

-

When Marcy precariously lays a single foot onto the grounds of the estate, goosebumps run rampant on every patch of skin on her body. All the places they go to are horrific, some sort of bloody murder or crazed delusions is expected. But something about this specific place is already making her heartbeat land in her fingertips. So much for professionalism.

“Why’d we have to come when the sun has already set? Not really liking the vibes of this place.” Anne comments while she pulls out the camera. The two of them still haven’t cleaned up from their argument earlier, but there’s no sense in mulling over it. They’ve got a job to do. Anne won’t be talking anyways. They both know when they need space, it just happens to be needed right before a shoot.

Sasha stares up at the jagged roof, carving itself out of the sky. “You can say that again. And you guys do this every couple of weeks?” She lets out a low whistle and walks up next to Marcy, leaving a warm hand on her shoulder that makes her jump. “Shit, my bad. This is probably like, ten times worse for you.’ Sasha rubs the spot, and while not exactly the most comforting thing she’s ever felt, it calms her enough to speak.

“You’re gonna puke when I tell you the shit that went down in here.” Marcy mutters with a blank stare at her foot on the grass below them. She doesn’t add the shit that is still going on in there now, because it is not something they will agree on. It is the wind blowing, a tree branch in the shadow, or a bird’s nest that nestled itself in the corner.

“Mar-Mar, are you gonna be able to do this?” Anne is tenderly at her side now, too. Go-Pros in her hand, she stalls, giving Marcy a chance to respond. She wonders if Anne can feel it too, the vile history that runs through the cracks in the sidewalks and the floorboards of the rooms.

Sasha snatches one of them from Anne’s grasp. “I know I am! Look at this equipment! Gonna catch some real dust specs on this bad boy! And Mar-Mar? Why have you been holding that back from me?”

Anne rolls her eyes and scoffs. “You don’t even know how to wear it.”

“Don’t worry, Mar-Mar will help me.” Sasha bumps her shoulder into Marcy’s. “Isn’t that right?”

“Still here, you know.” Anne complains, rightfully so. Marcy feels the need to apologize for her behavior, like an owner of a rabid dog that bit a kid walking home from school.

“It’s practice for the show, Anne.”

“Yeah. Sasha,  just throw it over your head first. Like putting on a shirt.”

She does the first part with ease. That is until it gets caught and strung up by her chin. “I think it doesn’t fit.” Anne goes back to her camera, unsatisfied.

Marcy finally looks up. The sight of Sasha struggling to fiddle with the straps, growing angrier by the second, cuts off the derailment her mind was taking, and she laughs for the first time since they’ve arrived. Sasha scrunches her lip. “Go ahead. Make fun of me, some kind of host you are.”

“Sorry. Here, let me adjust the straps. Is that okay?”

“Do your thing, boss.” Sasha confirms her from over her shoulder. Marcy hadn’t realized she moved behind her. Or if Sasha moved in front.

Her hands tremble and encase her heartbeat still when she attempts to pull the straps. She tries to steady herself so she can get a damn grip, and in the process she accidentally makes contact with the top of Sasha’s back, brushing over a firm bit of blade.

“Oh.” Sasha swallows.

She crumbles. “Sorry, this place is freakin’ me out. It hasn’t been this bad for me in awhile. There’s something in there, I know it. When I put one foot down, it felt. I don’t know. I can’t stop imagining the stuff that’s gonna go down when we’re separated-”

“Hey, shut up. You’re gonna talk yourself into a funk.”

Marcy concludes that she is right. She’s in the home stretch of that funk, actually, and she just needs to finish this up so she can walk in there, smack her face a few times, and survive the night like she’s the star in a horror movie. She’s incredibly vulnerable right now, and she hopes that Sasha doesn’t plan to use this as some sort of blackmail for a crazy fan who wants an inside scoop when the job’s said and done. But there is a carefulness in the way Sasha can speak sometimes, no crafted personality, no flirtatious throwaways that go nowhere, no emotional detachment, but a sincerity that Marcy has only ever heard when Sasha was trying to reassure her. After a couple more tries, she maneuvers it down her back most and clicks the two ends together. She sees Sasha’s posture shift with the broad of her shoulders, and decides it fits well enough.

“How do I look?” Her voice is teasing, but Marcy detects a slight dryness.

Marcy gives her smack of camaraderie. “Like a real ghostbuster.”

“Never thought I’d be here five years ago.”

“I never thought you would be here five days ago.” Marcy points out.

“True.” Sasha exhales a sound that is close enough to be categorized as a chuckle, and starts heading for the gargantuan doors a path away from them. “Come on, girlfriends!”

Anne groans like the dead. “Why do I have to be involved?” 

“Come on faux girlfriend and co!” Sasha drones in pettiness. They take the cue to blindly follow into the portal of hell known as Andrias’ Mansion, armed with nothing but cameras, a single super soaker full of Holy Water, courtesy of Marcy, and a non-believer who might be brash enough to scare the ghouls right off. This last piece of speculation is doubtful, but it will help Marcy sleep tonight. She gets the most haunted room. The basement.

-

“This week on Unsolved we’ll be exploring the Andrias’ Mansion, continuing our investigation into the question; Are Ghosts Real?”

Marcy’s familiarity helps calm her nerves, practiced articulation coined as memorable and cadence easy off the tongue. Sasha’s new, though, and the slightest ’no’ shake of her head at Marcy’s side almost makes her mess up. What else is new, is a lie that needs to seamlessly flow throughout the episode with no theorizing on the authenticity of the relationship. She likes learning things, or more she likes having learnt. She liked being able to tell Anne what type of pokemon would best suit her style when they were kids. She likes being able to tell what will prosper and what won’t with a single look. She likes having a wide vocabulary that only sometimes is spouted without an actual understanding of what the word means. She likes being perceived as intelligent and trustworthy by her peers, because she likes to be liked. And she wants to learn Sasha, how she’ll respond to certain situations, and the way she’ll walk through the halls and how she’ll react to the stories. She does this because she’s dedicated, and also because she wants to be liked by Sasha. 

“I’m Marcy Wu, and here to my left is today’s special guest-” Voice don’t fail her now. “My girlfriend, Sasha Waybright!”

Sasha’s eyes meet hers, and she’s gleaming a smile that says nice job, my turn.

“I don’t even believe in ghosts and this place is still giving me the willies.”

Exasperated, Marcy lets out a pathetic laugh. “Yeah, well, let’s get into the lore. I hate it a lot.”

Sasha is adjusting well. Perhaps Marcy really had been too cynical about her abilities. She’s eyeing the camera in a natural way, ever so often falling back on Marcy with an ardent nod and pursed lips.

“Built in 1864, Andrias Mansion was a project from Andrias Leviathan. He was born in 1826, when the industrial revolution was at its tail end. His parents had skin in the game of business already, so it is only expectant for him to follow in their footsteps. Leviathan industries had been a landmark, logging factories popping up all over the Northwest. When his older relatives had all passed, around 1857, he had taken over at the helm. He was 31.”

“He’s a silver spoon. Red flag.”

Marcy flips the page. “Andrias is described as a frightening large man, standing at seven feet and one inch, along with a body weight of 270 pounds.” Sasha whistles. “Employees under him said he, on the outside, was kind and welcoming, with promises that he upheld. Only however, if you did exactly as he requested with no complaints. People who got close to him, or witnessed others who did know that he was an unforgiving, non negotiable man.”

“Okay, I’m starting to get a bad vibe from this guy.” 

“It only gets worse. As a person, Andrias treated himself with more authority than others considered him to deserve, making him feared and unapproachable to his closest friends and advisors.”

Sasha scrunches her lip. “Oh boy.”

“Due to this, issues that people wanted to address get thrown away. On a night in November 1868, his assistant, someone whom we only know by the name of Olivia, expressed her discomfort with her scheduling. The argument got heated, with shouting being reported along with the sound of things clattering to the ground. The next day, she hadn’t shown up to work at all.”

“Jeez. By thrown away you must mean killed! How did they know that he was the last person she saw?”

“Because one of the security guards overheard their conversation. Apparently she had a thing for Olivia and was planning to ask her out. She never got that opportunity.”

“That would suck. Imagine before I asked you out if you went and died, I’d be devastated.”

Marcy flushes, she neglected to remember their on-screen appeal once she delved into the script. “Why would I want to imagine myself biting the dust before our first date?” The timing of this is funny, her heart is beating too much too fast already, and the scenario of her dying tonight before she ever gets to see Sasha again is becoming probable. 

“It was a hypothetical. Go on, read your little casefile.”

“Yeah, yeah. Andrias was not always a lonely and bitter murderer, however. In this world of business, he had met two of his future friends, Barrel and Rosemary. These two had already been friends before they encountered one another, and even had ideas on how to improve the livelihood of the three of them, together. Barrel was interested in machinery and the science behind it, while Rosemary liked the construction. They wanted to expand the use of engines and motors to an even more accessible level of use. They discussed the part they would all play. Andrias dealt with the economic side of things. Andrias was never exposed to something that involved real human connection, no peers in his life as a child, resulting in most of his conversations laced with slick manipulation and words spoken curtly. Basically, he only knew how to talk business. Despite all of this, the three of them still managed to have a substantial, emotional friendship for quite awhile. But when grander opportunities arose, Barrel and Rosemary ditched their original commitment, taking Andrias’ own resources and connections from him to their own advantages. After this, Andrias had frequent mental breakdowns, the only elixir being his insatiable work ethic, and it wasn’t until he doubled their worth, becoming one of the richest men in the Northwest, did he review the effect that had on his emotions.”

“And this is the part where you tell me he regrouped with his friends and they all forgave each other and lived happily ever after?” Sasha asks.

“He was furious. They had left him with no explanation after being trustworthy friends for years. That didn’t matter now, he was filthy rich, he could do whatever he wanted. And that’s why in this very house, Andrias took the lives of these two after a coercion into a meeting in 1872. Done with axe, satiric considering they had wanted to advance the use of technology, only to be killed by such an ancient invention. It got cleaned up by brainwashed servants, the bodies remain displaced and the souls wander the halls, wondering where their dear friend they thought they knew went. Not like they’ll have to look far, considering the previously mentioned nightguard, driven by grief, schemed up a plan herself. Three years after his final murder was commited, he got a taste of his own medicine. Sneaking into his office, Yunan, the guard, sliced his very head off. She was of course caught, but the deed had been done, and with no blood relatives left, the mansion remained empty and unexplored to an audience, until tonight.” 

Sasha blinks and looks at the camera. “And the room you will be staying in is the one where this murder occured? How could he get away with this?”

“Dreadfully. His position and image in society was just too powerful, nobody was willing to cross him, look at where those who did ended up. Especially those employed under him, one distasteful word spreads in the hallways and you’re on the chopping block. Also, to viewers, you obviously aren’t able to tell, but this place is backed to the brim in disgusting, impurified air. It smells rotten.” She crinkles her nose.

“Well, shall we get on with the show, dearest?” Sasha asks, extending her arm to be looped with Marcy’s own. Trying her hardest to keep it light-hearted, Marcy thinks. The walls are covered in dust and gunk from centuries in semi-responsible cleanliness, the roof high above their heads with a chandelier, dangling bright and wide in the center of the room. The chairs they sit in have been where Olivia might have sat, a bit unsteady, seconds away from them falling in the middle. Anne’s face is a copy of Marcy’s from behind the camera, wobbly and nervous to continue, while Sasha is only giving the finger at a painting that illustrates a nobleman Andrias in a black suit. Sasha and Marcy are still seated, but she stands up, checks her go-pro, flashlight, spirit box, herself, and links her arm with Sasha’s.

“Not really, but if I don’t do it now we’ll be here all week.”

“That’s the spirit!” Sasha laughs, and lets Marcy instruct her on the first room of importance.

“Why did you link our arms?” Marcy's ears are hot when she tiptoes up, murmuring to Sasha. Yes, this was supposed to be believable, but they were doing just fine without the theatrics.

“I’m just trying to help, pipsqueak.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

Sasha doesn’t respond, staring up at the ceiling. “Haven’t seen a ceiling this high since catholic school.”

“Oh, here it is.” Marcy interrupts, finding themselves in a doorway between the spacious hall and a surprisingly smaller room. “This was the break room. Not a lot of time was spent in here, so if anyone out there is enjoying themselves, feel free to make a noise, or tap on my shoulder-”

“Give it all you got, ghostie!” Sasha barks, twirling the flashlight in her hand like a baton. “Walk with a candle, turn off my flashlight, fight me with your bare hands!”

Marcy’s eyes bulge out of her head. Maggie was never this aggressive with the spirits. She thought Sasha would follow her lead, take after the videos she’s seen of the process, more or less, and speak in a calm and direct tone, not full on brawling mode with an apparition. She can sense Anne’s eyes leaving the lens for a moment to look at Marcy. She turns back to her and has nothing to offer. With everything she knows about Sasha so far though, she’s not bewildered by this behavior. It will be clockwork for them the rest of the night.

“I know you’re not a believer, and your personality isn’t the nicest, but please remember we are dealing with spirits! Don’t say anything you wouldn’t want people to know!”

Sasha takes this as a challenge. “Ghost, My name is Sasha Waybright, I’m from SoCal!” She bellows, the cramped room bouncing her voice off the walls. “If you’re in here, give us a sign! Maybe a nice little warm welcome? Can ghosts do that? I know you lose all your body heat when you die.”

“It doesn’t understand that it isn’t alive, Sasha. That’s why people call them lost souls. They can’t pass on peacefully.”

Sasha puts a hand to her ear, scanning the room for the slightest hint of noise. “Sounds pretty peaceful to me. Good for them.”

It is enraging how the vicinity continues to be silent. A ghost needs to appear in front of Sasha and shut her up. They wait for a few minutes, permeating from front to back in impatience. Sasha rocks on the backs of her heels, bored, and lets out a melodramatic groan.

“We’ll be leaving now, any last message to give us?” Marcy asks, shushing Sasha. It’s quiet as a mouse, the table at the center still decorated with silverware and plates, towels piled in stacks for washing near the sink. But utterly futile efforts. Marcy heads out of the room with a frown.

“That’ll be one point for Sasha.” She grins down at her, peevish and aggravating, making a tally with her flashlight.

“So cocky, but we’ve checked one room so far.” Marcy bites. “Just you wait.”

“How many ghosts have you caught in all of your episodes?” It’s not a difficult question. It is a humiliating one.

“You suck.” Is the answer given. In reality, it’s none. But what other ghost hunters have caught one? Is she supposed to catch them Scooby-Doo style, entwined in rope and ripping off the white sheet to get your proof? Ghosthunting is a job that involves more wishful thinking than explicit results.

The next location of the building is the Dining Hall, prestigious and plated gold, leaving enough chairs for only esteemed guests to attend. One glance around the room and you can tell the guy was full of himself, paintings and newspaper articles framed and lined up on the walls like louvre pieces. The amount of people he must’ve duped in this same room.

“He has an employee of the month section. That’s sweet.” Marcy jokes, to which Sasha laughs, and it sounds hearty. Marcy will try to make her laugh more often.

“He murdered multiple people and you call him sweet. You’re just as gullible as the rest of them.”

“I would never let myself get murdered! No offense to those who did and are still with us, of course. Hah, exploitation. That was unfair to you guys.”

“Apologizing to the air. Nice.” Underneath the retort, Marcy swears she hears a voice, saying something that sounds like lie. Her blood runs cold. She recalls back to what she’s read, the stories and claims made by past visitors. This was a very active room, there were moments where people say they felt threatened, an immeasurable density on their chest. The grip on her flashlight tightens.

“Shut up for a second.” Marcy says tonelessly. She’s frozen in place, grasping a late reaction to piece together what context that could’ve been used in. Is this a commentary on how she’s lying? Sasha? Or how Andrias was a liar? Or Andrias’ friends being liars? She hates how exposed she feels, to be perceptible to someone you yourself cannot see. “If you could repeat that, please.” She dares to call the voice by a name, one of the few she knows. “Is, is this Olivia speaking to us?”

Met with more silence. She shakes her head and wishes the ghosts didn’t always have to speak when someone else was. A lack of mannerisms seems to be common. There’s a table, there’s chairs, there’s a past life that lingers in the worst way, forgotten by history, delirium heavy in the air with unanswered questions, but no proof. There’s never any proof.

“Big building, could’ve been it settling.” Sasha aims to lay it without any patronizing inflection, which only makes it come out more. “I didn’t hear anything.”

“That’s because you were yapping your big mouth.”

“Excuse me, but you have kissed this big mouth!” It’s true to anyone that isn’t the three of them, but Marcy reacts like her darkest secret has been revealed to a crowd of hundreds of thousands. Which is not the response she thought she would have. She knows Anne is rolling her eyes behind the camera when she flushes dark red. But anyone would be embarrassed to discuss that stuff to an audience. Everyone except Sasha, she supposes. It’s easier for her because it’s a joke. Probably.

“OK, thanks for airing our business! Room sweep, weird voice, let’s get this over with already!” Marcy scampers to the end of the table like light shown on a raccoon-infested trash can. For the second time that night, Marcy hears a faint voice, but this time it’s comprehensible. Cute . She hopes the ghost who whispered won’t cry when she has to break the news that she isn’t interested in non-living entities.

There’s a ouija board placed at the end of the table when Marcy slides the chair back and sits herself. Sasha lets out a hum of endorsement when she spots it.

“We will now be aided with the use of a ouija board. As most of you probably know, you have to have all participant hands on the planchette, along with an offering. Some candles are lit for atmosphere. I brought some saltine crackers here, along with holy water if things get messy.” Marcy directs Sasha to the seat to her left, who snorts when she finds the super soaker in front of her. The crackers get placed on the side of the board. They divide the distance between them and place their fingers on the triangle simultaneously.

“Hello?” 

“Riveting opener newbie.” Marcy mocks underneath her breath.

“Is there someone here with us tonight?” Sasha tries instead. The planchette is lethargically moving across the board, but it is in the direction of the ‘yes.’

“We might have accidentally contacted the spirits in an old folks’ home.” Sasha sighs, tired at the speed it’s traveling.

“Shut up.” Marcy berates. Energy of the spirit has run out before it even reaches a confirmation of a word, ending up half-way between the selection of the alphabet and the top part of the board.

Marcy looks up again and sees the same smile Sasha had on her face during the plane ride. Calamity impersonated opens her mouth.

“Oh wise one, does my girlfriend really like me?”

It slowly but surely lands on yes. Marcy blushes with the force of a God. 

(Marcy once read that if you are constantly thinking about something, it will find a way to appear in your everyday life. It’s called frequency illusion, or the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon. This is not due to a spiritual change, it is solely because you want to believe that is it. It shows up because you are always looking for it. You’re just convincing yourself it is fate, unbiased by personal thought, when it is all you. She didn’t really know how she felt about that.)

This is hilarious to Sasha. It stings because it is taunting. She has no faith in the board, when Marcy does.

“Are you Olivia?” Marcy squeaks out, waiting for something to interject how mortified she feels. It moves partially, but it still remains on the ‘yes’. So she was hearing Olivia earlier.

“Hey girl, sorry about what happened to you.” Sasha stutters, clearly not sorry. Marcy rolls her eyes but doesn’t express anything out loud.

 “Did Andrias hurt you?”

The two of them watch the board with trained eyes, but no movement occurs. If they were really communicating with Olivia, then this delineation is as clear as day. Or she got lazy.

“Well shit.” 

“What did he do to you?” 

“That is a pretty big question to ask a ghost to spell out, especially when I was just complaining about the speed.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is Sasha’s forehead gigantic?” She interrogates instead, and bites her lip to not crease up. The planchette stays on yes. 

“G-O-O-D-B-Y-E.” Sasha hastily spits out, moving their fingers across the bottom of the board. She picks up a cracker from the table and eats it in spite. Marcy repents internally for the goofing off they bothered the poor ghost with. “Take that Olivia, my forehead may be big but who’s still alive?”

“Don’t pop a blood vessel. It’ll be noticable.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she picks up her flashlight with the other and directs its beam down the hall and knocks her head to the right, leading them to the next room.

-

“The office that held the big man himself.” The frame is gigantic, making Marcy feel absolutely miniscule. Walls are covered with red ribbons and golden scissors. The large size is ubiquitous with all of his items, the desk tall and wide, made with dark oak that is chipped in some lower areas, with one big mark on the corner sticking out like a sore thumb. Her mind goes to the worst possible explanation and spirals into disquiet. “Lots of paperwork and private meetings were held here.”

“Thrilling, tell me more.”

Marcy pats her pocket for a device she thinks would fit this room best. “Sure, how about we let them do the talking, though?”

Sasha smirks when she realizes what Marcy is grabbing. “Oh, this baloney.”

“It’s the closest we’ve ever gotten to deciphering a ghost’s thoughts and you’re going to dismiss it so easily.” Marcy replies distantly, maneuvering the machine so it sits in the middle of the desk. “Alright, flashlights off. This is a Spirit Box. It flashes through radio stations at a high speed so ghosts have the opportunity to talk to us. This was Andrias’ study, so.” She clicks it on.

Shoving a pinky finger into her ear, Sasha yells over the static. “And you guys use this every single time?”

She only grins back. “Yep!”

“This certainly hasn’t effected your selected hearing , has it? Y’know, wind blowing a little harshly automatically being considered proof of a ghost?”

“Just listen.” Marcy demonstrates. “My name is Marcy,”

“And I’m Sasha.” The switching of the radio cuts in, but it’s worthless. Marcy only looks up toward Sasha with wide eyes. It just turned on and activity is already happening.

“We would like to speak to Andrias. This is your office. Spent entire days in here. Are you here with us tonight?”

A voice cuts through. “ Get out.”

Sasha gawks and smacks her knee. “You’re kidding!”

“Well.” Marcy rubs her hands on her pants. “Why do you want us to leave? Is this Andrias speaking to us?”

“Yes.”

Sticking out her tongue, Sasha blows a raspberry. “Weirdo alert!” Marcy waves her hand up and down distantly, and she shuts up.

“Do you miss your friends?” An oddly introspective question to ask a man where you know the outcome posthumously. He missed them so much he killed them before they could go on and leave again.

Through a few more static breaks, they just hear “ Out” repeated.

“Yeah you hate us, we know.” Sasha flicks her wrist. “Give us something we can use, Andrias! Kill any employees recently?”

“Sasha!” 

“Any friends leaving you behind?” She continues. “Aren’t you annoyed? Don’t you just wanna yell something significant to a pair of paranormalists!”

It crackles and carries a resentful tone. “Tell no one.”

“Uhm, what don’t you want us to say?”

“I think that’s the exact opposite question he wants you to ask.”

“You don’t want people to know what you did?” Marcy inquires. Sasha looks up at her and shrugs. “It’s too late, we already do.” She got a bit of courage from Sasha’s mocking earlier. The white of Sasha’s teeth flash in a small approving grin.

Marcy is about to give one back, until she hears the static pause and her own name.

“He just said ‘Hush, Marcy’.” Sasha juts a finger at the box.

“Yeah, thanks for clearing that up for me.”  She’s really rattled now, all the confidence she had held seconds before dwindled. Maybe she did tell him her name, but the ghosts are usually never strong enough to manipulate the radio based on remembrance of a name she said at the very start of interaction, much less a command. She paces around in a line. 

He calls her name again.

Sasha is incredulously laughing. “He’s targeting you, Mar-Mar!”

Her eyes are squeezed shut, she’s started to collect sweat beads on her forehead, heaving out breaths like she’s ran a marathon. The irony of being a ghosthunter. You want so desperately for spirits to contact you, but when they do, it means they exist. And that in it’s own right is horrifying. “Don’t say my name anymore.” Marcy doesn’t know if she begs this from Sasha or the spirit. “God, please.”

“Alright, maybe we should turn this thing off.” Sasha decides, smacking her hand to try and find the box, like a game of whack-o-mole with a corrupted spirit. When she does, she snaps it off and throws it back on the desk with all of the reverence it deserves. Marcy is calm enough to slow her steps to a complete stop. She feels more than sees the process of Sasha reaching from across the front of the desk, the palm of her hand encapsulating Marcy’s. It is warm. 

“Substantial evidence, huh?” Sasha says. She’s playing into it to try and make Marcy feel better. It isn’t helpful when you know the person doesn’t believe a word you say.

“You don’t care.” Marcy snaps, hoping the venom leaves her system. It is childish, an immature insult that Sasha doesn’t necessarily merit. “You don’t have to pity me. We know why you’re here. That wasn’t even real to you.”

“You’re right. It isn’t. But you are, Marcy. Your fear is. If we left that thing on any longer you would’ve had a panic attack.”

And that has gears turning in her head. There is ground below her shoes, two living, breathing humans that know when to cut it off when it all gets too much. She had never really considered that before. Maybe it was abnormal behavior to keep going until the room cramps in on you with a stinging in your throat, and a headache growing like a cancer on your temples, inhabiting your mind so packed that you only know the body’s retaliation to stress, and not the mind’s retaliation to fear. Nobody had told her it was okay to stop, in turn, she never told anyone when she got like this.

“Oh.”

“If you need a second, then want to try again, or ditch this room and do our solo adventures, which saying it out loud doesn’t sound like the best course of action.” Sasha lists off possibilities for their next move. She can’t quite see her mannerisms in the dark, but she senses the wave of a hand and a poke at the desk. Marcy likes how she’s talking so her own head can’t get to her. She cracks up.

She hears her stutter. “Anne, cut the cameras, we’re too late, we’ve lost her!” Sasha removes their clasped hands and feels her forehead. “She’s sweating like crazy! Check the pupils!”

“Hey!” Marcy smacks her hand away, which makes Sasha giggle along with her. Even Anne starts to snort at them. “I’m fine, I didn’t get, you know, possessed. Thank you.”

“For making fun of your sweaty nerd self?”

“Shut up. Because you sensed when it was becoming unbearable for me. How did you even tell?”

Sasha grabs her flashlight, pushes it on, and shines it so it illuminates the ceiling. “I get like that sometimes. So lost in an unhealthy work ethic that it was more cruel to me than just taking a break. It used to be really bad, especially when I started lifting. I wanted to do more and to do it faster, but if I didn’t give myself time to stretch and recover, then it would just be detrimental to continue like that. My trainer gave me that advice, but it's applicable to a lot of situations.” Sasha realizes she’s been talking Marcy’s ear off, and about things that were personal and frank. “I’ll, shut up now.”

“No, thank you, I think I needed some relatability. Not that I lift, because I don’t, I mean my shoulders aren’t nearly as broad as yours, not that I compared them to an average size, because one I don’t even know what it is, two why would I know that off the top of my head, it just occurred to me that they were-”

“How about we come back after a small water break!” Anne claps her hands together and strides out from behind the camera, shoving Marcy out the door and to the nearest open fresh air space.

-

“How we doing?” Anne tosses her a drink while she leans against the marble wall. Marcy accepts it with open arms, dipping her head out of a side door. After taking a swing and then some, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and beams.

“It is simultaneously the worst and best thing I’ve ever done.” She lets the bottle fall to the floor and gestures with her entire body. “I am terrified in some parts. I mean, heart dropping out of my ass terrified.” She makes a balance beam with her arms. “Then, Sasha and I make a stupid joke or disseratation, and boom, we’re both trying not to disrupt our scene. She’s more into it than Maggie was and she doesn’t even believe!”

Anne nods back, a slight smile growing on her own face. “You’re having fun, Marbles? Been awhile since you felt so intense about our show.”

“I am, Anne.” She confirms it with a crossing of her fingers.

“I’m glad. Me too. But let me apologize for what I said at the airport, it came off as extremely condescending. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I should know that you know not to have arbitrary feelings because of a job.”

Marcy lets out a chuckle. “I should apologize to you.”

Anne’s jaw drops cartoonishly. Marcy does jazz hands.

“Are you serious right now?”

Down the hall, they almost break their necks when they hear “Where’d you guys go!”

“I am in the midst of developing a shoujo-esc pathetic puppy-love embarrassing humongous crush on Sasha.” The previous method of saying everything as fast as she could is reintroduced. It is still faulty. There just isn’t enough time in the day to make modifications. It occurs to her that her wording is exactly what she promised herself would not happen on the plane ride. It occurs to her this is a storytelling element.

“So I was right all along.” Anne scolds with no real malice. “So predictable.”

“Is there a game of hide-and-seek going on that doesn’t involve me?” Sasha calls again, this time more pronounced than the last. Marcy can only fight back with eye glares and hope that Anne doesn’t remind her every waking moment for the foreseeable future that she was right. Presently, she hopes her face isn’t blatantly obvious on the topic they were discussing.

“Leaving me back there when we just had a heart-to-heart.” Sasha shakes her head as she approaches them with her hands on her hips, like she’s just lost an important game. “To fool myself that we were bonding.” She smacks a fist to her heart. “Anne, take my place, I’m too destroyed to continue.”

“I will not be doing that.” Anne tells her. “Did you get a drink?”

“No. I was preoccupied with finding where the hell you guys went.” She condemns them with a huff.

“Hurry up then, we’ve got work to return too.” Anne gets off the wall and punches Sasha in the arm before heading off on her own. This was premeditated, Anne leaving her and Sasha alone. Marcy scowls at her back.

“I think she’s warming up to me.” Sasha rubs the spot where she was hit.

“I think so too.” Marcy knows this process is only happening because of what she told, and she appreciates Anne so, so much for it.

“Anyways, you alright? Rejuvenated and baptized?”

“The whole nine yards” 

“We’ve got our solo investigations next, don’t we?” Sasha backtracks in her psyche on their schedule. “Where you'll be sleeping later.”

“Yay.” Marcy deadpans. The most enjoyable experience was the fact that Sasha was by her side, and now, she’ll be in the most active rooms secluded for the rest of the night. There is nothing more vulnerable than that. A witch might as well cast an everlasting spell on her right now to save time.

“Yay indeed! I’m going to go all out on my insults. Get them nice and riled up for you.” Sasha teases. Marcy must grow a worried look on her face, because she immediately follows up with “Or kick the shit out of them so they’ll leave you alone. I’ll find out a way to defeat air in a fistfight. Then our undeniable proof is me curb stomping little ol’ Andy.”

“Jesus, don’t refer to him as that.” Marcy does not imagine the both of them beating up Andrias and celebrating with a kiss on the cheek. “He was seven feet tall.”

“But now he’s six feet under! So that’s one foot left, which is a baby height. I could beat up a baby. Wait, forget I said that. Let me make it clear to you that I would never hit a child.”

“Are you having fun, Sasha?” Marcy asks. Sasha seems obsessed with this obscure competition thing she’s been keeping track of, because nobody else cares. She also is getting a real kick out of saying crude things without having to face consequences. Playing up their relationship too.

Sasha stops for a moment, soaking up the question she’s been asked. Marcy almosts butts in and rambles on how that was a stupid thing to care about, espeically now, and that they should head back to the set. 

“I have. Man, I’m enjoying hunting ghosts.” She winces at herself, dragging a palm down her face. “It’s mostly because I get to do it with you, though. You are fun to be around, Marcy Wu.” She admits.

Marcy lowers her eyes slightly. “Ah.”

“We should get back.” Sasha tells her, acting like her previous sentence didn’t transpire.

“Right.” 

They walk together to the mouth of the basement with few words, and stained cheeks.

“Well, this smells like absolute shit.” Sasha gags through a plugged nose. “I better find the body of Jesus down there.”

“It’s just for five minutes. You’ll survive.” Marcy says while she adjusts her go-pro, making sure it’s recording and in usable quality.

“Because I’m the one that needs to hear that.” Sasha exasperates, pushing Marcy away from her frivolously. “It’s working, dear, don’t worry.”

“It’s called evaluation.” She stares down the steps that lead into the most dreaded room yet. “So, this here is where Andrias murdered his own friends. He said he wanted to discuss opening a smaller shop near the mansion that they could run. That obviously did not see the light of day.”

“You know an awful lot of miniscule details.” Sasha pokes, standing in the middle of the entryway. “How do we know you’re not about to rehash what he did to us!

“I know the details because I research, genius. Even if the two of you went off and started a business without me, I would be sad, yes, but I wouldn’t kill you!”

Sasha gives an irritatingly bright smile. “Thank you for your consolation! I’ll be off now.”

Marcy salutes her. “Come back in one piece.” And she watches her back trot down the stairs, already sparking a conversation with herself.

“I think she likes you, at least a bit.” Anne materializes behind her and she jumps like a fire was lit where she stands.

“Jesus, Anna-Banana! Warn me before you do that.” Marcy yelps. “Look at where we are. Why is that okay for you to do?”

Anne exhales with pity, giving her a remorseful pat on the shoulder. “I was just saying, she likes messing with you but it isn’t like bullying, cause you’re messing back.”

“Why are you analyzing our interactions?” Marcy questions, eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“I am the cameraman. That is what I’ve been looking at for the past four hours.”

Shit. Anne was right. Marcy briefly wonders how awkward editing it might be. Looking over all of their scenes together with scrutiny, how close they got or how bright her face turned. If Sasha’s did, too. It leaves quickly as it comes.

“Well, we’re supposed to be acting like that, because, y’know. God.” Marcy covers her face with her hands. She’s dug her own grave. She’s been fooled, bamboozled, hoodwinked, into her own demise.

“Hey, it must mean something if she asked you to fake it over your concern.” Anne tells her, squeezing every last bit of hope that she can into Marcy. She looks through her palms back at her, and manages to give a wobbly smile. This smile does not reach her eyes.

“Even if she doesn’t, which is highly unlikely,” Anne adds, seeing as she’s still confused and exhausted and frustrated with herself. “You’ll never have to be around her again, she’s just doing this once, remember? We’ll have time to find a replacement after this episode.”

Here is where it gets tricky. Because Marcy now has a visceral, certain acknowledgement. She doesn’t want a new co-host, she doesn’t want a replacement and she doesn’t want to find anyone else. She wants Sasha. She wants her ridiculous attitude and her perfectionism that’s reflected in Marcy, and the fact that she leans on shoulders and drools while she sleeps, and how she can be aggressively mean or aggressively nice whenever she so desires, her big mouth and forehead and hands, and how she hasn’t had the opportunity to show herself before now, but it’s indisputable that she was made for something like this, for the camera and the commentary, and can handle it without needing directions. She wants Sasha shaking her head no during her introduction for years to come. She wants Sasha holding her hand and linking their arms. Marcy wants, she wants, she wants. It is excruciating, unbearable, agonizing, and an absolute necessity. She is scared. 

“No.” She says to Anne.

“Then we don’t have to.” Anne agrees. “You can ask her tomorrow morning.”

“I will.” Marcy affirms. The elephant in the room scoots its way out.

A minute later, Sasha comes back up coughing and waving a hand around her face. “No bodies were found, but I think you need to double check, cause it is literally decaying.”

“Anything weird?” 

“Nope! But I’m sure you were expecting that response Mar-Mar.”

“I was.” Marcy inspects her own camera and flashlight before she has to do the inevitable. Blinking red, glowing white light, down a black and ominous staircase. This is something out of books, she tells herself, or vice versa. Life imitates art.

“Don’t keep us waiting.” Sasha says for her and Anne, smiling with all her teeth, and it says something she didn’t say out loud. She shoos her off. Marcy nods and pads down the staircase.

“Barrel, Rosemary, my name is Marcy, I’m here peacefully, I won’t bother you for long,” She rambles, flicking the flashlight across the stilts that hold it up. It is barren, the only things left are tables and chairs that seem broken or they just didn’t have the space for upstairs, shown in the narrow crevice they have been shoved into. The walls and floors are concrete and brick, covered by scattered rugs. Every time her foot hits the ground, a rancid pile of dust floats into her face and makes her sneeze. “I’ll be sleeping here tonight, so if you want to introduce yourself to me, now is the time.” She waits for a sight of an outline or a creaking noise, when a feather-light touch swipes at her hoodie. Masking her fear, she chatters off another question.

“Okay, uhm, if that was one of you, hi.” She swallows down a clump of anxiety and continues down the perimeter, when she almost trips over a painting, torn and discarded.

3 figures can be made out. Two men, one tall, the other short and stocky, and one woman. Andrias, Barrel, Rosemary.

“Okay, hah, nice.” Picking it up as best she can with one hand, she leans it over the wall and balances it on her knee. With this better view, she spots the tiniest bit of blood, along with the rips being sporadic and not clean-cut or properly thought out. This was probably done the same night of the murder. “And they left it down here.” Marcy mentally smacks Sasha for not telling her about it. She traces it delicately, the gashes cutting upward, sharp enough to penetrate skin. She recoils when it pricks her index finger, grimacing quietly. A small spec of blood pools on it, matching the canvas.  Her hands shake when she sets it down right where she saw it, afraid the ghosts might throw her across the room if she ruins their interior design. When she was a kid, she would always break into abandoned buildings, shuffling around the place with a camera she purchased from the thrift store, shoving the lens into everything she thought was cool. Looking back, it was probably just some bored person inscribing stuff onto the walls or in their desks, but to her, it was a message from beyond, for her eyes only. And Anne’s, but only because Marcy dragged her along. Old habits die hard.

“I have a device that will allow you to communicate with me,” She indicates to the spirit box on her hip, taking it in her hands and preparing for the cacophonous sound.

“Ow.” She complains when it starts sifting through channels. She prematurely apologizes. “I’m not turning off my flashlight, sorry.” 

"Head."

She perks up. “Head? Is that where he went for the first hit?” Way to get the good stuff. The quality is a bit shittier, considering she’s deep in a basement, so it’s even harder to decode what the ghosts are trying to convey to her. It could’ve said bed, or dead. She’d have to review it later. Her mouth quivers in a nervous laugh.

“Do you get visitors often?” She scales the end of the wall, waiting for a message. Waiting for her timer to go off so she can get out of here.

"No"

“No? I’m an unexpected guest then, huh?” Marcy becomes aware that she is joking with a ghost. The static snows again, crinkling and incomprehensible. She sighs much more dramatically than she means to.

“Is Andrias being upstairs scaring you to stay down here?” She suspects she’s right. If Olivia could wander around, then why couldn’t these two get their happy asses up the stairs. “It’s okay. I know he is an intimidating guy.”

The box shuffles through, with few indents, but no conclusive words.

“Are you scared of me?”

"Scared of what will"

“What was that?” Marcy holds the spirit box in her hands like water, cupping it like it’ll change the amount of words she’s heard. It cuts out and drones, drones, drones, with no exposition on what the final word was. “Are you still there?” She doesn’t hear anything else. What are they so afraid to where they have to retreat?

“Okay, this is driving me insane, I’ll be turning this off now.” Marcy announces to no one but herself. The spirits she contacted had left a long time ago. Her mouth muscles are twitching, weary from stress.

“Hey girlfriendddd!” Sasha yells from atop the stairs. “You’re done!”

“Thank God. Bye for now, if you’re still there.” She whispers, sprinting back to the bottom of the staircase and jogging up them to alert Anne and Sasha of what she encountered. 

“Guys, I felt a tap on my lower back, and, this weird, authentic painting, Sasha, did you see that?” She’s already sketching up a replica in her head. The pricked finger throbs in pain.

“Heh, Yeah I did.” She chuckles like it hadn’t given Marcy a heart attack.

“You are so diabolical.”  She shakes her wrist. “That was creepy as hell. Did you get a good look?”

“There were some dudes on it.” Sasha recalls, “Weird slashes on the side.”

“Do you think Andrias did that?” 

“Probably, the sicko!” Sasha replies, more cheerful than one should be in that situation.

“It’s around 12:00 AM, are you guys ready to go to sleep?” Anne suggests, her phone screen illuminating her face. “We all know where we’re going, right?”

“Actually, I was thinking,” Marcy interjects, hands clasped together, framed like a prayer. “Why don’t we have a sleepover! Together! In the basement!”

“So you’re not alone?” Sasha and Anne scoff. Sasha turns to Anne, happily surprised, hitting her on the shoulder. “Jinx, you owe me a coke!” Anne puts a finger to her lip.

“No, it’s just about having fun, three girls hanging out in a basement! Isn’t that the dream!”

They stare at her. She stares back, unconvincing smile plastered on her face.

“Okay, it’s so I’m not alone.” She cowers, defeated.

“Does she do this every time?” Sasha peeks at Anne, talking over the finger on her lip, which retracts in sickening horror of coming in contact with spit. Anne glares at her when she wipes it on her pant leg.

“Nope. Just with you.” Anne sighs like a tired, all-knowing mother. Sasha’s eyes go wide, mouth barely hanging open, just for a moment. She regains herself, but Marcy sees the whole thing.

“Cool.” Sasha says in lieu. “Guess we should go get our stuff then.”

“It’s where we were earlier, near the break room.”

“Hazmat suits as well. I think my lungs won’t ever recover from that air.” Sasha hacks up a cough, remembering the stench. 

“It isn’t even that bad. And nobody said anything about it having life-long consequences, so I doubt we have anything to worry about.” Marcy informs her, wandering back to the place where the night first began.

“Except for the guh-guh-guh- ghosts!” Sasha shrieks, strolling to meet Marcy at her side, Anne stepping on the heels of Sasha’s shoes as vengeance.

“Nah, they stopped talking to me right before I came up.” Marcy wonders if it’s a good idea after all, to keep pestering them until she gets credible evidence. If they really had a problem, they could’ve slammed the door and locked it in her face. If they were strong enough, that is. They must have liked Sasha enough to stick around the whole time, what was she doing different? What was she doing wrong?

“I personally think it is a good thing to not hear voices in your head!” Sasha leers at her, popping her personal bubble. Marcy pushes her away in crankiness, to which Sasha gleams at her from a distance. Marcy is so pissed off that she finds her cute right now.

-

“A full inspection of the place!” Marcy tells them, sending them off in two directions like horses. Sasha immediately starts feeling the brick on the wall, in search of a hidden bookshelf or lair. Anne does the same, her free hand resting underneath her chin, eyes peeled for any sort of button that’s begging to be pressed. Marcy walks straight up the middle, presumed that if something really is here, it’ll be on the outskirts, on some obscure marking. Her feet tread lightly, as if that will make her undetectable to a spirit, when she hears Anne calling from the right part of the basement.

“What the hell, yo, guys!” Sasha and Marcy look at each other through the dark and hurry over, a mix of eager and worried to see what she found. They hear it more than see it, a creaking beneath them as they step on a certain patch of flooring, veiled from sight by a tapestry. Anne gestures to Marcy with a nod, and she gives her one back.

“Sasha, go find the edge of this and drag it to the side.” She says absentmindedly, hyperfocused on whatever it was that lies was she suspects to be a trapdoor. Sasha does what she’s told, tugging the surprisingly heavy piece of cloth ahead of them. Her guess was correct, a wooden door, wide enough for a large man, a small circle cut from the board, lies unopened. The three of them gulp. This was bigger than ghosts.

“Who- Who is opening that.” Marcy quivers, glancing at the both of them expectantly. Anne looks like she’s about to faint, and while Sasha still looks a bit uneasy, she seems more confident about it then the rest of them.

“I will.” Sasha confirms. She squats down and flips the latch open, making a thwack as it smacks the cold floor. There’s yet another staircase waiting for them, along with absolute pitch darkness. Sasha stands upward, tugs the collar of her button up, and strides through the door like she was used to it. Marcy follows, although she had her doubts, and Anne is right behind her, slowly making their way down, the only light coming from their hand-held flashlights. Marcy thinks she’s the first to notice that the smell of decay gets more apparent the more they trek, but that is a can of worms she doesn’t want to open by herself.

After an eternity, the stairs turn into flat ground, a one-way path in a longegated hallway. Marcy angles her flashlight beside her, and sees that the hallway is encased in mirrors, like some sort of sick fun-house. Her own reflection startles her so much that Sasha and Anne stop to see what she’d jumped at, replicating the reaction when they notice it themselves.

“Uhm- Mirrors are known in most cultures to hold spirits.” Marcy spews her stacked-up knowledge, continuing along the path, the light ricocheting off of the mirrors to create a small spectacle of light. Sasha stops abruptly, placing her arm in front of Marcy protectively. A door marked in red, hopefully paint, in big, bold lettering. KEEP OUT.

“Guys, I don’t know about this.” Anne squeaks from behind them, her grip on Marcy’s arm strong enough to leave bruises. She’s probably doing the same to Sasha.

Marcy wedges out an excuse through chattering teeth. “We’re here to catch ghosts, not, not.” Corpses, she doesn’t say. Not real, human bones. Not a murder scene.

Sasha doesn’t do anything for a long while, seemingly stuck in place at the dilemma. Then, using all of her strength, mentally and physically, she shoves a hand out toward the looped handle, stances herself, and pulls. The steel handle comes right off of its hinges, but it cracked enough room for Sasha to quickly stick a foot out between the frame and the door, and she heaves it open wide for everyone to see. A waft of something that can only be described as dead engulfs their lungs. The flashlights combined rays only make the center of the room clear, and in the center of the room sits three black caskets, sealed, decorated with the mark of a golden cross. Marcy’s mind supplies her with names. Barrel. Rosemary. Olivia. 

“Shit.” Sasha says, and for the first time, her voice shakes. Sasha is scared. Sasha is terrified. She backs up slowly, still attempting to process what they saw. Then, she is yelling.

“Get the hell upstairs.” And Marcy feels hands at her back, making her stagnant self move and run, run, run. The hallway they came from grows longer and each breath feels like it can’t be taken in fast enough. They pummel into each others backs, tripping over feet and Sasha’s hand is now holding onto Marcy’s, and they’re going until they see they can no longer see the mirrors, can no longer feel the jagged staircases, until the smell turns into a hallucinated memory, and the first door to the basement is slammed shut, Sasha’s body pressed against it like they were being chased. They’re all too disoriented and heaving to say anything that could make coherent sense. Marcy’s psyche is already derailed, splintering at the edges with every event that transpired, and how it all led up to that. How it is all her fault. If she just had been brave enough, wasn’t such a coward to sleep alone, none of them would have been blindly thrown into that stupid basement. Throat scratchy, and eyes welling up, she begins to break down and crumble, like an ancient empire.

“I’m sorry, this is all my fault. I should’ve- should-ve never made you do that.” She blubbers, tears and snot staining her face. “I’m such a bad host, I can’t even hold myself together, I’m-, I made you, because I was scared. ”

Hands grab her face. They’re calloused and large and cold, for a second she thinks the ghost of Andrias has finally caught her. Until she hears a voice.

“Mar-Mar, listen to me. This is not your fault. This is not a problem you caused, and you could have never predicted that shit being down there. If anything, blame me for opening the damn door at the end of a creepy ass hallway. This is your job, for crying out loud, you just want the best for your fans. Because you’re hard-working, and determined. You and Anne built Unsolved from the ground up. You taught yourself how to edit. You host one of the most incredible web series to ever grace the goddamn internet. You are brave, Marcy, and there is nothing wrong with being scared. I was scared too, did you see my face?” Marcy lets out a sad laugh, and Sasha gives her a thin smile. “I want you to know that you don’t have to apologize for things out of your control. And you never have to apologize for how you feel. Ever. Do you understand?”

Marcy only nods. Sasha moves a hand to the back of her skull and holds her. She sniffles into her shoulder and wraps her arms around Sasha’s back.

When she stops crying, she retracts herself from Sasha’s hold and wipes at her eyes. She briefly remembers the Go-Pro attached to her chest. It had been recording the entire scene. That could probably stay out of the episode. They had enough footage to spare. The halls echo their breathing, and Oh My God, Anne had been shouting their names for the past five minutes.

“Help me load our stuff in the van so we can leave this shithole and go to Denny’s.”

-

This is how the three of them end up sprawled over an uncleaned table, plates stacked with waffles and bacon strips, eye bags more prominent than ever, discussing their future together at 3:00 AM. It is not brutal like Andrias, and it is not crude like when they first started off. But exuberant, a bit sleep-deprived, and hopeful.

Marcy watches Sasha attempt to shove a slice of her waffle into her mouth, only for it to fall off of her fork and onto the floor, to which she swears like a sailor at the fork, and thinks I want her around forever.

“We mesh well, even you Anne, you like me now.” Sasha’s saccharine sleepiness makes Anne all the more irritated, but Marcy can tell she’s gotten more fond of Sasha, even enough to laugh at a few of her jokes, or smirk at her when she does something that will wreak unfixable chaos in the next fifty square miles.

“Blame Marcy.” Anne says over a mouthful of waffles carcass, half passed-out.

“Damn you Marcy!” Sasha jerks a finger at her. “Making me all soft.”

Marcy raises her hands defensively. “You were left to your devices and turned out that way, Sasha.”

“No, I had to witness you be cute and smart all night. Melted my ice heart.”

Well. They were no longer in front of a camera, no longer on a stage with a spotlight shining on them. They were in the Middle Of Nowhere, Oregon, alone with only a teenager who hates their job to judge them. Marcy wonders if she’ll be teasing her like this for the rest of the time they have with each other.

“You don’t have to joke like that now. We’re done filming.” Marcy tells her.

Sasha looks down at her plate, picking up a bacon piece with extensive deliberation. “It was never a joke.”

Anne connects the dots before Marcy, wide awake now, already spewing off the ‘If you hurt her your body will never be found’ speech. Sasha shushes her, embarrassed. And when it does click for Marcy, so does everything else. The invitation for the idea in the first place, the off-camera sweet talk and touching, the calm reassurances, even the watching of their previous episodes. It wasn’t a show. It was Sasha being interested.

“You seriously asked to fake date instead of just, asking me out like a normal person.” Marcy blinks.

“Hey, I didn’t know if you weren’t already in lesbians with Anne.” Sasha replies.

“What?”

She shrugs. “Dunno. Just the vibes.”

Anne clutches her stomach and belly-laughs. “Whaaat? Let me clear up that controversy, Marcy is free, isn’t that right.” She clasps a hand on Marcy’s shoulder.

She’s flustered now, all the concentration on her. “Uhm, Uh- Yeah.”

“Sorry for our first date being in a haunted mansion with an above ground grave.” Sasha shrugs.

“Anne’s parents own a restaurant. I’ll take you when we go back to LA. And it’ll be the best date you’ve ever been on.”

“Are you guys gonna keep a tally system for this too?” Anne sighs, hand draped over her face.

“Yes.” They reply in unison.

“What are we gonna tell the viewers when you’re no longer a special guest?” Marcy worries out loud. She realizes that she hadn’t even asked Sasha if she wanted to stay.

“I’m on the show, like, permanently?” Sasha’s voice is raspy, but bright. She beams.

Marcy sputters a bit. Waffles go cold and disregarded. “Well, we’d like for you to be, but not officially yet, because that means contracts and paperwork and your consent.”

“I’ll do it. I really really want to do it.” Sasha gives the both of them one last affirming glance. Sealing the deal. “Nothing to be afraid of, ghosts aren’t real.”