Work Text:
In an old dingy bus. Evening light is peeking through a window as it huffs and stops. THE REPORTER is sitting alone. She taps on her phone repetitively.
The bus whines as its doors open. THE DAUGHTER walks in, looks at the emptied insides of the bus, then goes up to THE REPORTER.
THE DAUGHTER — Hello. May I sit here?
THE REPORTER startles, and looks at the daughter. Then, she unabashedly looks around the rest of the bus, clearly noticing that all the other seats are empty.
THE REPORTER — Sure.
THE DAUGHTER — Thank you.
She sits down. THE REPORTER shuffles closer to the window to create some space. She is still holding her phone in both hands. The bus huffs again, and rumbles as it starts up. Both travelers sit in silence for some time. THE REPORTER is typing something on her phone, looking more and more upset. She puts her phone back in her pocket just as the bus stops again.
Neither THE REPORTER nor THE DAUGHTER get up.
THE REPORTER, looking at THE DAUGHTER with renewed interest — You're not getting off at this stop?
THE DAUGHTER — No.
THE REPORTER — After that is the terminus.
THE DAUGHTER — I know.
THE REPORTER — You're getting off at the House of Vera?
The bus purrs to life once again, and goes on with its journey. THE DAUGHTER, who had been staring at nothing, turns her head to look at THE REPORTER. Her glasses hide half of her face.
THE DAUGHTER — Yes.
THE REPORTER — Why?
THE DAUGHTER — Just to visit.
THE REPORTER, squinting — You're going to see the museum?
THE DAUGHTER — …Yes.
THE REPORTER — Weird, it never became a museum. It's private property now. It was bought back by some guy.
THE DAUGHTER says nothing, caught.
THE REPORTER — So why are you going there?
THE DAUGHTER — Why are you?
THE REPORTER — Turns out 'some guy' is my friend. And I don't know you. So unless he's been really in touch with the local community while living in the middle of nowhere, your story doesn't make sense.
THE DAUGHTER says nothing. She stares at THE REPORTER. THE REPORTER says nothing. They stare each other down for a moment, one analyzing her options, the other unwilling to back down.
THE DAUGHTER — You know the new owner?
THE REPORTER, almost cutting her off — Why are you going to the mansion?
THE DAUGHTER doesn't answer. Another silence. THE REPORTER reconsiders.
THE REPORTER — I'll give you the info if you answer my questions.
THE DAUGHTER, sounding a bit peeved — Are you a cop?
THE REPORTER — What? Ew, no. I'm a concerned friend.
THE DAUGHTER — That's all?
THE REPORTER, lying — Yep.
THE DAUGHTER regards her silently.
THE REPORTER — So, why are you going to the mansion?
THE DAUGHTER — I heard a lot about the Doctor who used to live here. I wanted to take pictures of the house for my project.
THE REPORTER — Your project? Like, an article?
THE DAUGHTER — A research paper, more like. I work in academics.
THE REPORTER — Oh.
THE DAUGHTER — I thought I would have time to do that once the house was turned into a museum, since it spared me from dealing with paperwork with the municipality to be allowed into the building, but since the house was bought back, well… I was hoping the new owner would allow me to take pictures nonetheless.
THE REPORTER — Uh.
THE DAUGHTER — What?
THE REPORTER — Nothing. That sounds pretty normal.
THE DAUGHTER — You look disappointed.
THE REPORTER — With how suspicious you were being, I expected something a bit weirder.
THE DAUGHTER lets out a surprised laugh.
THE DAUGHTER — Doesn't your friend live there? Isn't it rather reassuring that I'm not some weirdo?
THE REPORTER shrugs.
THE REPORTER — Sue me, I like a good story.
THE DAUGHTER — Well, sorry to disappoint. I answered your question, though.
THE REPORTER — Right, thanks.
THE DAUGHTER silently stares at THE REPORTER. A moment passes.
THE DAUGHTER — So, your friend is the new owner? And he lives there?
THE REPORTER, realizing that her actions have consequences — Ah. Yep, that's it.
THE DAUGHTER — Why did he buy the House of Vera?
THE REPORTER — Beats me.
THE DAUGHTER — You told me you'd give me the 'info' if I answered your question.
THE REPORTER — I'm not lying! I don't know why he bought that damned house.
THE DAUGHTER — You don't… Know?
THE REPORTER — Don't look at me like that! (THE DAUGHTER raises her hands in an appeasing manner) I really don't know.
THE DAUGHTER — Did he not tell you?
THE REPORTER, begrudgingly — He did. But his explanation doesn't make sense.
THE DAUGHTER — What do you mean? What did he say?
THE REPORTER — He said the house was beautiful. 'Bewitching', or whatever, I don't remember. But he liked how the house looked and how isolated it is. Perfect to 'start anew', or something.
THE DAUGHTER — So he just… Liked the house, and bought it?
THE REPORTER — Right?! He's always liked making big decisions out of the blue, but this doesn't make sense. He never said anything about wanting to move, and I know him, it doesn't make sense why he would move away from the city, Ángel loves the noise, he likes shopping and bars too much to move in the middle of nowhere, especially not in a house like that.
THE DAUGHTER — A house like that?
THE REPORTER — Like I said, it's in the middle of nowhere. And old.
THE DAUGHTER — Is that all?
THE REPORTER — …It's stupid.
THE DAUGHTER — Tell me anyway.
THE REPORTER— Wow, I totally feel like opening up all of a sudden. I feel so listened to.
THE DAUGHTER — I went into medicine, not psychology, sorry.
THE REPORTER laughs.
THE REPORTER — It's just… I already went there to see my friend, and the house feels… Wrong.
THE DAUGHTER — Wrong?
THE REPORTER — I don't know how to explain it. But when I'm in that house, I keep getting this feeling that I shouldn't be here. Not in a 'I'm-breaking-the-law' way, but in a… Like I'm in danger. Like I just ate something bad, and I'm starting to have a fever. At first I thought it was something in the house, since it's so old, mold or asbestos or something, but Ángel lives there and he doesn't feel anything. I thought his roommate felt it too, but Ángel says that Oliver just has chronic health issues. Allergies and stuff.
She shrugs unconvincingly.
THE REPORTER — It's probably just my imagination. I haven't been sleeping well lately.
THE DAUGHTER — I don't think it is.
THE REPORTER doesn't protest. She looks at THE DAUGHTER, unsure, perhaps a bit surprised. It has been some time since anyone ever listened to her. Not to THE REPORTER. To her.
THE DAUGHTER — How long as your friend been living in the house?
THE REPORTER, with a smile — Fishing for information for your paper?
THE DAUGHTER, agreeably — It's good to have other insights.
THE REPORTER — Or does the house sound too spooky now?
THE DAUGHTER — There's nothing for me to fear from a house.
THE REPORTER, unconvinced — Right.
THE DAUGHTER — So?
THE REPORTER — Not too long. A month or two now.
THE DAUGHTER, in a whisper almost like that of a machine — That's a big house to be alone in.
THE REPORTER — He's not alone. He has a roommate living with him. He's weird.
THE DAUGHTER — Your friend?
THE REPORTER — No, the roommate. He's weird. He always appears out of nowhere, even if he was supposed to be in his room or whatever. I'm 99% sure he listens in on our conversations, because he'll mention a game I recommended to Ángel or something I said while just talking to him, not the both of them. He's a nosy, nosy creature. Like you, but worse.
THE DAUGHTER — I'm nosy?
THE REPORTER — You want to go on a private property without even knowing who lives there, or having beef with them. That's called being nosy.
THE DAUGHTER, sounding a tad amused — Ah.
THE REPORTER — I had to break the news to you. Sorry not sorry.
THE DAUGHTER — Thank you for informing me.
THE REPORTER — Once, I broke a glass when he wasn't in the room, and he mentioned it while I was leaving. To me specifically, not to Ángel who was also there and broke plenty of glasses in his thirty years of existence.
THE DAUGHTER, knowingly — …That's weird.
THE REPORTER nods. Then, she looks at THE DAUGHTER with renewed focus.
THE REPORTER — Why this house?
THE DAUGHTER — What?
THE REPORTER, clarifying — Why make your project be about this house specifically? It's far away from everything, it's not exactly practical if you have a project with a deadline.
THE DAUGHTER — Well, few people have heard about it, and that makes it interesting. That's why there was this project to make it into a museum, after all. And it has a big history. A house turned hospital after a big tragedy, and then no one died in there ever again… It's intriguing.
THE REPORTER — Someone died.
The bus hits a pothole, and shakes. THE DAUGHTER stares at THE REPORTER, looking shocked.
THE DAUGHTER — What?
THE REPORTER — Someone died in there a few months ago, right before my friend bought the property. That's actually why the town of Four Hills let go of it so easily, it was bad for their reputation to make a potential crime scene into a museum. Wouldn't have helped that much with the local tourism, y'know? It would have only attracted true-crime enjoyers. Now I don't know much about tourism, but true-crime enjoyers suck in general, so.
THE DAUGHTER, a bit shakily — What?
THE REPORTER — Yeah, they blow everything out of proportion, never check their sources and make a myth out of criminals. Now, there's sensationalism, but true-crime fans are a whole other beast. True crime videos have a yucky quality, too. And then they go and call themselves journalists.
THE DAUGHTER — Someone died in the house?
THE REPORTER — Oh, you're still on that! Yep. Past CEO Eugene Coli. If you look it up you'll probably find an article on it.
THE DAUGHTER — I don't have my phone on me right now.
THE REPORTER — Wait, here.
She grabs her phone, and quickly taps something into it, before passing it to THE DAUGHTER, who gingerly takes it, and starts reading.
THE DAUGHTER — 'Heat is the best treatment: past CEO Eugene Coli's life ends in a blast after failure to plot a revenge party', by Vivi Villalobos.
THE REPORTER, smiling — Yep. A good job, if I dare say so myself.
THE DAUGHTER — You wrote this?
THE REPORTER smiles wolfishly. THE DAUGHTER focuses back on the phone, and silently reads the article.
THE DAUGHTER — So he died of 'mysterious causes'?
THE REPORTER — I tried asking the medics but they weren't sure. There was an autopsy, but the family refused to grant me access to it.
THE DAUGHTER — Did you see the body?
THE REPORTER stares THE DAUGHTER down.
THE REPORTER — Not entirely. The family wouldn't let me see. But I caught a glimpse when they took his body inside the truck. It was burnt, like there was a fire. But nothing in the house was damaged. The police interrogated most of us to see if we had anything to do with it, but really, I hadn't even seen the guy, and he was the one to invite me. And then they found the toolshed with all the bombs and weapons and blood, so they stopped asking. (After a moment:) It was pretty freaky.
THE DAUGHTER — Right. And he died inside the house?
THE REPORTER, her gaze almost knowing — Weird thing to focus on but okay. Yes, his body was inside the house. It wasn't in a portion of the house I had explored, though. Nearly everything was kept under key in there, it was frankly paranoid shit.
THE DAUGHTER keeps quiet for a moment, looking at nothing. THE REPORTER doesn't have anything more to say, and so she waits, and stares.
THE DAUGHTER — I think…
She pauses.
THE REPORTER — Therefore you are?
THE DAUGHTER, with the shadow of a smile — Ha, yes.
Another silence.
THE DAUGHTER — Vivi, right?
THE REPORTER — The one and only. What about you?
THE DAUGHTER — Laura. (A pause.) Vivi, what if I told you that you were right?
THE REPORTER, mischievously — I would tell you that I'm right about a lot of things. What am I right about right now?
THE DAUGHTER — About the House of Vera being wrong.
THE REPORTER —Vivi— looks at the daughter —Laura— with something new on her face. Like she's seeing her for the first time. Like the sun after a long night. Like a key.
THE REPORTER — You're absolutely not here to take pictures for your paper.
THE DAUGHTER — Maybe. What makes you say that?
THE REPORTER — You don't have anything to take pictures with. You don't even have a phone.
THE DAUGHTER — I should have lied about that.
THE REPORTER, unhelpfully — I would have connected the dots either way. I'm a walking and talking lie detector.
THE DAUGHTER, not unkindly — I don't think that's true.
THE REPORTER — Not with that attitude!
THE DAUGHTER smiles, and it's big and real and perhaps even a bit excited. THE REPORTER giggles back, and it's honest and bright and perhaps a tad relieved. For a second, the bus is neither a hearse nor a confessional: it's a secret and it's filled with giddiness.
Then, the smiles disappear. THE REPORTER sobers up.
THE REPORTER — So. The house.
THE DAUGHTER — Yes. (She breathes in, and out.) There's something going on here. I knew what it was, but what you told me proves that whatever is happening now is different than what was happening before.
THE REPORTER — Is Ángel in danger?
THE DAUGHTER — I don't know. I don't think so.
THE REPORTER — You're not being super-duper reassuring.
THE DAUGHTER says nothing, because there's nothing to say to this. She came here with one very simple thing in mind. Now, the thing has morphed, and she cannot see how much it has changed.
THE DAUGHTER, with intent — How much do you know about your friend's roommate?
THE REPORTER — His name is Oliver Beebo. He's —was, probably, I don't know, he hasn't taken in any case recently— a private detective. He wasn't especially famous, but he's regarded as highly reliable by his clients, and helped in several cases, even in the Capital. He was invited to the House of Vera by Eugene Coli for some party. Apparently, he discovered that Eugene Coli planned for it to be a murder party before they found his body, but he wouldn't tell me about it: I learned it from Ángel, so (she shrugs). He moved in with Ángel because this, too, was his 'dream house'. He's been having health issues for some time.
THE DAUGHTER — I didn't expect you to give me that in-depth of an answer.
THE REPORTER — I looked him up online.
THE DAUGHTER — Hm.
THE REPORTER — Ángel talks about him a lot, too. Hard not to. They're roommates.
THE DAUGHTER — And you find him weird.
THE REPORTER — Yes.
THE DAUGHTER — Weird like the house?
THE REPORTER — That's a loaded question.
THE DAUGHTER — Your friend isn't here to hear your answer.
THE REPORTER leans back into her seat with a huff, not denying.
THE REPORTER — I don't know.
THE DAUGHTER says nothing. She only hums. THE REPORTER bristles, but says nothing: she has nothing else to add. There is nothing to say about THE ROOMMATE. He haunts them anyways.
THE DAUGHTER — Let me ask you something, Vivi. What do you know about haunted houses?
THE REPORTER — Wuh what.
THE DAUGHTER — Haunted houses.
THE REPORTER — Okay. Sure. What the hell. Well, they're houses in which someone died, and their ghost is haunting the place, because they're unable to move on, right?
THE DAUGHTER — Yes and no. You can haunt a house while still being alive.
THE REPORTER — What?
THE DAUGHTER — It's not as much the death that makes the haunting rather than the grief. A house can be haunted even if there wasn't ever a trace of a ghost, as long as you grieve the loved one hard enough.
THE REPORTER — Did you ever haunt a house?
THE DAUGHTER — Not me.
THE REPORTER — Who, then?
THE DAUGHTER — My dad.
THE REPORTER — Oh.
THE DAUGHTER — The haunting changes the house. The house starts following the whims of the person grieving, even if they don't make sense. A haunted house… It can do things that aren't normally possible.
THE REPORTER — Like magic?
THE DAUGHTER shrugs.
THE REPORTER — So you're just telling me that haunted houses are real, and that they have superpowers.
THE DAUGHTER — It sounds a bit insane when you put it like that.
THE REPORTER — A suggestion: (she politely raises her finger) perhaps it sounds a bit insane because it is a bit insane.
THE DAUGHTER — I'm not lying, though.
THE REPORTER — Okay. So then, what? The House of Vera is a haunted house?
THE DAUGHTER — Yes.
THE REPORTER — How are you so sure?
THE DAUGHTER — My father haunts it.
THE REPORTER stares.
THE REPORTER — What?
THE DAUGHTER — But something changed. Something went wrong, because what you told me doesn't make sense otherwise.
THE REPORTER — Is Ángel in danger.
THE DAUGHTER — If he doesn't feel like anything's wrong with the house, no, I don't think so.
THE REPORTER — Once again, not reassuring.
THE DAUGHTER — You would notice the lie anyway, right? I'd rather not lie to you.
THE REPORTER — Why?
THE DAUGHTER — I already told you everything. Why would I lie now?
THE REPORTER — Why did you tell me all this, anyway?
THE DAUGHTER — You had already noticed the gaps in my story. I wasn't about to dig myself into a hole any further.
THE REPORTER — You could have spun the story in another way to have it make sense. It would have been smarter. If you had kept up with the research paper story, I could have introduced you to Ángel, and allowed you to get inside the house without any trouble.
THE DAUGHTER — Is that you would have done, in my position?
THE REPORTER doesn't flinch. It's as good of an answer as any.
THE DAUGHTER — I don't know why I told you all of this. The bus ride is long. I haven't been in the region for… A long time, now. Maybe I was feeling nervous. Maybe I already figured you too were going home, and I just gravitated towards you. I just know that I wish there was somebody explaining all of this to me, instead of leaving me alone to figure it out.
THE REPORTER — But what if I hadn't believed you?
THE DAUGHTER — Does it matter, if you do?
THE REPORTER, choosing not to answer — What do you really want to do in the House of Vera?
The bus suddenly brakes. It's as sudden as an earthquake, as an ambush. The vehicle shakes and whines and the driver, somewhere far away in the heart of the engine, mumbles something inaudible. Both women are jostled forward, as if jumping out of their own bodies.
THE DAUGHTER — I want to let him rest.
THE REPORTER — The ghost?
THE DAUGHTER — Yes.
THE REPORTER — How do you do that?
THE DAUGHTER — You have to find the center of the grief.
THE REPORTER — What is it?
THE DAUGHTER — It's an object in the house. The embodiment of the grief.
THE REPORTER — Well those are the most unclear instructions I've ever been given. Don't tell me you plan on becoming a teacher.
THE DAUGHTER — Ha! No. It's just that I'm unsure what object it is. (lower, almost a whisper) At least I am now.
THE REPORTER — How can I help?
THE DAUGHTER looks up to THE REPORTER. THE REPORTER holds her gaze steadily. The bus slows, and comes to a stop.
THE DRIVER — Last stop, House of Vera!
THE DAUGHTER — Can you introduce me to your friend?
THE REPORTER, playfully — Hm, let me think. I can, but it will cost you.
THE DAUGHTER — Oh my. How much?
THE REPORTER — I'll decide once we're done.
THE DAUGHTER — That can't be a correct work ethic.
THE REPORTER — Sadge... Guess you don't want my help, then?
THE DAUGHTER — I do.
THE REPORTER — Perfect. Then, let's go!
LAURA rises from her seat. VIVI follows. Together, they walk along the bus, until they reach its middle, and one of its doors opens. They slowly get down, and leave the bus.
VIVI — Actually, I decided my price.
LAURA — Already?
VIVI, smugly — Yep. Let me do the talking. We don't want your cover blowing as soon as you open your mouth.
LAURA — A fair price.
VIVI — Temporary price. If Ángel is too difficult I'll up the charges.
The door closes. The bus hums back to life, and leaves.