log ✫ stuck on a line of misadventure.

[medeaspilled]

Catherine has a couple of her favorite models in town for the weekend, finagled access to a really lovely and picturesque venue, and a great deal of time free. Thus, she's spent most of the day taking advantage--but now things are beginning to close up in the large, sprawling restaurant-slash-museum she's been shooting pictures in the back of, and

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[lifeafter_life]

That depends on what she means by abandoned. By the majority of the restaurant-goers that frequent the place, yes, they generally tend not to take much notice of the upstairs with its old, faintly tragic reminders of a by-gone age. There's something heavy about the place, like the density of the memories attached to the various antiques are weighing down the air. The few people who do visit tend to leave sooner they'd planned, escaping back to the noisy clatter and hum of the restaurant with a sense of inexplicable relief. It could just be the dark of the place, or the blank eyes of the sculptures following them as they pass that makes them nervous

[medeaspilled]

Hearing a sudden voice doesn't quite make her jump, but that's only a credit to her reasonably even nature. She straightens up, leaning forward to get a look at the man addressing her. There's something like a prickle at the back of her neck, the way she gets sometimes when there's magic in the room--but different. Definitely supernatural.

And dead.

Well, holy fuck. She tears her gaze away from Arthur, who is considerably more coherent than a lot of the spirits she's encountered previously over the years (admittedly, those were wildly different circumstances). Right. Her cigarette. Catherine stares at it for a second, and immediately dismisses putting it out. No, now she really needs this, to hell with the law.

"Are you going to tell on me?" She tips her head back up to regard Arthur with curiosity.

[lifeafter_life]

Oh.

“Well, bugger me.” He doesn't intend to say that but, after so many years of dense, unforgiving silence he's become accustomed to talking aloud, announcing any stray thought that pops into his head to anyone who happens to be in the room at the time. After all, until now, there's never been anyone around to listen to him.

He stares at her for a long moment, his jaw uselessly slack, speechless for the first time in very nearly a century. He really, honestly can't believe it and if not for the fact that she was staring at him, not simply through him, he'd think it was some sort of - of - Well. He doesn't know what to think, really, so flabbergasted is he. He's never felt so substantial, so utterly real that, for a brief moment, he almost considers just striding across the room and giving her a hug, confident that his arms won't simply seep beneath her skin

FINALS STRUCK i am the worst, so sorry :c

[medeaspilled]

Her eyebrows raise in response to that moderately surprising greeting--but in a way, it puts her at ease. She's a verbal person by nature, and the fact that the dead man before her appears to be conversant is a good sign. Still pretty unsettling, though. Catherine makes a mental note to check out the posssibility for hauntings in locations before she chooses them, in the future.

Though he hardly seems like a poltergeist. She rises, one hand on her hip, studying him.

"No, I guess not. Well, fuck, this is pretty weird, isn't it?" Her accent (mostly the Cornish bits, because she's country as hell and doesn't even care) gets a little stronger, but she smiles amiably enough. "Neither of us were expecting an answer. On the plus side, I've met one of your sort before, so I'm not going to put us through the whole tedious 'have I gone mad' drama."