Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Imogen Temult has always known noise. Oppressive, restrictive, despotic noise. She is intimately familiar with the way in which it perforates the mind, how it overwhelms and occupies the entirety of one’s being until its presence becomes an extension of one's values and beliefs. She knows what it is like to yearn for the relief of its sacrilege, the onslaught of its stings, the numbing serenity that follows when you give into its clutch.

Imogen Temult has always known spirits. For spirits and noise are beings that are intrinsically intertwined, a union of sorrows bound to haunt the living until all that is left is the tranquillity of Iimbo. The blissful solitude that is formed when everyone and everything succumbs to The Nothing.

Even now as she half-heartedly listens to the mindless chattering of her friends, she instead focuses on the steady rolling of tires on the jagged gravel road that Chetney insisted they take on their trek to Castle Whitestone. Though this kind of noise is different, she finds comfort in its consistency, how it is amplified as she leans her head against the window of the campervan she and the Hells are all crowded into, how the noise now physically manifests as vibrations shoot down her body. She slips her headphones down to hang around her neck so she can rest unimpeded by the unpredictable clacks of plastic against glass, and allows herself to be consumed by the tremors that begin to grow inside of her. As she watches the world fly past her at an imperceptible pace, the noise grows. The less information she allows herself to process at once, the more she aids its expedition to pierce her mind - to un-moore her from her form.

Right as she reaches the cusp of its void, a warm hand on her shoulder jolts her back to reality.

“Imogen! I’m not supposed to show you this yet because I wanted to surprise you with it once we started filming, but I got you something for this week's investigation!” Fearne’s borderline feverish tone leads Imogen out of the stupor she had been wandering into, and instead Imogen turns herself to regard Fearne fully. Fearne’s hand teasingly trails down Imogen’s right arm before she reaches into one of the billowy folds of her dress, her long hair whipping around her as she turns her head, before settling once again as she turns back to Imogen and produces a small charm. Fearne makes eye contact with Imogen and tauntingly raises her eyebrows as she slips it into one of Imogen's clenched hands.

Imogen notices at that moment how her nails had been digging into her palms, her skin only unharmed due to the fingerless leather gloves that adorn and protect them. She stretches her fingers out, then gently cradles the charm that now rests in her grasp. “It’s protective!” Fearne continues, “I took it through the whole nine yards, bathed in the light of the moon and all that crap.” Imogen looks down at the charm, a small silver flower with almost imperceptible runes carved along its petals, and she slowly runs her thumb along its form. Each notch and groove rhythmically impacts along the sprawling scars that work their way from her fingertips up her arms, partially hidden beneath the gloves and a fleece-lined denim coat that rests on Imogen's shoulders. She returns her eyes to Fearne’s as she continues to fiddle with the charm.

“It’s beautiful, Fearne.” Imogen whispers, fighting the croak that's built in her voice from the many hours it's been since she's used it. “Where did you find this?” Fearne simply shrugs her shoulders in response, smiles softly at Imogen, and places a gentle kiss on her temple.

“Doesn't matter now.” Fearne responds with a wink as she stands, seemingly ready to return to where the rest of the Hells have gathered. Imogen moves her hand to where Fearnes lips had pressed against her head, drags the sleeve of her jacket along it, and is left unsurprised at the small blotch of lipstick that now seeps into the denim. “You’ll have much more use for it anyways!” Fearne states as she stands, turning towards Imogen once again as she reaches a hand out towards her, “You gonna join us or you gonna sit there in your head for a little while longer?” Imogen’s eyes fall to the small charm in her hand and she runs her thumb along its grooves once more. She untangles her crossed legs, places her hand in Fearne’s and allows herself to be led to the front of the van.

----

“Alright team, listen up!” As Imogen takes her first steps out of the campervan Chetney’s shrill voice rings loudly across the courtyard where the group has begun to crowd. She watches as members of their crew scurry between various trucks and cars, moving and unpacking the many boxes of equipment the Hells have brought with them for this week's investigation. “This week is going to be hectic!” Chetney calls, “I need everyone to get their shit together and pay attention! This is our biggest case yet, and our most dangerous one at that, so there's no room for our usual dumb mistakes! We’re going to be doing far more frequent check-ins between each investigation, which means no seal of approval, no go! We can't afford to-'' he continues the usual spiel he's sung before every one of their investigations, always insisting that their current case is “the big break” they've been looking for, and Imogen places her headphones over her ears and tunes out Chetney's crotchety yapping.

She takes a seat on one of the wooden crates left unattended and begins picking at the hem of her shirt, worn down over time by her anxious fiddling. In reality nothing major ever changes between their investigations and each case goes as follows. The hells arrive at their new “home” for the week and day one they take a tour with the owners, their current employers, and learn vaguely about the history of the site. First as a group, getting a lay of all the main hubs of activity, and then splitting off for either paired or solo exploration to get a feel for the locale on a more personal level. They make note of any areas they wish to investigate with more focus later, then return to the group to discuss anything that caught their eye. They then form a basic plan of events, highlighting any specific investigations the team want to do, then leave to explore whatever local town is in the area. They mingle with the community, gather any information they can about the site they’ll be inspecting, and enquire about any personal paranormal sightings or experiences people have had.

Day one is always the day Imogen dreads the most.

For the most part the tours are easy enough to manage. Though the noise builds with the proximity to spirits, with it comes the ease of familiarity. This is a type of noise she has known all her life, one that has followed her since she was a young girl. To Imogen, spirits are more than spectors and shadows. They weave themselves into the deepest recesses of her mind, entirely filling each and every crack with their ever elastic form, devout to their cause and desire to inhabit. Spirits may be forceful in the paths they take through one's self, but they are upfront in the nature of their goals. Some may trick and scheme and toy, but rarely do they hide their intent, rarely do they lie. Their presence undeniably brings Imogen pain, susceptible to the clamour of their existence, but it is one that she cannot fault them for. The way in which Imogen interacts with spirits is unlike any of her companions. To make connections they must seek it with a purpose. Various tools, rituals and apparatus aid them in their hunt, but for Imogen the ability to connect is second nature.

She has always had a companionship with the other side, despite it being the very reason she was driven to isolation. The scars that wind across her arms were the first sign, physical proof of her earliest encounter with phantasmal beings. They started as simple bruising across her fingertips, small ragged lines that trailed and crackled across her skin like lightning. The more she opened herself to the amity of spirits, the more the scars grew and the darker they stained. Imogen is able to sense their presence, a deep buzzing that flits between droneing and frenzied depending on the beings state of mind. No matter their intent it is always overwhelming, always painful, and it is always draining.

At first it brought her nothing but grief. It placed a beacon upon her head that the people around her scorned and shunned her for. Even in her own home, that bitter stab was far more reliable than any of her family. She had never known her mother, dead before Imogen was old enough to hold any memories of her love, and as soon as Imogen was deemed “different” from the rest of her community her father began to pull away, unsure of how to connect with her. So instead, she turned to the noise, all consuming, inviting,

Effortless.

Imogen looks up to Chetney and watches as Ashton sidles up beside him and leans down to place a hand on the older man's shoulder. A grin works its way up their face as they heartily slap Chetney's back and cackle, uttering words Imogen cannot hear with the distance between them, and Chetney frantically pushes their hand away and points a scornful finger in his face. Her many friends and partners all stand around the area, an undeniably excitable energy flickering between them, an interconnected pulse mixed of nerves, hopes and ambition. She watches as Ashton drops to a squat beside Chetney's smaller frame, reaching forward to ruffle his hair and she can't quite stifle a giggle at the exasperated expression that Chetney makes as he pulls away from Ashton entirely. Chetney waves a hand dismissively in Ashton's face before he begins to make his rounds around the group to check in with each member of the team. Ashton in turn returns to FCG’s side, who seems to gently suggest something to Ashton, but Ashton simply shakes his head and laughs once again before wrapping an arm around FCG’s back and leading them towards the entrance to the Castle.

Chetney’s saunters over in the direction of Fearne, running his hand through his hair before striking a pose by her side as he begins chattering what is undeniably nonsense in an attempt to woo her. To his credit, whatever stunt he's just pulled seems to work as Fearne leans over him to trail her hand down the side of his face, almost mimicking the motion of comfort she had given Imogen earlier that day. Though this time it is done with far more intent, and a sultry sway of her hip. Chetney seems to fumble at that, a noise escaping his throat so loud that Imogen is able to make it out even over the music playing in her headphones, and he gives Fearne an over dramatic wink as he turns and regards Dorian and Orym at her side. Still, Imogen watches. Even when Dorian catches her eye, an inviting expression on his face, a warm smile, she stays seated on the crate. One of her hands has now moved down, gripping the edge of it and drifting across the many tiny splinters jutting out of it.

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, allows herself to feel. She takes in the sensations of the environment around her, the cool wind that tickles through her hair and soothes her ever scorching skin. Through the sheer shirt she wears under her coat, she focuses on how the wind dances through her clothes, trailing from her navel up to her sternum. She feels the crate under her palms with intent now, pulling her other hand away from her shirt to mirror the one already resting on the crate. She runs her fingers across each and every divot and dent, moving along in time to an interlude that has begun playing through her headphones. She breathes. She feels.

She feels.

She feels a gentle nudge of something against her boots and opens her eyes to see Chetney standing before her. He says nothing, simply nodding his head in the direction of the castle and begins to move towards it. He doesn't need to look over his shoulder to see if Imogen is following, as he hears her stumble to her feet and jog momentarily to catch up to his pace.

----

As Imogen had imagined, the inside of the castle is just as beautiful as the exterior. Grand pillars and arches adorn every wall in which they can fit, and expertly crafted furniture and art rests in every nook and cranny. For a place as big as this, Imogen is surprised by how loved it feels. How everything that decorates its halls seems to be placed with intent, with a weight that implies deep memories and care for every object around her.

The deeper in they venture the louder the noise in her head grows, a confirmation that spirits are indeed what plagues these halls, but as she looks around the castle all she sees is warmth. If not for the nature of her abilities, she would have laughed in the face of the woman employing them as she told them the history of the castle. How she had said there had been many disappearances dating back roughly 35 years. Tales of her own encounters with spirits that slinked through the halls of her and her husband's home, that stole people away to the maze of tunnels that rested beneath the surface.

Imogen keeps a slight distance between herself and her friends as the Lady of the castle continues their general tour, choosing instead to focus inward. She still picks up broken pieces of the conversation, tales of the Lady's life and adventures, of her family and friends, of her children. Imogen notes how the power with which she carries herself momentarily falters when she explains to the group that she and her husband had to move their children from their home in order to keep them protected from the spirits. How the one she’d encountered the most, the one of malice, seemed drawn to younger people, how she had caught it watching over them. She explains how 35 years ago there had been a violent series of murders in the winding tunnels under the castle. How a woman named Delilah Briarwood had usurped it's throne and used her position in an attempt to complete some ancient satanic-like ritual, though in worship to a being she still knows very little information about. The Lady explains that the Castle has long belonged to her husband's family, a man named Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III, (a name which Imogen hardly registers a word of), and how they too had been killed by this very woman. She tells them of her husband Silas Briarwood, her partner in crime, and how many years after they usurped the throne they too fell dead shortly after a second string of murders.

It's about this point in the Lady's stories that Imogen fully loses herself in her own head, that all too familiar buzzing in growing to the forefront of her mind and overwhelming her senses. It's not any louder than it usually is, no difference in the way it bites through her body, but today she does not fight it. The fact is, Imogen is tired.She's been tired all her life, she thinks. But as she walks the halls of this castle, built from the foundations with such a loving touch, she finds her eyelids drooping heavier than usual. She feels oddly at ease being in this Castle.

She feels safe.

She thinks about how insane she would sound had she spoke those words aloud, given they're here to investigate a potentially murderous spirit that's been dragging people into the depths of the tunnels for 35 years now, and the Not-Quite-Satanic-Cult Leader to be they suspect is behind the malevolent being here. Imogen clocks the presence of many spirits during their guided tour, nothing she particularly feels the need to point out yet, as it goes without saying that they are simply the wandering souls of the many victims bound to this castle. They don't seem to manifest in a way that is material enough to be of use, spirits such as these that are stuck between life and death, but not quite aware enough of their existence to interact with the world. These spirits are the type Imogen sees and feels every day, the many locked souls of people long past, no true form to use as their soul wanders to whatever life may come after this one. They tend to be less loud than others, simply husks that linger behind. They contribute to the noise, enough that Imogen is mindful to keep her distance from where she suspects they stand unseen but known and registered in her mind.

Imogen only truly makes notes of spirits whose presence is booming. Ones which needle into her mind in a way that Imogen has come to learn means they are aware of their liminal existence. Ones who are able to interact with the mortal world, able to whisper into the ears of the living, shift the breeze around them, send messages through the shells as they fall. These are the ones they are here to investigate, and ultimately, help move on to the other side. That's their goal. Unlike other teams of paranormal investigators, Bell's Hell’s do not hunt ghosts to provoke. They hunt ghosts to learn, to make sense of the world around them and aid lost souls in their quest to find peace. In most cases that's simply all it is, rarely do they encounter a spirit that attempts to harm them beyond some mischief and mayhem.

Furthermore, this is where Imogen's goals lie personally. Every member of her team has their own reasons for being here. For some it may be knowledge, curiosity, connection. For others it's to prove to the world that spirits are not what the greater public views them as.

For Imogen, her hunt is for relief. Every spirit they aid, every soul they lead to their second passing, is another key in the cacophony of her mind plucked away. If their existence is this imposing to her, she does not wish to think of what potential pain the spirits themself may go through.

She turns her head over to where her friends trial behind the Lady of the Castle, whatever story she’s currently regaling them with now lost on Imogen as she comes out of her thoughts and back to reality. She picks up her pace momentarily to catch up with the group once again, and follows as they continue their guided tour.

----

Imogen fiddles with the small silver charm that rests in the right pocket of her jacket as she stares up at a giant painting in one of the many assorted activity chambers she has wandered through today. This one in particular has continued to catch her eye, her gaze constantly flickering back towards it as she inspects the various bookcases and shelves, littered with random trinkets and vases from the many adventures of the owners of the Castle. The painting depicts a group of women, sprawled across a marble floor in various states of pleasure and emotion and a second group of women standing around them. It's a painting Imogen is familiar with, one with a history of solidarity, protection and movement.

Imogen takes a few steps towards it, standing only a few feet away from it as she cranes her neck up to take a better look at it. She zeros in on one figure in particular, right in the centre of the painting, curled in a little ball with her head in her hands. Imogen's eyes drift across-

The music in her headphones stutters and stops. “Stupid fuckin’ thing-” Imogen murmurs under her breath, exasperated, reaching down to where her phone is in her back pocket and begins fiddling with the button that keeps it in place. “knew I should've brought the battery pack-” she sighs and tilts her head to look all the way up at the ceiling as she lets out a long drawn out breath. She pauses for a moment and flits her gaze down to her where her phone now rests in her hands but her eyes catch on something in the painting.

A dark inky splotch now covers the face of the woman in the centre of it. Imogen removes her grip on the charm in her front pocket and tentatively reaches forward to wipe the ink off the glass frame. It's cold, colder than she was expecting, and the shock of it seems to travel up the scars on her arm leaving goosebumps in its wake. Imogen tilts her head curiously and brings her thumb up to meet the ichor on her fingertips, viscous and gummy as she pulls it back and watches rapt as the substance seems to cling to her touch.

“What in the-?” She turns her hand this way and that, watching the way the light simultaneously catches and bounces off of it. She looks back up at the painting where the ichor has now smeared down across the glass, wipes it off her hands on the side of her pants, then uses the cuff of her jacket to clean it off the glass entirely.

Imogen turns to take in the room behind her. Right now she is alone, opting instead to partake in a solo investigation to get a better read on the spirits that reside here without any interruptions from her friends. She closes her eyes and opens her mind, searching and reaching for anything in the area she may not be able to perceive otherwise.

She follows the many winding paths the noise pulls her through, her confusion only growing when she fails to come into contact with anything out of the ordinary.

She brings her sleeve up to her face, inspecting the substance that now stains it once again, a dark pigment lying alongside the remnants of Fearne’s lipstick.

“What are you?”

She suspects the substance to be some sort of ectoplasm, but for some reason this one still clings to her clothes. Usually something like this would fade after a few moments, simply signs of spirits that are unable to materialise for long. This gathers on her clothes like a lifeline, gathers on her skin, her fingertips pigmented with remnants of its form.

Imogen turns her attention to her body now, realising that if this substance isn't ectoplasm, it could potentially be something harmful. She braces herself for jolts of pain, or stiff limbs as it seeps into her blood veins but Imogen feels a sense of calm wash over her. She stretches her shoulders back and notes how many of her muscles loosen up, a reprieve her body rarely grants her. She stands up on the tips of her toes for a moment before swivelling back around to the painting, any evidence of the ichor being there instead adhering to her skin and clothes.

She waits.

She watches.

She feels.

She hears.

She hears music, and looks down at her phone in an instant, gleeful that it seems to have fixed itself without her influence and she pauses when she sees the screen is dark.

That's strange.

She pulls her headphones off to hang around her neck, searching for the source of the sound and she fails to place what direction it's coming from, wandering around the room for a few moments testing in which way the volume grows until she realises the sound seems to be coming from somewhere internal.

That's very strange.

The music is orchestral, but the harder she tries to attune herself to it the vaguer it gets, until it almost feels as if the concept of a song is lingering in her mind. She hears a tune, but when she tries to replicate its notes she is unable to produce a single key that seems to fit.

The music is calming. Though she cannot discern where it comes from, or what it might mean, she finds herself caring less and less the more she listens to it. Like most noise, it works its way through the space still yet to be filled in her mind, but this time it does not sting. It does not fight to make its presence known, and it only occupies that which Imogen allows it to. It listens to her desires and matches them, soothing her ever racing mind with understanding and aid as opposed to overwhelming them to the point of numbing. It caresses every fibre of her being and Imogen feels worshipped.

The music is safe.

Chapter Text

From their table at the back of the Tipsy Quorum, Imogen Temult listens. Not to the 200 step plan Chetney is rattling off about for how they're going to kick off their first day of official filming, not to the way FCG’s voice rapidly changes in pitch as they excitedly explain the hidden history of the castle he has managed to dig up, and certainly not to Fearnes flirtatious comments whenever anyone in the group does anything remotely-

Well, when anyone does anything at all really.

Instead, Imogen listens in an attempt to find that beautifully haunting melody that has plagued her mind since she had heard it earlier that day.

Imogen did not know beauty until she heard that song, she thinks.

She looks up from the stack of papers that her friends have passed to her throughout their meeting and sets her sights onto Fearne. Unknowingly, she glares at her. Watching as Fearne nods along to FCG’s ramble, watching as she places a hand on Orym's shoulder, watching until she bores into the side of Fearne's head and she turns to meet Imogen’s eyes, raising her eyebrows questioningly.

At this Imogen stutters, choking on the fries she had been scarfing down -her first real meal of the day- and averts her gaze back to her plate. She waits a few seconds, then looks back up at where Fearne had been seated, only to find she’s gone. Imogen frantically searches the room, and after a few seconds she feels a tug on her sleeve and looks to her left to see Fearne standing there. Uncharacteristically, Fearne sheepishly nods her head to the back door of the tavern and signals for Imogen to follow her. She turns, leaves, and Imogen remains in her seat for a few moments, perplexed, before getting up and following Fearne out the door.

How is she supposed to explain she is unreasonably mad at Fearne? Not even in the sense that she has strong emotions, but purely because it is entirely unjustifiable. That she's only upset because Fearne had messaged her in the midst of her listening to that melody, and scared off whatever had caused it, just to tell Imogen it was time for everyone to meet back up.

That Imogen would have much rather spent the rest of her life sinking into that sound, building her own little shelter to house both herself and whatever was causing it. Explain how, quite possibly for the first time in her life, she felt the muscles in her body ease from their ever tense state, only to painfully shoot back to normal the second that song slinked away?

Imogen follows Fearnes path towards the back alley of the tavern, ignoring the curious glance Ashton sends her, and pulls out the small silver charm in her pocket to fiddle with as she steps out the door.

She spots Fearne immediately, leaning against the brick wall of the building opposite the back door, tilting her head down ever so slightly to meet Imogen's eyes. A soft smile paints her face, always so soft, and she slowly reaches her arms out towards Imogen.

Imogen closes the distance between them, turns her gaze to her feet, and Fearne takes Imogen's hands in her own. She stills Imogen's anxious fiddling, gently pries her hands open and her thumb rubs along the backside of Imogen's gloves. The other slowly works its way up, hovering over the few scars that break through the empty sides of Imogen's gloves, until it nudges at the charm Imogen is still clinging to.

“I take it you like it then?” Fearne asks, her voice so hushed Imogen hardly hears the words with her headphones on.

Imogen only nods in response, now looking at the charm herself and a small smile breaks across her face at the sight of it.

“So what's bugging you then?” Fearne continues, her movements becoming surer as the hand not toying with the charm moves to hold Imogen's forearm with a firmer grasp. Imogen looks up at Fearne, somehow stilling even more. “You've never been distant like this with me. Usually it's after Ashton says something that's too blunt or Orym reads you too harshly or FCG says something without thinking about it for more than 3 seconds.” her voice grows quieter yet, teetering off into a breathy chuckle. She runs her hand up Imogen's arm, leaving an encouraging squeeze along her trail. “Talk to me, Imogen”

“It's not you, Fearne, really.” Imogen responds, dropping the hand not holding the charm to reach out and grab the other woman's elbow with the same softness Fearne has shown her throughout their encounter.

“It's just,” Imogen vaguely gestures around her temple with a wild flair. “all this, y’know?”

Fearne pulls away slightly at that, and for a moment Imogen’s mind reverts back to that of her childhood. Thoughts racing over how she should have said nothing, how Fearne is going to think of her differently now, how she should have known speaking about her connection to the spirits would fuck things up again, and again, and again- But this is Fearne. Fearne sees her, loves her even. They've been side by side for as long as Imogen can remember genuine joy has existed in her life for.

Fearne pulls away, but not to leave, only to take in more of Imogen at once.

“It's not just ‘all that' though, is it?” Fearne asks.

Imogen shakes her head.

Fearne eyes her meticulously now, trying to catch any insight into what's going through Imogen's head.

“Did Orym do something? Does the Lady of the castle give you weird vibes? I mean she was hot but I wouldn't be surprised if she was into some freaky shit. Someone in the tavern eye you weird? Chetney made another stupid joke or.. did you find something in the castle?” Fearne rattles off question after question, most of them lost on Imogen's ears until the final one grabs her attention.

“Listen, Imogen,” dedication and intent picks up in Fearne’s voice as she continues, “I know you have no issue with feeling or whatever, I mean you're always helping me, encouraging me to do just that - but you never let yourself feel organically, wholeheartedly. You never let yourself feel for you, and honestly it's stupid! Everything you do is for those around you, whether it be for the hells, or the locals of the towns we visit, or the spirits themselves. Imogen, you're allowed to be selfish.”

Those final words ring in Imogen's head, calming down to a memory from years prior. She had told Fearne almost those very words.

~~

“I know you're tryin’ real hard to be sweet and forgivin’ but, Fearne, you're allowed to be angry.”

Imogen’s hand placed on Fearne's shoulder pulls away at that. Words she desperately wished she could convince Fearne were true. Fearne's parents were not bad people, but they were not good parents. Everything they did, they say they did for Fearne, leaving her with a woman they hardly knew to keep her ‘safe’. Leaving her to find information they felt was integral to Fearnes safety, hiding her away to keep dangerous people from harming her.

But even upon their reunion, at the first sight of danger Fearne’s mother had run away, again. Imogen knew Fearne was more than able to take care of herself, but how would her mother have known that? Her mother did not know her at all. They left her.

~~

They left her.

He left her.

He left me.

“You're allowed to be angry.”

Words she desperately wished she could convince herself were true. Her father was not a bad person, but he was not a good father. He distanced himself from her, and she wishes she could say it was for her own good but the truth is it was due to his own selfishness. Leaving her to protect his reputation in Gelvaan, hiding her away to keep people from learning too much about her. He left her. There would be no reunion.

At the first sign of her difference, Imogen’s father had isolated her. Imogen told herself it was a good thing, that it taught her control and independence, but how could her father have done that to her? She was a child. Her father did not know her at all. He left her. They lived under the same roof, yet still she was alone. He left her.

What did she do to cause that rift? For something entirely out of her control? For something she prayed day and night would go away? Because she's a reminder? A reminder of every facet of his life he wishes would return to him, a reminder of everything he lost, everything that's changed, everything that's wrong and different and cruel?

Why does he not love her anymore?

Imogen is desperately clinging to the soft shawl draped over Fearnes shoulders. She can barely breathe. She's shaking so violently Fearne begins to worry she might somehow hurt herself by dislocating a limb or pulling a muscle. Imogen’s chest is pounding and she registers how little air she's taking in, registers the racing of her heart, the breaking of her heart.

He wasn't even why she was upset, hell she wasn't even truly upset. He had nothing to do with any of it, yet still he plagues her mind. What will it take for her to make peace with that part of her life? She's dealt with countless spirits, curses, and hauntings. Why of all fucking things is he the one thing she can't shake? Why is he able to sink into her far more than any attachment she's had in her years of hunting? Why is her own father the biggest horror Imogen has ever had to face?

Fearne moves the hand resting on Imogen's arm to the nape of Imogen's neck, gently pulling in the now frail form of the woman beneath her into her chest. She untangles their hands where Imogen is clawing into her skin to wrap the shawl around the two of them, then grasps Imogen's hand once again.

She holds Imogen, and Imogen isn't too sure just how much time passes in the other woman's arms.

Eventually the sporadic stutters of her breathing mellow out into something more manageable. Her shaking calms, and Fearne feels the strength in Imogen's body return the longer she holds her for.

Imogen pulls herself out of Fearne's grasp, just enough to be able to look up into her eyes, and she watches as the tension melts away from Fearnes face at the sight of her.

“There,” Fearne utters, one of her hands reaching up to gently wipe away the tracks of tears that paint Imogen's face. “Better?”

Imogen nods her head ‘yes’, and opens her mouth to respond, explain what happened, reassure Fearne that she did nothing wrong, but she struggles to produce any sound save for a strangled groan. She huffs at that and her throat aches. Her entire body feels as though it's been wrung dry, yet has simultaneously been taught as a wire for who knows how long now. Her knees are still shaking, and she looks around and realises at some point throughout this all Fearne must have brought the two of them down to the ground.

Fearne untangles their hands, and places both her hands on Imogen's shoulders. Imogen relaxes further at that, following Fearne’s silent command with ease. She goes to speak again, but before she can even attempt to get out a sound Fearne hushes her.

“We can talk more later, if you'd like.” Fearne begins, her hands making slight movements across Imogen's shoulders, “But right now you're obviously drained and you need to rest. Saying ‘you look like you've been hit by a truck' would be the understatement of the year.”

Imogen perks up, frustration knotting across her brows as she attempts to assure Fearne she's fine, but a painful sting alights across her mind even at the thought of trying to speak right now.

Fearne chuckles and slowly brings Imogen and herself to their feet. “You don't need to explain yourself to me Imogen.” She taps her own temple and shoots Imogen a shifty wink. “I know people, especially you.”

Imogen smiles up at Fearne, bringing her in for one last tight hug that knocks the air out of Fearne's lungs at the sheer force of it.

“How about for now we get back inside?” Fearne asks her, “I think I'm about to freeze my tits off out here, and fuck would that be a loss for the ages.”

Imogen giggles and Fearne adjusts her shawl on Imogen's shoulders to sit more comfortably, wraps her own arm around Imogen to pull her in closer, and begins walking the two of them back inside.

--

After retiring to bed after her encounter with Fearne, Imogen sits in her room at the very back corner of the Tipsy Quorum and stares at the ceiling in contemplation.

Why was she so upset?

It goes without saying that thinking about her father for too long in any scenario is enough to elicit a panic attack of some sorts, but she struggles to grasp exactly why it hit her so quickly today.

She was fine. She has been fine for so long now. Infact today was maybe the most fine day she's had all year!

She huffs to herself and pulls herself up to sit cross legged in the centre of the bed.

The sheets they provided were fine, if a bit scratchy, she supposes, but the blanket had the most god awful texture and has since been flung to the furthest corner of the room never to be touched again, and replaced with her favourite knit blanket she had brought in case of this very scenario.

It's fine.

She looks around the room, cracks sprawling across the walls in patterns similar to those that stretch her arms.

See? Fine.

The ceiling fan above her clacks with every rotation it makes, the base of it hanging off the ceiling and clinging to the wires desperately, its light flickering every few minutes.

She’s sure that's fine.

She hears the most ungodly gurgling sound emitting from the bathroom where she suspects the pipes are fighting for their life to produce water for the many rooms packed into the back half of this tavern.

Totally fine.

She reaches to her side to flick the small heater on in her room, and she pretends not to notice the small sparks that emit from the power socket as she does so.

Without a doubt in her mind, 100%, absolutely, undeniably fine!

Maybe if she says fine another couple hundred times she can finally get the message through her head enough to believe it.

Imogen lets herself fall back on the bed and holds her charm up to the light to get a better look at it, and in doing so her eyes drift over to the dark splotches still on her jacket's sleeve.

Right, that’s why she felt all wired up and as sensitive as a REM pod.

and now she was thinking about fuckin’ ghost hunting equipment in her own internal monologue, that's also fine.

She pulls her arm up close to her face to better investigate the inky substance on her jacket, as if the near hours she had already spent practically gawking at it weren't enough.

Obviously, it wasn't the substance that had her so on edge, but whatever had created it. There had to be more to it, she refused to accept it was a coincidence she found it at the same time she felt that presence.

That is what that was, right? A presence? spirit?

She had never felt something so soothing during one of her investigations before, let alone during any spiritual encounter she’s had in her many years acclimated to their existence. Imogen knows spirits, she’s known them almost her whole life and they have always been intrusive. No matter their intent, nor nature, to be around a spirit has always meant pain for Imogen. There is nothing reasonable that indicates this was a spirit, it felt nothing like one, yet Imogen is near certain the music must have belonged to a soul as pure as it was.

As she recounts the day's events in her head she can't help but linger on those few minutes she spent in that reading room.

This was why she felt so fucked up earlier.

If this really was a spirit, then why did it feel so different? Why did she find herself craving its company? The company of something she wasn't even entirely sure had any sort of sentience, the spirits they encounter rarely do. Something that even if it was sentient was still a fuckin’ ghost for Gods sake!

But it was so real. When Fearne messaged her she could have sworn she’d heard something. The melody didn't just disappear, but it stuttered, it gasped as it fled.

It fled.

But those few moments she had with it..

Why did a spirit she wasn't even certain was real bring her more comfort simply at the idea of its existence, then her own-

She glares at the ichor on her jacket and starts rubbing at it, trying to get it off her sleeve.

This was stupid. This is stupid. Why does she care so much? Stupid fucking ghost, stupid beautiful fuckin’ melody, stupid fuckin-

“GODS why won't this stupid shit come off-” she begins practically tearing away at her sleeve, her nails digging into it in a frenzy, desperate to remove the stains on her jacket.

She groans to herself and gets out of the bed to scamper over to the small bathroom in the corner of her room. She grasps the handle and struggles to turn it, locked in on itself from what was likely years worth of rust buildup.

“Shit! Better not get tetanus from this stupid.. fuckin'.. door..!” With the final few words she slams her side into the door in an attempt to force it open, and as the door swings open Imogen trips over her feet at the momentum.

She stumbles her way to the bathroom sink and paws at the latches of the tap to turn it on and begins piling soap into her hand. It lets out that same gurgle she had heard only moments prior and spits out a single gush of water before coming to a screeching halt.

“Are you-” Imogen kicks the base of the sink in her frustration, only stubbing her toe in the process when she realises she no longer has her shoes on.

“AEOW! Dag’fuckin’” A shriek of something vaguely southern leaves her lips and even she can't quite make out the nonsense she spills in her pain.

One of her hands whiteknuckle the edge of the sink to hold herself up, as the other dangles helplessly over the basin covered in soap.

She takes a few moments to recover, uses a nearby towel to remove the soap from her hand before slowly hopping her way back to her bed.

Imogen all but collapses into the bed, and the ever so slightly scratchy sheets makes her eye twitch. Defeated, Imogen shrugs her jacket off, flings it to land somewhere on the bed, along with the rest of her day clothes and slips into her pyjamas. She traces the outline of one of the small cartoonish ghosts that line the sleep pants Fearne had bought her as part of a matching set for some stupid gift she can't recall the meaning for, and she crawls under the covers of her bed.

She turns to her side, and just her luck, the ichor stained sleeve of her jacket greets her. She fights the urge to reach out towards it, reprimanding herself for even having the thought, and shuts her eyes tightly as she falls asleep.

--

When Imogen awakes in the morning she springs to her feet and rushes through her morning routine. She hastily washes her face, throws her clothes on while brushing her teeth, pulls her headphones to hang around her neck and packs her satchel to the brim with all the equipment she wants to mess around with today.

Running her fingers through her hair as she walks out of her room, locking the door as she goes, turning to try to force her bag closed, she almost smashes into Chetney full force in her hurry.

“WATCH IT!” he cries, huffing at Imogen as he dusts off his side where Imogen tripped into him in her attempt to slow down her pace. “GEEZ! Messing with perfection this early in the morning, what's gotten into you!”

“Shit, sorry chet!” Imogen yelps as she braces herself, arm splayed across the wall above Chetney's head, and begins pushing away once she regains her footing. “I didn't see you there, honest.” Unable to help herself, Imogen breaks out into a light chuckle, and continues “I didn't see you down there.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it! But the world wouldn't be able to handle al’a’this if it came in any size larger. Besides, I've mastered my craft fine enough as is.” he curls one eyebrow up flirtatiously and a sly smirk begins to grow across his face as he gestures up and down his body wildly, using the tip of his chisel as a pointer.

“Ew- what the-” Imogen hastily pushes herself as far away from him as quickly as she can at that and Chetney cackles as he nudges Imogen down the hallway towards the bar of the Tipsy Quorum.

“What's got you in such a rush anyways?” He asks, “usually you're the last person ready when we're out on these things.”

“Just, excited for the investigation s’all,” she folds her arms across her chest protectively as she answers and slows her pace slightly to allow Chetney to keep up with her easier. “It’s a cool site, and the case is interesting, and I don't know I guess I'm just lookin’ forward to figuring out more about the goings on with this one.”

Chetney shrugs in response and continues down the hall silently, pulling out a small chunk of wood from somewhere on his person and he begins quickly chipping away at the block with a small chisel. Imogen watches rapt at his actions, and though she'd never admit it to him, wildly impressed with the ease in which he begins moulding its form.

“What are you workin’ on today, Chet?” Her eyes still locked on the wood as she questions him.

“None of your business, at least not until it's finished. An artiste never reveals their secrets!” His own gaze doesn't leave the wood for even a moment as he answers Imogen.

“Isn't that phrase about magicians?”

He scoffs at her, before crying out, “Yeah!” as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. “And what I'm working on is going to be a thing of wonders!”

Imogen rolls her eyes in response and the two walk to the main bar without another word spoken between them.

They find a spot in one of the far corners, pushing two tables together to make space for the rest of their friends once they awake and join them. Chetney kicks at Imogen's foot and nods his head towards the bar, asking Imogen if she wants anything to help wake her up. She asks for a cup of coffee, declining his offer for food in favour of waiting for the others to gather so they can all order together.

He returns a few minutes later with two mugs and slides into the table opposite Imogen and continues chipping away at his carving while they sip at their coffees.

They sit in silence until Orym makes his way into the tavern shortly followed by Ashton and Dorian, and the three join Imogen and Chetney at the table and immediately begin running over their plan for the first day of filming. Well, Orym runs over the plans, everyone else simply nods along to his instructions and Ashton makes the odd comment or two about his own solo investigation throughout the castle.

Most of the information they share with the group ends up being entirely pointless, more so comments on the homeowners than the investigation itself.

Before long Fearne and FCG eventually join the group, Fearne sitting next to Chetney and FCG taking a seat at the end of the table next to Imogen. With everyone gathered Orym notes down everyone's wants for breakfast, and heads to the barkeep to order for them all.

Imogen looks to her left and ever so slightly down to look at FCG as he shoots her a warm grin and says, “Well, smiley day Imogen!” They speak with far more energy anyone should be able to reasonably muster this early in the morning, Imogen decides, but Imogen smiles back at them regardless.

“Mornin’, Letters. You sleep alright?” She drawls, her accent thicker as her body fights to wake up, the burst of energy she had earlier seeming to be wearing off already.

Letters, FCG, Fresh-Cut-Grass. A nickname he had earned due to a series of scars across his chest from their many surgeries over the years that vaguely resemble blades of grass.

She takes in their smaller form, dark skin with dyed blue dreads pulled back into a ponytail. They currently have a patchy yellow sweater on, and a blue coat atop it, fit to face the weather as it grows further into the winter here in Whitestone.

He swings his body around to face her fully, his walking cane resting on the booth seat he and Imogen are sharing tumbling with the force and Imogen kicks her leg out to catch it.

“Thanks, Imogen.” His accent is similar to Imogen's own, though far sharper and shriller especially during his many moments of heightened excitement. He begins rattling off details about his room and how he slept, then swivels off into conversation about the history of Whitestone and the castle again. Imogen nods along, though many of the details are lost on her as she struggles to keep up with his pace.

She settles into the familiar rhythm of early mornings alongside bells hells, opting to primarily listen to everyone's chatter, as she watches the sun rise out of the window opposite her framing Chetney and Fearne in a near heavenly light.

--

Once again Bells Hells gather in the front courtyard of Whitestone castle. Much like the first day Chetney runs the group through the overall plan for the day, though today's schedule is far more filled and the cameras have already begun rolling. Imogen tries to ignore the camera person she has assigned to her, filming her every move, but even after all these years she's spent with Bells Hells she still finds herself anxiously twisting her hands in the spotlight.

She isn't even in the spotlight, and she's already anxious enough. They haven't begun filming introductions, they haven't done any solo shoots, they haven't done any of Imogen's showcase sections, they're just.. filming. It's routine that in group settings like this every member of their group has one camera on them at all times, or they film themselves with their own personal camera. It allows them to have plenty of B footage to cut to throughout the episodes of the show, and should something happen to one of them it allows them to be certain they'll capture it.

Imogen usually elects to have someone filming her, though having someone monitoring her so closely drives her up the walls, she's often not steady handed enough to ensure the footage she captures is usable.

She tries to calm the bouncing of her leg as she watches her camera person swivelling around her to get a better shot. She looks up at them, a tall somewhat lanky person named Frida, and as soon as she makes eye contact with them they smile at her as one of their hands briefly leaves the camera to give her a small wave. She waves back at them, her own smile growing at the familiar site and she eases ever so slightly.

Of all their camera crew, Imogen enjoys working with Frida the most. They're calming, always know what to say to help Imogen get through rough days of filming, and they're wildly good at fading into the background in a deeply comforting way that allows Imogen to forget about the camera trained on her.

Her eyes follow the lines of Frida’s jacket, though dark green, an exact copy of the one FCG wears.

Frida continues swivelling around Imogen until she can just barely see them in her peripheral vision, and she tunes them out to start paying attention to Chetney again.

Chetney explains that they're going to split into two main groups for the first set of filming today, then either partner up or explore solo again for intimate investigations once it begins darkening outside.

Chetney, Orym, Ashton and FCG will make one group

Imogen, Fearne and Dorian the other.

He shouts out a few final instructions for everyone, and before Imogen knows it Dorian has flung an arm around her shoulder and begun leading her into the castle and down the west wing with Fearne at their side.

Before long the group find themselves in an excessively large dining hall and Fearne prances around the room like it's a ballroom. The further in they venture, the more Imogen feels that painful rumble growing up the back of her neck and Dorian immediately takes notice of the way she tenses up sharply under his hand.

“Well, I suppose this seems a place as good as any to set up for now.” Dorian suggests, his usual chipper tone washes over the room at large as he reigns Fearne back in and makes a few signals to their camera crew as to where he'd like them to set up. “Probably best not to venture in the more active areas so early into the day.”

Dorian elects to primarily use equipment over instincts when it comes to hunts. Unlike Imogen, he has little to no natural connection with spirits. Imogen places her satchel on the edge of the table closest to the two of them, and wordlessly Dorian pulls out a small talk box and alongside a handheld EVP. He fiddles around with it momentarily, before switching it on and making a few rounds around the room to test for any stagnant activity.

The three easily fall into step alongside one another and run through their usual routine when partnered up for group investigations. Dorian does general perimeters with equipment that's ready to use quickly, Imogen sets up some of the more intensive equipment while mentally preparing to open up her mind, and Fearne goes around to investigate anything that particularly interests her at any given moment. Dorian also monitors Fearne, to ensure that what ‘interests’ Fearne isn't something she tries to slip into her pockets.

The investigation goes fairly normal, Dorian gets a few good readings with his equipment, most of which indicates that the room they're currently in has very little activity compared to the rest of the castle, and Fearne swears she hears the beginnings of whispers creeping into her ears. Everything is normal, until that rumble instantaneously grows into a force that almost knocks Imogen off of her feet and she clutches the side of her head letting out a shriek at the shock of it all. Fearne shoots to her side, hands hovering a few inches away from Imogen, knowing the extra contact at times makes this worse, but Imogen registers the sheer panic in the other woman's eyes.

Imogen's head feels like it's splitting in two, like she can actually feel something reaching into her mind and crushing it under its will. She registers that familiar weaving as the presence tries to dig deeper, but this force attacks at Imogen with a rage and violence foreign to her. Imogen's entire form feels like it's stuttering, and that ever known noise overtakes all her senses in a savage cacophony.

That reach manifests into her more physically now, and she feels hands tantalizingly trailing along her body, and intently reaching around her lungs. As it begins tightening its hold on her, Imogen feels the air being ruinously pushed from her lungs, feels her eyes weeping at the ache of it, feels the protective walls she's spent so many years perfecting crumble and slip between her grasp like falling sands.

She attempts to push back, force the presence out of her head, but Imogen has never felt agony quite like this. In her failure she desperately tries to reinforce her barrier, redirecting all her energy into that of her mind, and her knees buckle at the loss of control. At that Fearne grabs a hold of her arms, and helps Imogen lower herself to the ground.

“Imogen-” sheer horror and trepidation drowns out Fearnes usually gentle tone, and she moves her hands to hover over Imogen's own that are now painfully digging into her skull.

“I cant-” Imogen gasps,

Breathe, she can't breathe, and as tries to look back up at Fearne she can't muster enough strength to even move her eyes to meet Fearnes.

She hears Dorian’s commanding tone fill the hall one again but with far more urgency and laced with terror, though the words themself are lost on her.

As quickly as it all started the pain and presence leave Imogen with the force of a reversible blade, and she almost heaves as air rapidly fills her lungs.

She feels Fearne's hand move her own down into her lap, and Fearne begins running her fingers through Imogen's hair and soothing the places she had been clawing at.

“You're okay.. you're okay..” Fearne begins cooing, but Imogen knows the words are more for herself then they are for Imogen. She takes a few moments to rebuild her walls, then places a hand on Fearne's thigh and squeezes lightly to reassure her that she's coming back to herself.

“What just happened?” Imogen looks to her side and sees Dorian kneeling next to them, his words lagging behind the movements of his mouth as her vision remains blurred.

“I'm..”

Fine? She's obviously not fine. She feels as though she nearly died and her limbs are detached from her body, never to work again.

“I don't know.” She answers, shaking her head only to instantly regret it at the way she feels her walls tremble with the movement. “The noise, it was just brutal, I couldn't even prepare myself for it, tore me down before I even processed that it was there.”

She turns to Fearne, vision finally clearing enough that she can make out the freckles that dance along her face, and continues “It's never felt like that before, like it was trying to break me.”

“Are you alright?” Dorian asks.

Her eyes don't leave Fearne as she answers him, “Fuck, I don't- I don't know Dorian, but even when it stopped it was merciless.”

“We should go find the others, this isn't like anything we've dealt with before we need to be more cautious, and we need to get you to Deanna to make sure everything's okay.” He stands and reaches a hand out towards Imogen, “Can you walk?”

She takes a deep breath and winces as her lungs near spasm under the effort, but nods and takes his hand, leaning her weight onto his as she pulls herself to her feet and allows herself to be guided out of the hall.

---

After roughly an hour of rest and inspection, Bells Hells’ medic Deanna clicks the light she had been toying around Imogen's eyes off and places it alongside the rest of her tools. She's taken residence in a small study room just off the main entrance of the castle, and rushed out to help Imogen settle down the second she’d gotten word of her condition. She tucks a small strand of Imogens frazzled hair behind her ear, and places a kiss on Imogen's forehead. Imogen all but melts under Deanna's touch and doesn't even try to fight the welling of her eyes as she drops her head into Deanna's hold.

Deanna is far shorter then Imogen, but the way her rosy cheeks are highlighted against her dark skin brings Imogen enough joy to make up for the fact that she has to practically crouch down to meet Deanna on her level.

“Physically, everything's in order,” Deanna highlights with a light pinch to Imogen's side that makes her chuckle, but Imogen senses Deanna has more to say about her state of being.

“Physically?” Imogen asks, a hint of apprehension in her tone.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Imogen starts, but Deanna looks at her with such a piercing and knowing look that Imogen has to drop her gaze at the scrutiny. “Like you said, physically, I feel alright. I mean my head is still a bit rattled but it's nothing compared to what it was earlier.

“So, how are you feeling?” Deanna asks again. This time she places a hand on Imogen's cheek to pull her sight back up to her, and Imogen prepares herself for some sort of anger, agitation even, in Deanna's eyes at the obvious avoidance in her answer, but is only met with concern.

Deanna’s other hand wanders down to the shawl still draped over Imogen's shoulders. She had never given it back to Fearne, decided to keep it close to her throughout today's investigation, and as Deanna begins tracing the intricate knit lacing of it Imogen understands why she's pushing so hard to get Imogen to open up.

The shawl was something Deanna herself had made, alongside various other creations for bells hells throughout her time on their team. The blanket resting on Imogen's bed back in the tavern was something Deanna had made for Imogen shortly after meeting her. Imogen has only known Deanna for a few months, a little under a year, but the two bonded instantly and have become something akin to mother and daughter. Deanna certainly was the closest thing Imogen has ever had to mother.

Deanna’s various creations have always brought Imogen great comfort, the soft texture of the wool, it's all encompassing warmth and the knowledge that Deanna herself had made every item with their to-be-owners in mind, handpicking every factor to perfectly accommodate who she was making them for. There was something so domestic about it all that Imogen craved. Oftentimes throughout their travels Imogen would find herself buddied up next to Deanna listening to the soft clacks of her knitting needles, lulled by the consistent sound and sways of the van.

Similar to Frida, Deanna always knew exactly what Imogen needed to hear, what Imogen needed to be calmed down. The biggest difference between the two, is that Deanna had never been afraid to be blunt and brutally honest in telling Imogen the hard truths about her various conditions, though always done with such undeniable love Imogen has never felt hurt by what would otherwise be harsh words.

She suspects her relationship with Deanna is exactly why Fearne always drapes Deanna's shawl over her whenever she's in a rough patch. The weight of Deanna's presence physically over her shoulders a reminder of the many valuable lessons Deanna has taught her, grounding, even in times when Deanna isn't there to remind Imogen herself.

The shawl was a dead giveaway something else had happened to Imogen.

Imogen sighs, “frightened. Deanna I'm scared, awful doesn't even begin to explain it, it was so nauseating. Worst part is I have no idea what it was.”

“A spirit?”

Imogen nods her response, “somethin’ like that, I mean it's never felt like that before, but parts of it felt similar to what usually happens when I get too close to them.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No!” Imogen blurts out her answer before Deanna has even finished her sentence, “No, I- No.” She says again, calmer, surer. “If anything it just shows me how much we need to do this. Whatever's here is obviously dangerous, and we're the only people qualified enough to deal with it, the people here deserve to feel safe. Who knows what else it could be harmin’.”

“What else? What do you mean, Imogen?”

Imogen shrugs, “Like other spirits even, they're not all dangerous, I mean how often do we deal with something that actually hurts people? I can't imagine it'd be fun sharing an after-life with a being that malevolent.”

Deanna rubs her thumb along Imogen's cheek, a knowing look in her eyes, “Always looking out for the little guy. You've got a real good heart, Imogen”

Imogen feels herself blush under Deanna's praise, and pushes herself up to her feet. “So Doc, do I have the all clear?”

“You're sure you want to go back out there?”

“I'm sure, there's more to it that we need to figure out.”

“Alright then,” Deanna signs a small piece of paper and tucks it into one of the various folders she has strewn across the table, “all clear.”

Imogen walks over to the door and gives Deanna an affirming nod as she exits the room and is immediately grappled on her side by Fearne.

Fearne grabs her face, turning her head this way and that as she looks Imogen over herself, “You're good?” She asks, but before Imogen can answer she repeats her own words, “you're good.” And pulls Imogen in for a quick hug.

“I miss anything interesting?” Imogen asks, and Dorian shakes his head with a chuckle.

“Nothing important,” he assures her, “though apparently Chetney got quite the fright while they were wandering around the East Wing only for it to have ended up being some bird pecking away at the glass of the room they'd based up in.”

Perfect timing as ever, Ashton rounds the corner and chimes in “Yeah and he damn near EVP’d his pants, you would have loved it.” He looks Imogen up and down, “glad to see you up and running again.”

She hears the opposing cries of Chetney in response, trying, and failing, to defend his own honour, and the group wander back to the main hall to fill one another in on their group experiences, and prepare for the day's intimate investigations.

---

Despite everyone insisting Imogen remain at the very least partnered with someone for the nightly investigation, Imogen walks the same path towards the eastern sitting room alone. Surprising the rest of the crew she'd even elected to film herself tonight, so not even Frida is at her side. She'd declared that if she went alone she'd be able to keep her footing without all the extra eyes on her and people clouding her will, asking to instead take one of the emergency pingers and explore areas the others were close to and could get to quickly in case she needed assistance.

She walks with intent towards her destination, and before she knows it finds herself standing in the centre of the room she'd spent most of her previous night in.

She looks at the painting she had lingered on then, but nothing obscures the faces of the many women throughout it.

“Hello?” She calls out to the empty room, “Is anyone in here?”

Imogen kicks at the edge of the carpet in frustration awaiting anything, but the lingering fear from what happened earlier prevents her from dropping her walls even slightly to try to hunt out the music. A chill works its way up her spine, leaving goosebumps all along her arms in its wake. She crosses her legs and drops to the floor.

“Stupid,” She mumbles to herself, “shouldn't be out here by myself who let me do this crap?”

She shuffles along the floor to the painting, and pulls out the REM pod in her bag to place at the base of it, clicks it on, then moves away to give it space to work. She stays sat for a good 10 minutes, trying to work up the courage to open her mind enough to start hunting out the presence from last night as opposed to just praying it will find its way to her once again. At least being alone no one is here to judge her less than professional manner of investigation tonight.

If she wanted to hunt for the music, and that alone, that was her business.

10 more minutes pass, then 20, then 30, and she looks out the window to see that the sun has now fully set. Right as she considers leaving to go explore someplace else so she actually has something to report back to the group, she hears it.

It's undoubtedly the same thing she had heard last night, though today it's changed. It's muffled, almost muted even, and a set of unfamiliar strings seem to lurk in the back of the melody.

Imogen shoots to her feet the second she registers it, shouting out another “Hello?” into the room that echoes ever so slightly as she breaks the silence that had settled over it.

She hears the song strain, pulling back and Imogen takes a few steps in the direction she feels it tugging towards to follow. “Wait- it's okay. I'm friendly, I wanna help you. If you are a you.”

She slowly reaches into her bag and pulls out her spirit box, and gestures over to the REM pod that's sat silently under the painting this whole time.

“That there's a REM pod. It's a proximity beacon. If you get within a few inches of it it'll start buzzin’, and if you'd like you could try to use it to communicate with me, let me know where you are.” she pulls the small walkie in her hand out in front of her and up to show it to the room at large, “and this is a spirit box, should help you communicate actual words to me. You can use whatever makes you most comfortable, or nothin’ at all if you have your own means to talk with.”

She places the spirit box on a nearby table, and pivots on her feet to look around the room for any signs of something in here other than herself. Everything looks different in the darker light, and Imogen has to squint to make out any details in the shadowed corners away from the fireplace.

Imogen stills herself and closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and begins to slowly and meticulously drop her walls. Not enough to allow anything to overwhelm her, able to raise them in an instant should she need to, but hopefully enough to encourage the music to greet her with more certainty.

As she'd hoped, much like last night, it begins to grow louder, whirling its way to the forefront of her mind. She welcomes it in, opening herself up even more to its call, unease in her limbs washing away as she loses any thoughts of the pain she'd been in earlier, instead basking in this presence.

“There you are.”

She feels the music circle around her, and Imogen remains staring into the shadows as it does so. It takes a practised path, steps following the ebb and flow of its own melody in an invisible dance, until the REM pod behind her begins to buzz and Imogen turns to face it. Expectedly, nothing is there, just the flickering lights of the small device on the floor as whatever presence is with her moves into its space.

Imogen takes a few steps towards the REM pod, but she feels the distance between herself and the music remain the same, and the lights still and buzzing silences.

“Shit, sorry, didn't mean to scare you off or anythin’, just excited s’all.” She takes a few steps back, and after a few moments the REM pod spurs back to life. “If you'd like me to move the REM pod somewhere else in the room so you can sit, stand- whatever, somewhere that's more comfortable for you I can. Just step away from it for a second so it turns off and I know that's what you want.”

The REM pod goes silent.

“Right, okay, where can I put you that's better?” She walks to the centre of the room and sticks her arm out. “I'm gonna turn, tell me when to stop and I'll place the pod out in the direction I'm pointin’ at.”

The REM pod lets out a short burst of a buzz and alights in confirmation then stills, and Imogen smiles as she begins turning around on her feet. It sparks again as Imogen is pointing to one of the darkened corners of the room, the one furthest from the fireplace, and she nods and picks at the REM pod. She moves it to the corner then takes a few steps away from it once she's hit the reset button to ensure her fiddling hasn't fumbled its calibration.

“There, that better?” She asks the room, and after a few moments the REM pod flicks back to life, this time stronger as the lights on the base of it almost light the entire corner at the intensity.

“Good, okay,” Imogen murmurs under her breath, “where do we go from here?”

Imogen stares down at the small device on the floor and starts fiddling with the cuffs of her jacket as she ponders what to do next, eyes catching on that inky substance again.

She holds her arm out towards the pod, “this.. goopy stuff, was this you?” and confirming her suspicions the buzzing grows strong and its lights flicker intensely for a few short moments. Imogen nods along to the pod, mentally praising herself for trusting her instincts and actually getting something right during one of these investigations.

“So you can interact with the physical world more than most spirits then?” She pauses, “spirit right..? Is it okay to call you that or do you prefer somethin’ else?” then waits for the pod to alight in some sort of response, realises her questions aren't something it could particularly answer and goes to ask a simpler question, but as she focuses her sight in on the pod it seems to grow fuzzy.

Small ripples that resemble heat waves begin to form and expand and Imogen takes a step back as they coagulate into something vaguely humanoid. Imogen watches awestruck as the features slowly define and after a few moments Imogen finds herself locking eyes with something, someone. As the form clears, so does the previously muffled melody and now Imogen can hear it unrestricted and all consuming. Despite what should undoubtedly cause her to turn tail and flee, this entire situation is about a million firsts for Imogen, she can't help but ease in the presence of that music so powerful.

“You're not afraid?” she watches as something she assumes is the spirits mouth flutters about. It's pitched like a question, but Imogen can hear the way in which the spirit seems to read her, clocking Imogen’s comfort before she even fully recognizes it herself. It speaks with an accent Imogen can't quite place, parts of it strike her as English but it sounds as though it's been morphed and lost to time. It speaks.

“No.. you- its not- why would- you're not-” Imogen stammers,

In the few short moments I have known you, you have brought me a sense of calm I didn't know existed in this world. Because of you I am convinced that serenity does indeed exist because when I focus on your presence all I feel is peace. I wish for nothing more than to aid you in feeling this too, to spread this feeling throughout the world because now that I have it I fear I would crumble into ash the second I lost it. I need to safeguard this, is sharing it too much a risk? Is that selfish to say? Your melody has been my every thought since I first heard it, in fact I think it has always been what I have searched for even before I knew of its exis-

“I've never seen a spirit so..”

Beautiful.

“Vivid.” Imogen chokes out the end of her sentence, stumbling, momentarily shocked by her own thoughts.

The spirit seems to manifest slightly clearer at that, such a marginal difference that Imogen likely wouldn't have noticed had she not been staring so intently.

“I don't think I've ever actually seen a spirit before.” Imogen continues in a ramble. “I mean I sense ‘em all the time, but the whole seeing thing? That's usually Fearne and Ashton’s deal. Fuck, what am I even gonna tell the rest of the Hells? This is..”

“Ghoulish?” The spirit puts its now defined hands out in front of it and makes a claw-grabbing like motion to emphasize its point.

Imogen chuckles at that, “Incredible!”

Standing, floating, before Imogen is a woman. Her face is gaunt, features sharp, eyes sunken and hollow. Her clothes are tattered but many attempts of smoothing the fabric over have been made with various patches of all sorts of colour and make. Her limbs are long and lanky with bones protruding this way and that, but despite her state of unmake the woman is entirely welcoming in her presence. Her smile, albeit unnaturally wide with teeth sharper than Imogen has ever seen a human possessing, is warm (which is oddly familiar, Imogen notes) and as she smiles the woman's laugh lines are highlighted and the crows feet that paint the edges of her eyes almost glow.

As Imogen’s ramble picks up again, pointless comments about many members of bells hells, the warmth begins to recede ever so slightly, and at Imogen pauses. The spirit seems to have stopped processing her words, and Imogen’s mind spins at the thought of having overwhelmed her.

“Shit. I'm sorry, I'm going about this all wrong aren't I? I'm Imogen.” Imogen takes another step closer to the spirit, her hand twitching to reach forward and take the spirit's own, but her fear of scaring the spirit off wins over and Imogen withholds.

“I'm..” the spirit starts, and Imogen hears that beautiful melody kick back up again. She sinks into its pull, but this time the music is accompanied by something new. A second tune begins to play, a perfect harmony to the orchestra as an almost operatic voice begins to hum. The voice grows, and as it does it begins to lul and la, until Imogen can just barely make out one word.

“Laudna?” Imogen asks.

The spirit, Laudna, nods at that. That chilling grin grows across her face once again, and Imogen doesn't care to fight her own smile that builds in turn.

“You're not afraid.” Laudna says again, this time firm and certain in her words.

“No. I mean, should I be?” This was insane, Imogen decides.

“I'm.. not sure.” Laudna flickers.

“Are you the one who took those people?”

As she readies her response, Laudna's form grows more translucent, briefly fading out of existence before Imogen's eyes. “I'm not sure.” she repeats.

Imogen waits for Laudna to continue, but when she doesn't Imogen takes another step toward her, only a few feet apart now.

“I want to help you.” Imogen tells her.

“Yes, you said that before, help me with what exactly?” Laudna's tone almost fluctuates as she speaks. In part it seems she's not too used to speaking, but she also delivers her words with such unusual intonations that Imogen finds herself struggling to fully grasp the spirit's intentions.

“Figuring out what happened here. With finding some sort of peace in all this mess, something so the locals won't throw.. crosses at you or whatever it is they've been doin’.” Sometimes Imogen amazes herself with the nonsense she spews, “Honestly I don't know where I'm going with this but you don't seem to be whatever ‘big bad’ that's haunting these halls.”

“Oh. What makes you so sure of that?” Laudna grows meek in tone as she answers, but unlike earlier her form grows ever so slightly more detailed and Imogen figures she must be going about this well in doing so.

At Laudna’s words Imogen falters, realising she has no real reason to believe this spirit isn't the one responsible for the havoc in this Castle. She's acting entirely off of instinct, off of some sense she has that she's still learning how to utilise everyday. But Imogen refuses to believe the woman before her is the same thing who brought her that agonistic pain from earlier that day; there was no way something capable of a tune so stunning could cause such terror.

“Call it intuition. You've done nothing to make me fear you, so why would I?” and as Imogen tries to justify actions that even she doesn't quite know the reasoning behind, she watches as Laudna drifts ever so closer to her.

“The people here with you, are they dangerous?” Laudna's voice grows near silent, and Imogen is thankful for the stillness in the room that allows her to hear Laudna's words.

“No! No, of course not, they want the same thing I do.”

“To help me?”

Imogen reaches into her bag, “Yeah, and to help the residents of the castle!” She pulls out a piece of paper that FCG had given her that morning, a general history on the tragedy that led them here. “There's something here that's hurtin’ people. We want to stop it, want people to feel safe here in the castle and Whitestone as a whole. Do you have any information about what it could be?”

As Imogen awaits Laudna's response she finds herself leaning further and further into Laudna's being, and she listens as those unfamiliar strings pick up and bite through her mind. She grimaces, the paper in her hand slowly floating to the floor as she drops it, and instinctively takes a step away from Laudna.

“I'm sorry- '' Laudna reaches her hands out towards Imogen but drifts back when she sees Imogen's dazed expression.

“s‘fine. Was that you?” Imogen looks up at Laudna.

“Yes. Well, no, but also yes? Its-” Laudnas voice wavers, but Imogen finishes the sentence for her,

“Complicated?”

Laudna smiles at that, “How did you feel that? How did you find me? No one's ever really noticed me before, let alone spoken to me.”

“Its-”

Laudna chuckles lightly, the sound flows through Imogen's very being and she feels herself alight at it, deciding she would very much like to hear that sound again, “Complicated?” Laudna asks.

Imogen nods her response, “I'm sorry this is all just really crazy, I can't believe this is happening. This is happening right? There wasn't just some carbon monoxide leak from those old ass lamps, and I'm dying a very slow yet surprisingly wonderful death right now?”

“Oh, I couldn't tell you, I don't think I really breathe anymore. But I can confirm that this is real at the very least.” Laudna’s hovering form practically rotates along with her words, her hands flail endearingly as she speaks, dramatizing each and every word that leaves her lips.

Imogen runs a hand through her hair and lets out a hefty sigh as she tries to actually process the reality of the situation she's in.

She found a ghost. Which, fine, that's pretty standard given her line of work, but she's actually looking at and talking to the ghost like she would any regular human. Not that she finds herself speaking to many people outside of bells hells, but that's beside the point. No ouija board, no medium to open a channel, hell, she hadn't even turned on the spirit box that rests on the table next to the fireplace. But, she was talking to a spirit. A very polite, charming, gorgeous spirit.

“You truly wish to help me?” Laudna asks in a tone so undeniably inquisital, that she could have been reading cereal ingredients and Imogen would still have known she was pitching a question.

“Truly.” Imogen takes one final step towards Laudna, so close to one another now she could reach out and touch Laudna if she so wished, if she even could touch Laudna. “There's something in this Castle that's malevolent, Laudna, Lady Vex’ahlia wants it gone and so do we. Surely it's haunting you just as much as it is the people who live here?”

Laudna stills, jarring, and it's painfully unnatural to see her in such a state given how lively her movements had been this whole conversation. Imogen watches as Laudna's features lose all of their definition in mere moments, and she reaches a hand out towards Laudna.

“Please, don't tell your friends I'm here.” And with those final words Laudna dissipates before Imogen's eyes.

“Laudna wait-'' Imogen calls out to the room, stepping forward as she does so but her hand passes through nothingness. No sign Laudna was ever there, no chill spot in the air, and not even the buzzing of the REM pod under her feet makes her second guess Laudna's presence in the room.

She knows she is the one activating it.

The music is gone.