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7-wonders · 5 years

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Ironically Alive

Summary: Now that you’ve recovered from your first meeting with your father-in-law, one question nags at your mind: what about the rest of Michael’s family?

Word Count: 3124

A/N: Mad Love part 8, woo! Hope you guys enjoy, if you do I’d love to hear your thoughts on it. Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated.

Michael’s back to his awkward self for the rest of the weekend, but you can’t really blame him. How is a person supposed to act when their father kidnaps the subconscious of their spouse and attempts to scare them into submission? After your wonderful Friday with him, though, it’s disheartening to be back on opposite sides of a figurative brick wall. You spent most of the day yesterday in bed, reading a book to try and keep your mind off of your encounter with Satan. Although Michael stopped in periodically, he wasn’t nearly as attentive as he was the day before. Since you’re leaving the mansion in a matter of hours, you at least want to talk to him a little bit. Michael, you’ve noticed, has a habit of avoiding people or things when there’s a subject that he desperately doesn’t want to talk about.

A solitary knock on the office door is the only advance warning you provide before swinging open the door and waltzing in, a sarcastically cheerful “hi, Mikey!” falling from your lips. Michael tries not to react, but you can see the slight quirk of his lips as he rolls his eyes.

“I thought you were made aware that no one is allowed in my office?”

“Figured that didn’t apply to your wife,” you reply while taking a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the large oak desk.

“You believe that you’re exempt from all the rules of this household,” Michael points out.

“That’s because I am exempt.” You lay your head down on your arms, looking up at Michael while he works.

“Something’s on your mind.”

“You promised me that you wouldn’t use your magic!”

“I didn’t. Your eyes, however, always manage to betray you.” Shooting a quick glare at him, you can only hold a stern expression for a quick second before your lips twitch and you sigh.

“I was just...well, we need to talk about what happened on Friday.”

“What is there to talk about? I had assumed you asked all of your questions after it happened.”

“I’ve thought of some more.”

“Of course you have,” Michael chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Ask away, then.”

“When Satan was speaking to me, he mentioned your mother, but you’ve never mentioned her to me.” Michael stiffens at your words, slowly laying down his pen and looking up at you.

“I’ve never seen the need to mention her.”

“Why not?”

“Must I explain my reasoning to you?”

“I just think it’s a little unfair that you get to know every single detail about me, but then you get to pick and choose what you tell me about you.” You know not to press him when you’ve already made some valid points, so you wait in silence as he mulls over what you’ve said.

“My mother’s name was Vivien Harmon, she was a cellist and the wife of an adulterer. The Harmon family moved from Boston to Los Angeles, in the hopes that it would repair Vivien and Ben’s relationship. Unfortunately, that move would mark the beginning of the end, for they moved into the so-called ‘Murder House.”

“The house where those two nurses were murdered by that serial killer?”

“That and more. The house sits upon a Hellmouth, causing all of the spirits that die there to remain trapped as spirits. My father took advantage of a young, impressionable boy, possessing him and making him--” Michael’s voice breaks as he shakes his head, “--making him rape Vivien. Vivien, however, was already pregnant by Ben.”

“So...you have a twin? How is that even possible if you each have different fathers?”

“It’s incredibly rare in modern medicine, but it does happen. I overpowered him in the womb, basically starved him of nutrients and prevented him from ever being able to survive. A boy named Jeffrey, born stillborn mere minutes before I was born. The stress, the carnage that was my birth killed Vivien. That’s all I wish to say about the matter.”

“Michael,” you reach a hand out to touch his arm, but he jerks his arm away while wiping a stray tear from his face.

“You should be getting back home, (Y/N). Don’t you have an early class tomorrow?”

“I--yeah, I do.” Standing, you bounce awkwardly as you wait to see if Michael says anything else. “Uh, see you later?”

“Later. I’ll call you.” He’s short, in a way that he normally isn’t with you. Reaching the door, you turn around to look at him one last time. He’s facing away from you, staring out at the warm afternoon light while lost in his thoughts.

/////////////////////////

Curiosity is going to get you killed one day, but you’re hoping that day isn’t today. Maybe you should have left the conversation with Michael in his office, but it was all too easy to find the address for the Murder House, and even easier to pick the lock once evening fell and you could move under the cover of darkness. The entire time you were fiddling with the lock on the back door, you told yourself that you would leave if you couldn’t get it open; a sign that you were meant to leave the information as it was, and never speak of your trip to Michael again. But when the lock popped open after only two minutes of picking it, you took it as a sign that you needed to pursue this matter further.

The light of your phone flashlight illuminates your surroundings, and you’re shocked to see that it doesn’t look like the dusty interior of any horror movie house you’ve seen prior to this. It’s well-kept, every odd and end in its place and not a speck of dust in sight. You hesitantly flip the light switch next to you, the light suddenly flooding in from the overhead ceiling lamp that someone still works. You’re pretty sure you can even hear an air conditioner running, and you briefly wonder if a family does live here and if you’ve just accidentally committed breaking and entering. If you have, then it’s a family who doesn’t like to personalize their home at all. There’s no photographs up, no childish artwork hanging on the fridge, nothing besides the obsessive cleanliness to indicate that anyone lives here.

Trailing your fingers along the wall, you take your time as you meander through the house. Although you don’t want to, you find yourself imagining a younger Michael. Was he a cherubic blond boy, chasing after a toy ball down this long hallway? Did he sit atop the arm of the couch while watching the house get cleaned, little legs swinging in the air? Which bedroom belonged to him? Thinking of Michael like this humanizes him, in a way. He’s always been human to you, but he’s always seemed like this indomitable figure that you could never fully touch. Having these mental images of Michael as a gap-toothed child somehow makes him seem just like every other person that you’re friends with.

Oh god, are you friends with Michael now? You did kiss him, so this shouldn’t be too startling, but being friends with the man who had you kidnapped doesn’t sit too well. People are supposed to be friends with their spouses though, right? That’s a good start, then, that you’ve gone from despising him to actually considering him one of your friends.

“It’s rude to break into a locked house, even if it is abandoned,” a cool voice mutters behind you. Gasping, you spin around at the unexpected voice.

An older woman with pinned-back red curls and mismatched eyes, one brown and one cloudy blue, stands before you. She’s clutching a feather duster in her liver-spotted hands, a white maid’s collar selling the look that this is the maid of the house.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know that people lived here or else I wouldn’t have picked the lock!” You mentally curse upon realizing that you just admitted your guilt.

“Child, surely your mind isn’t so closed off to believe that.” The woman smiles, extending a hand for you to follow her. “Come, I can practically see your mind whirring with questions.”

“How do you--”

“Please, we could feel the Devil’s mark on your soul from the moment you slipped through the gates.” A clean southern accent accompanies the words that float down the winding staircase along with the woman in a flowing dress, blonde hair teased into a beehive and delicately balancing a glass of bourbon and a cigarette in one hand. “My dear, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Funny,” you say dryly.

“Now, who are you and how did my grandson manage to dig his claws into such a pretty, intelligent girl?” She reaches a shaking hand out, clutching your chin in her grasp.

“You’re…?”

“Why, Constance Langdon, of course.” Although Michael had never told you about his grandmother, the dramatics that both favor would have been enough of a giveaway. “You do know what that boy is, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately.” When Constance quirks an eyebrow at you, you continue. “He had me kidnapped and forced me to marry him in some weird Satanic ritual. Now I’m his wife, which is super ironic because the institution of marriage is inherently tied into religion.” You laugh awkwardly, not really sure how else to explain your unconventional situation.

“Welcome to the ‘lives ruined by Michael’ club.” A teenager with shaggy blond hair wearing an ill-fitting green sweater appears in front of your eyes, Constance tightening her grip on you to keep you from falling down the stairs in surprise. “I’m Tate and I’ll be your tour guide today,” Tate snickers.

“Um, I’m (Y/N).”

“Could you let go of her, Ma? Your nails are going to pierce her skin any second now.” Your eyes widen when your mind connects the dots. This must be the man who was unwillingly conscripted into Michael’s conception. Before you can form a coherent thought in your brain, Tate grabs your arm and pulls you from his mother’s grasp and in the direction of a living room. “Why are you here? We don’t get much in terms of visitors here, and when we do they’re usually killed by the ghosts here.”

“That’s not comforting at all,” you blanch.

“None of us could kill you even if we wanted to, not with the Devil having laid protection on your soul.” At least there’s one upside to being married to Michael, then.

“I just want answers, I guess. I get that Michael’s, you know, Satan’s kid, but there’s still the whole nature versus nurture debate. Could it have been prevented? What was it like when he was growing up? Did he just live in a house with ghosts? Did Satan raise him? Where do the Satanists come into this equation?” Once you start asking questions, you can’t stop, the inquiries pouring out of you like word vomit.

“Whoa, slow down. Who said we were even going to answer your questions? I may not be able to kill you, but I can still make your time here extremely painful.”

“Fuck off, Tate, you don’t scare me after everything that I’ve seen,” you roll your eyes at his pathetic intimidation attempt.

“You’ve seen it too, haven’t you?” A woman with copper hair leans against the doorway, a sleeping baby in her arms.

“Seen what?”

“Satan,” her voice drops to a mere whisper, as if the very mention of his name will summon him to this house. You don’t need to answer her, the widening of your eyes giving her your reply. “At least I was able to give Michael some humanity, or else he wouldn’t have someone like you as his bride.”

“Vivien?” A sad smile appears on her face as she nods.

“What did you see that made you seek out a place like this for answers?” A crowd has gathered, with spirits that you haven’t yet met joining the few that you have.

“I--It was on Friday. Michael lets me have my freedom during the week, so long as I spend the weekend with him. I had decided to take a bath, and I must have dozed off. When I woke up, I was faced with Satan. He...taunted me, made fun of me and then berated me for not yet procreating with Michael. Then he tried to kill me. I guess I screamed loud enough to jolt myself back to consciousness, because when I woke up Michael was yanking me out of the bath.

“Michael has never told me anything about his family, and so I was surprised when Satan mentioned you, Vivien. He complained about the fact that you had managed to pass your overly caring heart to Michael. I tried to ask Michael about his family today, but he gave me the story of his birth and then told me to leave. I’ve never been the type of person to leave with unanswered questions, so I came here. Probably not the smartest decision I’ve ever made, but it's the one that I stuck with.”

“That boy…” Constance steps forward, taking a swig of bourbon and bringing a hand up to her throat, “is nothing but a monster. You’d do well to find a way out of this marriage that he’s forced you into.”

“I can’t. He told me that if I leave, or tell anyone, he’ll kill my entire family. I tried once, and he managed to figure out what I was doing even though I had encrypted my computer. I’m stuck, and I just need to know. I need to know that there’s some good left in him. If there is, maybe I can stop the end of the world from happening.”

Constance and Vivien share a long look, and proceed to tell you everything. The small animals and nannies that he killed, the rose bushes, the priest, Constance’s suicide, and Michael’s subsequent abandonment. It only gets worse from there; Ben’s attempts to “help,” Tate’s disownment, the lesbian couple that he incinerated, Ms. Mead and the Satanists, and Michael’s first sacrifice.

It’s horrifying to hear the two women describe it. Michael, impressionable mind still catching up to his body after aging ten years in a single night, being manipulated by the Satanists to let them bring a kidnapped young girl into the house. The macabre pomp and circumstance of the ritualistic slaying, in which Ms. Mead and two others plunged a knife into the virgin’s chest and ripped her heart out. They presented the organ to Michael on a figurative silver platter, the boy taking a hearty bite out of the mass of muscle and tissue with nary a moment’s hesitation. Vivien vividly describes the shadow of a horned beast appearing over Michael and unfurling its wings as he swallowed, sealing his fate and affirming his birthright. You’re ashamed that, after all you’ve seen, heard, and experienced over the past month or so, your reaction to the graphic description of Michael’s first sacrifice…

...is to throw up.

You sprint out of the house in a frenzy, barely making it past the gate before violently retching. Your mouth burns as your stomach expels everything it has in it, heaving repeatedly until you’re vomiting nothing but stomach acid. Your hair’s been pulled back from your face, and the hand rubbing your back is soothing until you realize that the ghosts are trapped on the property that you’ve just left. Wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, you shakily glance up to see Michael.

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, running a hand down your face.

“Michael? How’d you know I was here?” Michael smiles softly, shaking his head.

“When you looked back at me before you left my office, I knew you wouldn’t let the matter go. After I realized that I gave you the name of the house, it was just a race to get here to you.”

Michael’s expecting you to be furious at what you’ve learned from his family. He’s expecting you to lash out and fight him, calling him terrible names and threatening to end his life over all of the sins he’s gladly committed. When you envelop him in a hug, his body stiffens from the turn of events.

“Why...are you...hugging me?” He’s gotten more used to hugs since you came into his life, but it’s still something he’s not used to.

“I’m so sorry for all of the shit that you had to go through. You didn’t deserve any of it; it’s not your fault how you were born.”

“Shh, you don’t need to apologize.” Michael slowly wraps his arms around you, but it’s still awkward for him.

“But it’s not fair that you--”

“I’ve come to terms with how my childhood was, (Y/N).”

“You’re not mad at me.” It’s not a question; you’ve seen Michael angry before, and this isn’t it.

“No. It’s my own fault for laying the temptation at your feet. I do wish you would have listened to me, though. I would have told you the information you desired in time, in a way that wouldn’t have been so overwhelming for you.” You chuckle, grabbing the hand he extends to you and allowing him to pull you up. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“My home,” you say adamantly, looking Michael in the eyes.

“Yes, your home. After all, cats are supposed to be the best cure for a person’s turmoiled thoughts, are they not?” You quietly laugh, nodding.

“She’ll be more pleased to see you than me.”

With his bride clutching his arm, Michael glances back at the house. He hadn’t expected to actually see the spirits, but of course the nosy ghosts are all crowded in the windows. There’s his mother, her auburn hair shining in the late-afternoon light. Tate and Violet hold each other protectively, as if Michael’s mere glance will cause them to burst into flames. Front and center, as always, stands Constance.

She watches him with wise eyes, the grandson that she thought she was saving by hiding his murderous tendencies. She takes a drag of her cigarette and holds it deep in her chest, smoke leaving her lungs in delicate tendrils. Constance has a warning expression on her face, silently imploring Michael to let you go before he does even more damage. His father’s plan of bringing his soulmate to him, it seems, is just another disappointment to add onto Constance’s list of reasons to detest Michael. And so the prodigal son, unwillingly dragged once again to the house of his birth, raises his middle finger to the elderly woman before turning his back on the family he once wanted desperately to belong to.

/////////////////////

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