Teen Titans Fan Fiction ❯ Haunts ❯ Not So Friendly Ghosts ( Chapter 2 )

I'm sure most of you figured out it was not a ghost. To those who'd rather believe, I've got two words for you:

Rock on.

 

Haunts

Chapter Two: Not-So-Friendly Ghosts

 

Gar was certain she was a ghost.

 

Her hair was an obsidian black, her skin was abnormally pale, and her eyes were sharper and darker than any blue he'd ever come across.

 

Then he thought: maybe a local hooligan. She had a dark blue sweatshirt on, hood over her face.

 

All he really knew was that he was on the floor, and she was on top of him.

 

(She was definitely on top of him. He thought it might rule out the ghost aspect, though he really wasn't sure which he preferred.)

 

“You aren't allowed in here,” she hissed. “It's private property.”

 

He frowned, not really certain what he should be doing at that moment. “Then what are you doing here?”

 

(That's right, he chided himself, Make friends with the delinquent. Well, she looked dangerous the way she was staring at him. He half expected to burst into flames under that gaze.)

 

After a few minutes of scrutiny beneath her stare, she stood up, carefully closing the closet door.

 

“I live here,” she finally said.

 

An absolute lie, if Gar ever heard one. Just that she had the audacity to think she could get away with it strengthened his belief she was hear to rob and probably wouldn't mind killing the owner.

 

“Yeah?” he shot back with his own special brand of sarcasm (though her lie had been delivered in a deadpanned voice.) “And I moved in with Frankenstein.”

 

She didn't turn to him, just brushed off her jeans and walked into the kitchen area he'd seen before.

 

“Hey!” he called after her, confused and irritated. He caught up with her, grabbing her shoulder, in which she swatted him away, still not bothering to look at him. “What are you really doing here?”

 

He wished she hadn't looked, because now he was being cut by that glare again.

 

“I'm not here to steal,” she huffed. “No one's lived here for half a century anyway. But I spend more time here than I do home. So why shouldn't I live here?”

 

She said it with child's logic that made him think she was spending too much time around dust fumes. Still, he decided to drop the whole “living here” idea and move on.

 

“What's your name?” he asked (with authority! Hmph. His buzz may be gone but there were still two—or three—beers running in him.)

 

If looks could kill he'd be six feet under, and his ghost would be screaming in pain.

 

“You don't get to ask me questions,” she snapped. “Why are you here? Another stupid dare?”

 

(He decided it was a rhetorical question.)

 

“God,” she muttered, pulling up a stool. “Every Halloween some idiot boys crawl in here. Bang a few shutters and they're wetting the floor as they run.”

 

“How long have you been `living' here?” He didn't know why he was interrogating her like this. He should probably just go back to his drunk friends.

 

Her glare softened for a fraction of a second before she sat down with a sharp gesture that made him wince. “Since I was six and first broke in here.”

 

Ha! She admitted her crime! (Though they shared the same one.) He leaned on the counter, studying her. “Why do you come here? It's dirty and old and probably won't hold up next time we have… wind.”

 

Her gaze shifted to the dead floorboards. “I like it here. Quiet with plenty of books. Have you seen the library?!” Her face brightened, and he had never seen someone show such enthusiasm for literature before. “No one has private libraries like that anymore. The books are impossible to find except to those who place them, and I can find one book, read it, and the next time I want to try it again, its disappeared!” Suddenly she remembered herself and went back to glowering. “And people stopped caring about this house a long time ago. The only ones who visit are teenagers and kids.”

 

Her distaste for him was growing, he could tell. It wasn't even his fault.

 

“I guess so,” he muttered. “But you aren't… creeped out? Maybe I'm just paranoid, but this house…”

 

For a second he thought she was smiling. “I've noticed it too. I don't know what it is. It sounds horribly clichéd, but there's definitely something. Why do you think everyone calls it `haunted?'”

 

“I thought it was because it looked like a spooky house.”

 

Her glare returned, but it wasn't quite as sharp. “So why are you here? You don't look at all comfortable.”

 

He chuckled nervously. “…A stupid dare. I still don't know how I ended up doing it.”

 

“Well there's alcohol on your breath for one thing,” she mumbled so quietly he almost didn't catch it.

 

There was something really embarrassing about that fact, but he tried to hide it. This was not a normal girl. She did not rely on the two extremes as most women did. She was different from any other girl he'd met.

 

“Oh yeah,” he said. “You never answered my question. What's your name?”

 

She stared at him a minute. “What's yours?”

 

“Gar,” he answered. “Not like the cat,” he added. She was quick to infer “Garfield” (the dreaded name), and a smile was definitely there that time.

 

“Fine.” She nodded, as if showing her approval of him. “I'm Raven.”

 

And that's when he knew what kind of trouble he was getting into.