text: Lachlan and Nye knew very well a haunting’s success lied in the delicate relationship between the haunted and the haunters, just like the food chain relied on the eternal dance between the prey and the predator. A falcon dies without a mouse to feed on, and so do the disincarnate. The two spirits had haunted Quaver House for decades, and they had learned to successfully prey on the manor’s buyers, feeding on their fears to the point where they ran away with broken souls that could never be mended. Three had been pushed to murder; four had been driven to suicide. The two brothers had died during a burglary in the eighties. As they broke into the house in search of valuable jewels to sell on the black market, Quaver’s homeowner promptly shot them down with his gun, and the ghosts sought revenge relentlessly, tormenting him until he turned the gun against himself many months later. His family fled, and the cycle of arrivals and departures thus began. It took a handful of tries before they truly mastered the recipe. The first two buyers that succeeded the original Quaver homeowners were elderly couples. In both instances, Lachlan and Nye were too quick to act. They unleashed the terror of shaking walls and ghostly appearances on the first night, and the couples died of heart attacks on the spot. Sudden deaths are rather peaceful and unsatisfying to a ghost, and these failed to feed their hunger for fright and dread. Subsequent hauntings were more on point. The duo lured new generations of homeowners into a false sense of safety in their first weeks and haunted them incrementally. For months of emotional torture, they both reveled in a feast of horror, tasting their victims’ succulent despair with a killer’s taste for blood. Shadowy reflections in mirrors. Bone-chilling voices whispering in the night. Scratches mysteriously appearing on the walls. What ultimately befell them was the plight that befalls all ghosts at one point or another. After a string of suspicious deaths and poor success on the real estate market, Quaver House was officially rumoured to be haunted, and not a soul dared to venture within its walls. The dry spell was difficult for the partners in crime. Without fright to feed on, ghosts starve and disappear. Their existence was threatened. Night after night, they hovered by the chandelier in the manor’s ballroom, waiting for a poor unsuspecting soul to pay them a visit, but a soul never came. Until that fateful October night, that is. They heard the sound of broken glass. Someone had shattered a window downstairs. This instantly triggered the spirits’ hunger. “It’s time,” whispered Lachlan to his brother. “It’s probably a burglar,” replied Nye. “What are we supposed to do? We can’t lead him on for weeks.” “It shall be a quick meal then. Sometimes, you have no choice but to keep it short.” Lachlan sat down at the ballroom piano and played an eerie melody, hoping this would startle the intruder. Nothing. The brothers sensed no fear whatsoever in the house. They made their way downstairs, remaining invisible to humans, in search of their prey. The parlour window was indeed shattered, but there was no trace of the man. “What if he left already?” wondered Nye. “No. Something’s not right. Someone is still here. Somewhere.” “Whoever it is, he’ll be out quicker than it takes for either of us to get any satisfaction.” “Nonsense! This might be the only chance we have to feed for another decade. We’re not passing on it. Let’s split.” The brothers searched the instinct that belonged to them while human. It was now buried deep inside of them, but it was still there. They had been burglars in their lifetimes, after all. A burglar’s first reflex is always to aim for the bedroom, where the valuables are. Lachlan searched the master bedroom, while Nye inspected both guest rooms. No one to be found. Lachlan made his way into the dining room. The silverware was still untouched. He felt an odd presence, as if someone had been there. The burglar must have passed by. Why was is none of the valuables had been taken then? Nye went for the lounge and the library. Again, no sign of life. Yet, he had this strange sensation of being observed as he meandered between rows of books. He knew this sensation very well, although he typically was not on the receiving side. The younger brother specialized in making the homeowners feel observed, preyed on, and he enjoyed watching unsuspecting victims glancing over their shoulders straight at him, unable to physically see his presence. All of a sudden, this sensation he typically thrived on was no longer enjoyable. The brothers reconvened in the parlour and were shocked to find the window intact. The glass shatters had vanished completely. “This can’t be,” said Lachlan. “The broken glass was right there.” “Was it? Maybe we’re just too desperate for someone to come. We see what we want to see.” “I sensed someone, he was right here, I’m sure of it!” “That’s what everyone says after seeing an oasis in a desert.” “It wasn’t like that, I--” His reflection was interrupted by a melody that felt all too familiar. Up in the ballroom, someone played piano. It was the very same piece Lachlan had played earlier. Slowly, both brothers made their way up the grand staircase again. The chandelier was lit, its amber glow refracting through the countless crystals hanging from its golden structure. At the grand piano sat a young girl with long raven hair, playing the keys perfectly in a bright pink evening gown. “That’s the burglar?” exclaimed Nye. “A little girl? She can’t be older than twelve.” “All the better,” replied Lachlan. “She’ll be easier to scare.” “Should we hide first?” “Hide? She can’t see us, you idiot.” “Yes I can,” replied the little girl. The ghosts stepped back as she turned towards them, her gaze intense and terrifying. “You’re...” began Lachlan. “Dead?” she concluded. “I am. Don’t be so surprised. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost for the first time. Have you never looked at yourself in the mirror?” “It’s impossible,” declared Nye. “You can’t haunt the house unless you died in it. We were the first ones to die here, and we’ve never seen you.” “You can’t haunt the house unless you died on the grounds,” she replied. “I was killed on the road by a drunk driver last year. The roots of the weeping willow on the front lawn extend beneath the road. Therefore, I died on the grounds.” She approached menacingly towards the brothers. “I had to wait, of course. You were too strong for me to act. But now you are weak. And this house is mine.” She opened her mouth, and the most dreadful of screams escaped from her throat. Blood flowed from her eyes, and her veins blackened at the surface of her skin. Lachlan and Nye cowered in weakness, unable to resist the banshee’s screech of fright. Their spirits fell to the ground, pulled into eternal damnation by the ghostly hands of the souls they had tortured over the decades, summoned by the eerie cry. The girl in the pink dress was now satisfied. Her hunger had been fed, and she got back to her piano for another melody. As they moved into an afterlife of pain, the brothers had learned a valuable lesson. A predator can prey all he wants, but there will always be another predator to prey on him.