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Tommy wakes up to screams.
He groans and pries himself up from the pillow, yawning wide. One leg makes it off the edge of the bed; the other staunchly refuses until he sits up fully and, yawning again, fumbles his hair out of his eyes.
“What the fuck?” he mumbles, and taps at his phone. It’s 1:02 AM. Not a typical time for screaming, as far as he’s aware, but—
Oh, right. Screaming. Shit.
Are they being robbed? He shoves himself off the bed, finally somewhat awake, and heads for the door. It creaks so loudly that it nearly shrieks as he twists the doorknob and stumbles through, glancing back and forth. “What’s going on?” he shouts. “I—I’m armed! Get away!”
Maybe he should’ve actually armed himself before shouting that. Whoops.
There doesn’t seem to be any kind of burglar, though—no evil axe-murderer looming over his foster parents’ bed, ready to start some kind of shitty horror movie plot. There’s not even any teenagers playing Halloween pranks. It’s just both foster parents, gasping, glancing back and forth with eyes as wide as quarters.
“Hey,” Tommy says, “what—”
“Monsters,” the foster mother gasps, “there’s monsters— Richard, I told you the house was haunted!”
“I didn’t—” Richard stumbles to the side, suddenly, and Tommy blinks. Then the foster mother is falling as well, like something’s swept the back of her kneecaps, shrieking as she tumbles onto her half-open suitcase. “We need to leave!” Richard shouts.
Tommy stands, blinking, in the foyer of this enormous, creaky, centuries-old house, as he watches his foster parents of all of twelve hours sprint for the front door, battered by invisible attacks, shrieking like toddlers. They pelt through the wide oak door, and it slams shut behind them. The windows to either side of it shatter.
“Uh,” Tommy says, mostly to himself. “Oookay.”
A chill runs down his spine as he approaches the door. There’s gouges torn through the polished oak, inches deep, scraping all the way down. He’s careful to avoid the glass shards on the floor.
“Right,” Tommy says, and promptly locks the door. He yanks the shutters to cover the windows too, stifling another yawn. “Er—right. Okay.”
Well. He’s got the house to himself. That’s an unexpected bonus.
⸻⸻⸻
When he wakes up in the morning—or, well, afternoon, if the 12:14 on his phone is any indication—he rolls over, stretches, and makes eye contact with a creature in the corner of the ceiling.
Tommy shrieks and tumbles off his bed, headfirst. His shoulder knocks the wood floor, and then his spine, and he groans as his legs follow suit, like a slinky headed down a staircase. “Motherfucker,” he hisses, and shoves himself up, rubbing the back of his head. The creature blinks at him. “Oi, what’re you looking at?”
He gets another blink at that. Tommy makes a face, studying it—it’s got a lot more eyes than most creatures he’s seen, excluding the spiders in every corner of this house (Brenda and Richard, unsurprisingly, just moved in recently and aren’t very good at cleaning). Half its body is ink-dark, the other startlingly pale, and its hair falls over its face in long, tangled strands, hiding the sometimes-red, sometimes-green multitudes of eyes.
“Wow,” Tommy says. “Uh—nice to meet you.”
The thing squints at him, then clambers down the wall, to the floor, and onto two legs. It stops right in front of Tommy, and Tommy swallows as it reaches long fingers toward his face. Don’t steal my eyes, he prays, please don’t steal my fucking eyes—
It pokes his nose. Like—literally fucking boops it.
“Er,” Tommy coughs. “Hi?”
The creature croaks happily. It takes a step back and, with the same hand, pokes its own chest. “Ronnnn,” it rasps, like it’s not quite used to speaking human language. “Ronn. Buuuuu.”
“Ran-Bu?” Tommy says. “That’s your name?”
The creature tosses its head. Tommy blinks, and it makes a second attempt, flipping its head side to side till its hair flies in its face and it sneezes. Tommy bites back a laugh.
“Sorry,” he says, “that’s not—you shake your head like this. Look, see?” He demonstrates it, twisting his head back and forth. The creature blinks, then copies him. Tommy gives it a thumbs-up, and gets two in return, one black and one white one.
“So you’re Run-Boo,” Tommy says. “Am I saying it right?”
“Rannbooo.”
“Ranboo.”
The creature’s—Ranboo’s—mouth splits into a grin. His teeth are remarkably sharp, but Tommy will admit, although it doesn’t look like he’s had the opportunity to get braces, they’re impressively white.
“Nice to meet you, Ranboo,” Tommy says. A tiny voice at the back of his head whispers, Are we really chatting with a demon like it’s normal? He ignores it. “I’m Tommy.” He taps his own chest. “Tommm-eeee.”
“Toommmeee,” Ranboo says excitedly. He taps Tommy’s chest, very gently. “Tommeee.”
Tommy nods, and he can’t fight back the smile—even as Ranboo turns to clamber back up into the corner of the ceiling, crouching upside-down like a spider. Right—well, this must’ve been the reason his foster parents ran. Clearly they were lacking in the social skills necessary to make friends with a cryptid.
“So,” Tommy tells him. “D’you like eggs?”
⸻⸻⸻
Ranboo apparently does like eggs. He’s not too picky over whether he eats them whole, shell and all, or whether he eats them cooked—but Tommy doesn’t mind too much. Fewer eggs to burn, that’s what he always says.
“Anyway,” Tommy says, mouth full of omelet. “I’m gonna stay here, I think. If that’s alright with you? ‘S better having the house to myself. Fuck parents.”
Ranboo blinks at him. “Fuccckkkk,” he says, very carefully. “Fucckk?”
Tommy snorts. “Right,” he says. “Fuck.”
⸻⸻⸻
Tommy is determined to teach Ranboo how to fix his hair.
Now. He may not have many credits to his name—and most of them may or may not be suspensions from school—but it’s not like he’s that dysfunctional. At the very least, he can braid hair and brush through it and all that shit. He used to do it with his mum all the time.
Until. Well.
But anyway, he’s gonna help Ranboo fix his hair, and Ranboo’s gonna see these dumbass pink bow clips that Tommy bought at the corner store and be so grateful. It’ll be incredible, truly.
He unlocks the door, shoulders it open, and finds absolute mayhem.
The foyer is trashed. The shutters, which were covering the still-shattered windows (not like he can exactly afford to get them fixed), have been ripped to splinters and strewn across the carpet, which is torn nearly in two. The couch is overturned. A lamp is dangling from the chandelier, which has been freed of its light bulbs so that the shards of the light bulbs can adorn the remains of Tommy’s plastic table.
“Motherfucker,” Tommy says mildly, and nudges the shards of an antique vase to the side so he can drop his groceries in the kitchen. He tucks the food carefully away before he cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, “OI, BITCH!”
Probably not the best idea, but what’s the worst that could happen?
A sudden breeze sends a chill down Tommy’s spine. Moments later, the breeze becomes a gust, and he slams into the decade-old fridge.
Tommy barely has time to yelp before it sends him tumbling to the ground, narrowly missing the shards of glass. He slams his hands down on the floorboards to gain some purchase. “Hey!” he shouts. “What’d I do to you?”
Well. He did call them a bitch. And a motherfucker. Still.
“Let me go,” Tommy insists, and clings to the siding of the wall. A chunk of what was previously his coffee table rises into the air and slingshots right toward his face. He hisses and throws himself out of the way, flipping two middle fingers in the general direction of the wind. “We can talk this out! I’m very good at talking!”
“YOUUUU ARE INVADINNGGG,” whispers some kind of voice—British, excellent, at least the ghost won’t be wielding a semi-automatic. It hisses through Tommy’s ears and makes him wince, like nails on a chalkboard. “GETTT OUTTTT!”
“But I like it here!” Tommy protests. “It’s homey!”
“OUTTT!”
“I’m good company! Very fucking polite too! I don’t even charge rent!”
“YOUUUU—” the ghost seems to pause for a moment, then changes volume. “Youuu aree nott afraiddd?”
“No, bitch, I’ve seen scarier shit than you.” Apparently he’s getting a break from the onslaught of wind. He huffs and shoves himself to his feet, glancing warily at the couch in case the ghost starts getting ideas. “You ever watched The Sixth Sense? Hmm? Spooky shit right there.”
A blink. A boy appears in front of Tommy. Tommy yelps and stumbles back.
The boy tilts his head to the side. There’s an odd glint in his eyes, which seem unsure whether they’re hazel or green or blue. They’re nearly covered by his hair. A scar branches out across his face, red and withered.
“Jeez,” Tommy says. “You had a rough go of life, didn’t you?”
The ghost makes a face at him. He’s remarkably short, actually—how old is he? If Tommy’s been getting pushed around by a twelve-year-old, he’s going to throw hands—and skinny, and stands like he’s been defending himself for a while now.
“You’re very strange,” the ghost says. “And I’m not a ghost. I’m a poltergeist.”
“Tomato, tomato,” Tommy says easily. “I’m Tommy.”
“I know. You’re living in my house.”
Tommy sighs. “I fucking wish I wasn’t, after this bullshit,” he says. “Look at this mess! Why’d you have to do that? I just cleaned!”
The ghost blinks at him. “You are very strange,” he repeats. Tommy rolls his eyes.
“Well,” he says. “What’s your name?”
A beat. “Tubbo,” says the ghost. “I’m Tubbo.”
“Well, Tubbo, nice to meet you. Have you met Ranboo?”
Just then, an excited hiss echoes. Ranboo tumbles down from upstairs, clambering down the stair railing and landing on both feet beside Tubbo. He props his chin on top of Tubbo’s head and makes a vaguely purr-adjacent noise.
“Hi, Boo,” Tubbo says. “This guy’s an odd one, isn’t he?”
Ranboo purrs more. “Tommeee,” he says. “Tubbbbooo.”
Tommy blinks. Right. Well. More roommates, he guesses.
“Hey, Boo,” he says. “I brought you hair shit. Want a braid?”
Ranboo tilts his head. He hisses joyously when Tommy pulls out the pink hair clips.
⸻⸻⸻
Turns out, the gist of Tubbo’s poltergeist nature is one singular principle: Cause a shit ton of destruction.
“I don’t get it,” Tommy says. “Why?”
Tubbo shrugs. “I dunno,” he says. A gust of wind tears through the room and sends Tommy’s curtains crumpling to the floor. Tubbo’s eye twitches. “No offense, but full offense—chaos is a lot better than being fucking boring.”
“So that’s what it is?” Tommy says. “You’re bored?”
“Quit mocking me.”
“No, I—I’m just trying to figure it out. Swear on my dad or something. So you’re bored, and you want to destroy things and make chaos ‘n’ shit.”
“Just about.” Tubbo knocks his elbow against the back of Tommy’s bed, and the headboard splinters in half and crashes to the floor. “Whoops,” Tubbo says, not remotely sorry, as he burrows further into Tommy’s covers.
“You’re fixing that, you prick,” Tommy mutters. “Okay. I think I’ve figured it out.”
He hauls his laptop up onto the desk, out of his backpack, where he’s been hiding it because Ranboo gets curious way too easily and Tubbo is … well, Tubbo. “Look at this,” Tommy says, and drags the chair back toward the desk, careful to make sure the duct-taped leg doesn’t get jolted too badly. He plugs the computer in and boots up the program. “C’mere, I’ll show you how it works.”
Tubbo floats off the bed and drifts over toward him, eyes fixed on the screen. “What’s that?” he says. “It’s—why are there so many squares?”
“It’s Minecraft,” Tommy says. “A video game. You had those, right?”
“I died ten years ago. It hasn’t been that long.”
“Ah. Well, good. You should pick it up quick.”
He starts a new survival world, aptly titling it tubbos world for going batshit, and concedes the computer to him. “Okay,” he says. “If you break the computer, I’m kicking you out of the house. I’ll perform an exorcism or some shit.”
Tubbo raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’ll work,” he says.
“Has anybody tried it?”
“Not yet.”
“Exactly. Now, you put your left hand on the WASD keys, right there, and your right hand goes on the mouse—now double tap, and then you can sprint, and you left click to hit …”
An hour into Tommy’s makeshift tutorial, Tubbo’s gotten the hang of most of the basic functions—probably better than Tommy at certain things, if Tommy’s honest, but he’s not going to be honest, because he refuses to let a dead kid be better than him at Minecraft. Tommy cracks a grin.
“Oh, you’re gonna love this part,” he says, and leans over the keyboard to exit out of the world and head to Multiplayer. He clicks onto a very specific world and logs in. “They call this an anarchy server.”
“Anarchy,” Tubbo says, as if trying out the syllables. “So I can just—do whatever the fuck I want?”
“Whatever the fuck you want,” Tommy confirms. “Rock their shit.”
He doesn’t have too much trouble with Tubbo getting bored and causing destruction after that.
⸻⸻⸻
There’s a person in his mirror. The problem, naturally, is that it’s not Tommy.
It looks kind of like Tommy, maybe. If you squint. And if you’re half-blind. He’s just old, is what the person in the mirror is, with shorter hair than Tommy’s and scruff on his chin and a bit of a more compact build than Tommy’s lankiness. He pops up whenever Tommy makes an attempt to look at himself in the mirror, and steals every move he makes.
When Tommy waves, he waves. When Tommy turns, he turns. When Tommy grins, he grins—with a mouthful of teeth that are just on the other side of too sharp.
He’s not trashing the house, though, so Tommy tries to leave him be. Even though it’s fuckin’ creepy taking a piss and knowing, when you round the corner, that an old man is gonna be staring at you. Yeah … it’s even creepier when Tommy phrases it like that.
Day two, he squints at the man. The man squints back at him. He’s got astonishingly bright blue eyes—Tommy thinks(?) his eyes are a similar shade, but who the hell knows—and his nose wrinkles to mirror Tommy’s. Tommy sticks his tongue out and flips him off. As the man mirrors him, Tommy’s pretty sure he’s fighting back a smile.
“Okay,” Tommy says. “You—are you just staying here? Is that what this is?”
The man, naturally, doesn’t respond. Tommy makes an ugly face and gets an immense amount of satisfaction from watching the man do the same.
Tommy huffs. “Anyway. Just—do your thing. Don’t kill me.”
He’s been teaching Ranboo to bake muffins—Tubbo too, but Tubbo has a tendency to get bored and send the muffin tins flying through the air, so he doesn’t deserve a mention. Tommy takes three of the muffins and sets the plate on the edge of the bathroom sink, just beneath the mirror, and gives the man in the mirror an awkward thumbs-up. The man’s smile seems just the slightest bit wider than Tommy’s feels.
Twelve hours later, when he comes back, the plate’s lost its muffins and gained a couple crumbs. Tommy nods at the mirror and takes it back.
It takes another five days of muffins before the man speaks.
“Thanks,” he says. Tommy jolts and nearly sends the plate flying. “For the muffins, I mean.”
“Jesus,” Tommy hisses, and shakes his shoulders, like he can shake off the jumpscare. “You—you can talk?”
“As far as I’m aware,” the man says easily. He breaches through the mirror like he’s going through a layer of water—wobbly, and then his head pops right through, along with an arm. He plucks two of the muffins off the plate in Tommy’s hands and takes a bite. “‘S really quite nice of you to give me food. Most humans just scream and run.”
“I can see why,” Tommy deadpans. “It’s fuckin’ weird, I’ll be honest, you might want to change career paths.”
“Nah.”
“Why?”
“It’s funny.”
Tommy considers it.
Well. That’s fair.
“Okay,” he says. “Well—could I get my bathroom back? Like. No offense, but it’s kind of awkward pissing with you hanging out here.”
“I’m not a creep,” says the man, rather mildly, “but sure, yeah. Could I hang out in the kitchen instead? Your fridge looks quite comfortable.”
“That’s—” Tommy narrows his eyes. “Righhttt. You know what? Sure, what the fuck. Go ahead.”
The man offers him a thumbs-up, cracking a grin. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m Phil, by the way.”
“Dumb name,” Tommy says casually. “Right, then—er. Help yourself to muffins. Just don’t use up all my money.”
“Thanks, mate,” Phil says, and pops back into the mirror. Tommy hastens his way out of the bathroom.
Roommate number three, apparently. And he’s an old man.
(“I’m not a fuckin’ old man!” Phil protests, next time they attempt to make muffins. “I was literally thirty-two when I died—”
“That is so incredibly old,” Tommy says, helpfully ending the conversation. Phil flips him off. Tommy’s tempted to shut the fridge on Phil to retort, but he’s not that mean.)
⸻⸻⸻
Tommy is being followed.
The thing is—either the people following him are dumbasses, or they’re just hella fucking creepy, because they never look up at him.
He’s got his backpack across his shoulders, ‘cause he had school, and then he had work, and now he’s hauling his homework back home. And he hears the footsteps, every other second—two sets of them, tangling together, soft and careful and exactly as fast as Tommy walks.
Every time he turns around, they’re not behind him anymore, though. They’re always standing in the glow of the nearest lamp post; highlighted in flickery yellow light, two tall silhouettes in dark jackets, a book held between their palms. Must be an interesting book.
And Tommy turns back toward the dark road ahead, and their footsteps echo behind him.
He takes a quick breath as he walks, keeping his eyes focused on the street ahead. Two turns and then he’s back in his old-ass house. It’s fine. He lives with, like, three demons. This’ll be a piece of cake.
“So,” he says. “Why’re you following me?”
A footstep stumbles behind him before they resume their typical rhythm. Tommy, bolstered, says, “Kinda weird that you’re following me, honestly. Real creepy. I mean, they always told me not to go into the big white vans, but you’re shifting the narrative here. Creative of you.”
A pause, and then a voice rasps out. Huh. Unexpected.
“Why do you care?” says one voice—American. Bitch. “Just stop walking. Everything will be fine.”
“Everything will be fine,” echoes another voice, and this one’s British. Thank fuck. If it were two Americans, Tommy’s pretty sure he would’ve had to go for the knife, just out of patriotism. “Stop walking.”
“I don’t think I’m gonna do that,” Tommy says helpfully. “What’re you two looking for? Are you trying to drink my blood? I’m fuckin’—B negative, or something. It tastes bad. Trust me.”
“Not your blood,” hisses the first voice. “Give us your soul.”
“Sorry, gentlemen, I … cannot do that, actually, I like my soul a lot.”
A hiss. “You are a child.”
“I am not,” Tommy protests. “That’s rude. It’s a—a fucking swear word, is what it is. An insult. Probably.”
“Hand over your soul. It will not hurt, child.”
“I—” Tommy shakes his head. Right—demons are fun, apparently, note to self. “No thanks. I have muffins, though, you guys want those?”
A beat.
“What are muffins?”
“Oh, gentlemen, I have such good news for you.”
⸻⸻⸻
The two people are apparently named Wilbur and Techno. They still have a habit of teleporting away, whirling into nothingness and then reappearing by the nearest light, every time Tommy glances toward them—but it could be worse, honestly.
There’s also the fact that they keep trying to catch him unawares and steal his soul, but Tommy’s certain he can convince them that muffins taste better than the quintessence of his very being. Eventually.
“Anyway,” Tommy says brightly, and offers Wilbur a glass of water. Wilbur eyes it distrustingly, then attempts to take a bite. “That’s … not how you drink water. But you guys can stay if you want. Just clean up your shit. And don’t steal anybody’s souls and frame me for murder.”
He twists around to catch Techno behind him, claws at his throat, eyes gleaming red, and makes a face.
“Bitch,” he says. “Manners! That was rude!”
It works out. Eventually.
⸻⸻⸻
“Hello,” Tommy says, and tugs the door open to gesture Puffy inside. “Welcome to the house!”
Puffy steps inside and immediately says, “What the fuck?”
Tommy blinks and follows her eyes. “Ah,” he says. “Sorry ‘bout the mess. Richard and Brenda left.”
“They …” Puffy turns to stare at him. “You—what? They’re gone?”
“Yep.”
“For how long?”
“Like … a month? Month and a half, probably.”
“Tommy, I—I dropped you off here a month and a half ago.”
“Yeah. Turns out this place is haunted, so they got spooked, but it’s fine. I like it here.”
“Tommee?”
Tommy blinks and glances at Ranboo, who gives him an upside-down grin. He’s got the sparkly clips in his hair this time. “Oh, hey, Boo,” he says. “This is Puffy. She’s my social worker.”
“Puffffeeee?”
“Yeah. Puffy.”
Puffy gapes up at Ranboo. “Is that … a demon?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure, at least.”
The look of abject horror on Puffy’s face makes Tommy want to crack a grin, but he’s polite enough to swallow it back. “Wearing a Hawaiian shirt?” she croaks.
“He likes bright colors,” Tommy says easily. “Anyway! You can meet all the roommates. I made lunch with Techno, as long as Will ‘n’ Tubbo haven’t ruined it.”
“Ah,” Puffy croaks. “Okay.” She follows him into the kitchen, eyes extraordinarily wide.
Ranboo follows with a happy warble.