Work Text:
Every night, like clockwork, once the witching hour stuck, loud banging would echo throughout his house. Sometimes they’ll come in sets of three, sometimes it’d go all nigh, well into dawn. First time it happened, he thought someone was knocking on his door and went to check, wondering who in their right mind would visit at three o’clock in the fucking morning.
After that, it’s been pretty consistent.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
Crash.
Shouting.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
For months, he just dealt with it - if his house was haunted, he could deal with a few extra noises. As long as they didn’t harm him, he had no problem with it.
Except it’s been effecting his sleep schedule. Since the banging happens around three a.m., he’d get startled out of his sleep and just screw around on the internet until it stopped, so he could go back to sleep. But the past few months, it seemed to go on and on, until dawn broke and by that time, he’d have to get up and go to work. It’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t even bother going to bed anymore, just lays in bed all night on the computer and sneaks in micro-naps at work.
Which is not something a police officer should do. He knows that his co-workers are getting suspicious of him, constantly walking in with bloodshot, bleary eyes, and about five different cups of coffee with him. Most would tell him to move, or to stay at a friend’s place until he could save up to move again - but he didn’t want to do that. This house was his dream home and he’d be damned if a couple ghosts drive him away.
No, he’s staying. That house is his and if those fucking ghosts don’t like - well, they can just go haunt some other place.
However, if it didn’t stop soon, he’d lose his job and probably go insane from lack of sleep - if he hasn’t already. He had a brief thought of calling one of those paranormal investigators but brushed it off. It was just noises, it wasn’t that bad. He wasn’t being attacked or anything - at least, not that he was aware of. He didn’t want to waste anyone’s time on a bunch of noises just because he couldn’t sleep.
He could deal with it. He’d have to, he’s not giving up on this house. Not because he, technically, didn’t have anywhere else to go - he had plenty of friends who’d let him crash on their couch.
This was his house. He bought it, he put money into fixing it, he’s not just gonna turn around and sell it because it’s extra inhabitants didn’t like him. For all he cared, they can go fuck themselves.
A couple days later, his partner found him dead in his home, hanging from the second floor banister, swinging ever-so slightly. His feet making a soft, knocking noise on the wall.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.