Jenlisa Oneshots

breathe into my lips the life i do not have

ghost au where Lisa is the worst ghost around and Jennie has no survival instincts

—

The tragedy that befell 13 Chip Road was quite a bad one.

Of course, this was Lisa's opinion. Which was quite biased.

It'd been a pretty little town, Polis, once. Not much really happened and Lisa had found herself easily cemented into the daily routine. The town was not known for much in the time that Lisa lived there, apart from the fact it'd been there probably before trees were invented. There'd been a burglary into a bakery once, though a mere two-day investigation had yielded that the answer lay in a son's desperate last ditched attempt to earn recognition from his father, even if the recognition lay in a less than positive light.

He'd seen the ransacked bakery pictured in the newspaper the day after, lingering pieces of stone dust on his shoulder and he'd grinned wider than he ever had. It hadn't been so enthusiastic when the police had come for him, but then, that was expected.

What was not expected was the death.
More specifically, the murder.

Even more specifically, the murder of Lalisa Manoban, in 1908.

Lisa had quite liked Polis before this.

But then, of course, her opinion was very biased.

—

Jennie was not at all what she expected.

There wasn't exactly a job description for being a ghost. You didn't so much apply for it as it was suddenly thrust into your lap and now, without warning, you found yourself the head of company you couldn't even spell the title name of. There wasn't really a welcome broche of Huzzah! You are dead! Here is how to entertain yourself for the next eternity.

Lisa had had to find the ropes on her own. It'd taken a few decades or two but she could just about lift a mug or a painting or leave a menacing scribble of paint across the wall if she concentrated hard enough—and if there was a convenient paint bucket lying around. It'd taken a century, too, but eventually Lisa even learnt to paint in blood.

This was very effective. She'd had squatters and teenagers and newly weds who'd barely stayed two weeks before bolting all because of that trick. Lisa was quite proud of herself, as it wasn't really blood, because she wasn't alive, so she didn't have a source.

It was only energy, really. That indescribable energetic force that lingered in every moment created and every emotion felt and if you had nothing but yourself to deal with for a century you, too, would probably learn how to harness such a thing if only out of sheer boredom.

Lisa was stuck to this house. Tied to its history because its history was her. She'd been killed when she shouldn't have been and that energy had to go somewhere. And unfortunately for her, that meant that Lisa was tied to this graveyard hidden as a nice two-storey soon-to-be-family home with a lovely view out onto a gracious backyard and enough closet space you could fit everything you own and your grandmother's too.

This was the real estate's opinion, though, not Lisa's own.

Lisa's own opinion was that the house was quite shit.

It'd been the same old routine. That same real estate agent had come round with another ignorant victim completely blind to how Sarah had almost quit four times over this goddamn job. Any time she brought anyone to this godforsaken house the paintings would move when they shouldn't, doors would open and shut like the house had a party of fifty walking amongst it, not two, the mirrors would flicker out the corner of your eyes and it was just plain fucking creepy.