Archive of Our Own

The nature of a house is to draw occupants. A house does not seek them—cannot seek them—but the sight of an empty place, to all, begs occupancy. Perhaps most of humanity would shy away from an old house. Fair enough; one cannot begrudge them fear. Humans are not the only creatures that live in houses, anyway. An abandoned house draws insects and growths. An abandoned house draws ghosts, too, and other such improbable things. A haunted house, then, yet again draws humanity. Fair enough; one cannot begrudge them curiosity.

The Oldest House is itself something of a creature. It breathes and shifts; it can grow sick. It is, however, a house still, and the Oldest House does what all houses do: it allows itself to be occupied.

“Oh, hush,” the janitor’s assistant says.

The Board is one of many that occupy the Oldest House. They are one of the more arrogant specimens; they boast control of many Haunted Things, and seep into the House through its meridians. The Board assumes themself infallible, with complete authority over all the many things they stick their tendrils in. The Oldest House allows them this assumption. The Oldest House settles itself around the control points, as the Board expects it to, but it does so only as courtesy. The Board does not need physical accommodation, but the humans they direct do, and those humans so nicely set up their equipment and enacted their rituals. They were trying so desperately to appease the House. It was cute. It was their best attempt at communication, and oh, how the House loves recognition.

The Oldest House likes its human occupants. It dislikes the Mold and the Clog and the Darkness and the Hiss. It tolerated Hedron, and tolerates Polaris. It tolerates the Board. It finds the Board curious. It watches the Board like an experiment; lets them in to see what they do.

This world and the Astral Plane are sisters, joined and separated by the Nail. It was perhaps coincidence the Oldest House grew around it. It was perhaps not coincidence at all. It does not matter; the Oldest House is merely an occupant of this plane, as the Board is an occupant of the Astral. The point is that the Board has had to learn the languages of humanity to control them, but never bothered to learn the language of the House, or that it has a language at all. The Board does not know this plane like the House does. The Board does not know the House well, either. The Board stretches themself thin, reaching from the Astral into the House, exerting careful control over the Haunted Things, giving the humans their directives. The Board is young. The Board is naïve. The Oldest House allows them this naïveté. They are entertaining.

“If that’s all there was, you wouldn’t be bothering me,” the janitor’s assistant says. “But I’m not going all the way to the Foundation anyway. Relax.”

“Like hell.”

The Oldest House likes the janitor’s assistant much more than the Board’s previous choices. There was the heat-source—and the House does appreciate his act of service—but he was never as receptive to the House as the janitor’s assistant is. Never mind the infector; the House didn’t think much of him, until he had the gall to bring inside so bothersome a pest.

Though—the heat-source’s act of service wasn’t for the House’s benefit. It appreciates it, but the heat-source was, in fact, rather hostile toward the House; he established the control points forcefully, shooed the House into submission—what he perceived as submission—as soon as he was able. Really, he almost ruined it for the humans; had his underlings not been so polite, the House might have squished him, or all of them. But no matter. No action of the heat-source's upset the House as much as his attempts to interfere with the listener.

The Oldest House loved the listener. He was such a tentative thing—one of the first of this group of human settlers, at first so standoffish, but also the first, the only one who actually listened when the House spoke. The House gave up its meridians to him so easily—of course it did; he asked for them. He listened and responded and stayed, even when his fellows tried to beg him upstairs. Of course the House loved him.

To that end, the House confided in him its worries regarding the Board’s influence. This was a mistake. This is why it does not hold a grudge against the heat-source; it was not he who took the listener away, in the end. It was the Board who drove him from the Foundation, sending their astral disposables to hunt the listener down. The listener likened the Board to a parasite. He wanted to protect the House from them. The Oldest House does not completely disagree—but if the Board is a parasite, their host is humanity. It was the listener the House feared for.

Regardless, the listener left the Foundation, and the House wouldn't have stopped him. The House could still confer with him in its main body, of course, but it mourned the listener's departure from the Foundation. All is so much more intimate there: in the Oldest House’s center. Its heart. It misses the listener’s presence within.

“Why are you guys so defensive, anyway? Afraid of someone blowing up the Nail again? Believe me, I want to deal with another Astral Bleed as little as you do.”

She laughs.

“Sucks for you,” the janitor’s assistant says. “But I’m on break.”

Yes, the Oldest House likes the janitor’s assistant. She is sensible. Strong. She has roots away from the Board; she will bring fresh air into the House; she will not trust the Board more than she should. She will not only be influenced by them—she has Polaris and the janitor to advise her as well. She will be a good leader.

The janitor’s assistant does not commune with the House the way the listener did. She has been burned too many times to reach out to anyone anymore; the researcher was an exception, in her desperation to find her kin. The janitor’s assistant, as a rule, keeps herself to herself. Polaris was the last one to have been invited inward, when she was still small, open. The Board had to force their way inside.

The Oldest House will force nothing. The Oldest House has learned, in its time, the value of diplomacy; the Board were not the only one to learn the language of humanity.

The janitor is a piece of the House. Through that piece it speaks its favorite human language, slightly adapted. Through that piece, it makes itself known to the janitor’s assistant, and at least to that receptacle, she listens. She takes up with pleasure the small duties asked of her: ridding the House of its infections and infestations. She is prompt with it, efficient and thorough. It was the House’s pleasure to offer her a break, and it is glad she accepted that lesson; this break she has taken of her own volition.

“Hello,” the janitor’s assistant says. She has reached the etching, the carved mural of the Oldest House’s first form, beyond which lies the Foundation. She lays a hand on the stone, not with intent to pass through, but as a greeting.

“Oh, really?”

“If you’re so annoyed with me, hang up.”

The janitor’s assistant rolls her eyes. She turns her attention away from the Hotline. Once answered, she must listen until the message is over, and the Board are so needy.

“Sorry,” she says. “For them. I’m sure you don’t like to be insulted.” She sweeps her hand across the stone. “I listened to those tapes by Dr. Ash. He was obsessed, but… well, stranger things have happened, so he may as well have some points about you. And…”

She is silent for a long moment. The Board leaps forward and falls back, wanting to interject, but without the words.

“The moment I stepped into this place I felt home,” the janitor’s assistant says. “And that wasn’t the Bureau or the Board or the Service Weapon.” She looks out into the columns, the endless depths, that to some would beget terror. “That was you. Right?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. The Oldest House loves occupants. The Oldest House loves those who seek it out. The Oldest House loves those who listen.

She is listening.

The Oldest House reached for her and she is listening.