Miguel de la Cruz
ǝʇɹǝnW ɐl ǝp lǝnƃᴉW
Location: Château de La Lune: Dining Room -> Basement
Skills: N/A
As the cheese course was being served, Miguel was somewhat harshly reminded of why he was there - and why he
wasn’t. He was not there to win the award. He was a ghost hunter on YouTube without a partner, haunted by his past. His life was a nightmare, one that he chose each day when he awoke - one that he could never
not choose, a gilded cage of his own making. All he could do was stay the course, to continue to chase after that next viral video, that next emotional thrill. He wasn’t here to compete in the award ceremony - he was here to get evidence.
Evidence of ghosts, evidence of conspiracies, evidence of
something.
And with everyone here at dinner, the obstacle he’d faced earlier was removed.
No one would be in front of the basement staircase door.
Fucking bet.
He took a bite into a piece of cheese, grimacing a bit at the texture. He only liked cheese that had been melted. Everything else was too hard, too cold. And then, forcing himself to swallow, Miguel then looked around the table for a moment before clutching at his stomach.
”Oh, I am so sorry - I just remembered I’m lactose intolerant. Don’t wait up for me - and, uh, maybe don’t have housekeeping come on in the morning, unless they have battlefield grade cleaning supplies,” he groaned.
”RIP to my roomie. Hope you aren’t sensitive to smells.” And then, without another word, Miguel fled the room - purposefully walking with his ass cheeks clenched together, as if the slightest loss of control would result in a poopy explosion.
Maybe it would.
Once he felt he was far enough away from the dining room, Miguel switched from the potty dance prance to a light jog, and then finally a full on sprint, stopping by his room first to grab supplies, before retracing his steps from earlier. He figured people would be too terrified to go after him, and if they weren’t horrified, they’d be giggling. No matter how fancy someone was, poop humor worked. He’d released a video once with Alexei where they just ranked different bathrooms at Disneyland, and it had done well enough to pay the rent on their apartment for the month - mostly because of Alexei’s extreme descriptions of the various eldritch noises Miguel’s stomach made sometimes after a Mickey Bar.
He didn’t feel bad about potentially traumatizing the roommate (well, bathroom-mate) either - whoever they were. Had he met them yet? Probably? Maybe? Who fucking knew?
Miguel shut the door to the basement stairs behind him, and turned on his head cam, spirit box ready at his side.
”“Alright, chat, let’s fucking go.”
Usually, Miguel just said shit when he was filming. The long explanations, the storytelling, the lore - all of that would be recorded and added in later. But those weren’t the moments that would get him clicks and views. Sure, people initially came to his channel for the spooky stuff, but they stayed for him. The more out of pocket shit he said, the more viewers he would retain. By virtue of his profession, Miguel had almost completely eliminated his verbal filter - maintaining it only for a few key secrets.
Otherwise, impulsive word vomit paid the rent.
And of course, he’d almost forgotten - one of these bitches (Eleanor, probably) was fucking blackmailing him. They knew about Bruno.
He didn’t fucking talk about Bruno.
So far, there wasn’t much to look at - it was all standard rich people shit. There was a wine cellar, filled with bottles that were probably older than Miguel and worth more than his tiny ass apartment back in California.
”Do you think if you put all of this wine on train tracks, and then just one random baby on the other track, that’d be a good trolley problem for these people? Like, how long do you think fucking Larry would hesitate? Or Ellie?” he pondered.
”Like, I think they’d at least think about it for a moment.” He opened up doors to find more storage rooms, filled with food - none of which looked even remotely like the food Miguel stocked his own pantry with. There wasn’t a can of cheese whiz or a baggie of ramen in sight. The dumbwaiter was a little more exciting - Miguel had always wanted to crawl inside of one as a kid. But there was definitely no way he’d fit now - as much as he was tempted to give it a try, he was far too big for it.
But having taken a look around and not seeing anything immediately murderous or incriminating, no bulletin boards with pictures of Miguel and Bruno connected with red string, he turned to the next tool of his trade: the spirit box. It was about the size of his phone, designed to quickly scan through radio frequencies, producing a staticky output that spirits could manipulate to communicate.
”Alright, ghosts, ghouls, and guests - my name is Miguel, and I’m here reaching out to whoever is here,” he lied.
”Wine.” ”Yeah, buddy, there sure is a lot of wine here,” Miguel agreed. He reached out and picked up a bottle at random.
”Do you want some? I can probably use my keys to uncork it - or if there’s some matches around here, we can do that trick. Unless you’d prefer the shoe option. Or have an actual bottle opener, that would work too - not as fun, but it’d work.” ”Leave.” ”You want me to leave? Who am I talking to? Is it… Fuck, what’s the old man’s name again. Is it grandpa?” Miguel asked, setting the bottle back.
”If it is, your kids suck, man.” ”Tricked.” ”Who tricked you? Did your kids trick you? Did they do something to you for the money?” It wouldn’t have shocked him. He’d seen dozens of movies with that very plot. He’d be more surprised to learn that the La Lunes loved the grandfather than he would be to learn that they secretly hated him and coveted his wealth.
”You can tell me, it’ll be our secret.” ”Loss.” He sighed slightly. The one word responses were tough sometimes, even if they made up the majority of results he got from the spirit box. The gold standard spirit box evidence was compelling sentences, logical responses - a single word answer? It could just be environmental, just the random result of scanning so many frequencies at a time.
The spirit box was silent, again - well, not silent, but no intelligible phrases or words were coming out. So he continued to pace, walking around the decidedly not-spooky and not-scary basement. The most horrifying thing about this place was the wind, as his body shuddered from the chill. Instinctively, he looked to his right to see Alexei’s reaction, to see the skeptic rolling their eyes.
”Is that you, grandpa?” Miguel said instead, even as he’d never felt more alone.
”Punish.” He grimaced. Miguel already felt pretty punished.
”Kinky.” And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it - a well hidden door, one that he’d almost missed. He pumped his fist. It was about fucking time. The basement had been boring so far - and whatever was through that door, it
had to be more interesting than this.
The door led to one of Miguel’s least favorite places to investigate - a church.
He’d actively avoided them ever since the accident.
It was raining outside, and he could smell the ozone in the air, coupled with a strong musty scent - through the old windows, he could see the far away strikes of lightning. He shuddered in fear, feeling the oppressive weight of judgment upon him. If God were real, then he knew what Miguel had done - he knew what had happened that day. He knew the choice that Miguel had made, the choice that he continued to make.
The spirit box spoke before he did.
”Father.” Miguel swallowed, and he nodded.
”Yeah, I don’t think he’s too happy with me,” he whispered.
”But can you blame him?” He slowly moved from the threshold. The church was dry, at least, constructed of stone. He didn’t see anyone else there, didn’t see anything obvious, nothing to investigate besides the horrific feeling pushing down on his chest.
”This place, it makes me feel… Odd. Like I’m being crushed,” he noted.
”I mean, it is church, and it’s been a hot second but… I don’t like this, chat.” ”Obligation.” ”What - what do you have to do? Is there something you want to tell me? Something you need someone to know about what happened to you?” His eyes fell on the lightning strikes outside - on the clashes.
”Mourning,” was the answer.
And Miguel felt sick to his stomach.
”... Do you know, too?” he asked.
He’d have to edit this part out.
