I Know How To Live (I Don't Know How To Die)

Chapter Two: Like A Rat In A Cage

Stan had been floating behind Ford for a solid ten minutes, and they still had yet to reach any destination. Where the hell did Ford live? Did Ford live around here? He had to, 'cause otherwise, what was he doing out here? Ford stumbled, mumbled to himself, and picked up his pace even further, which was impressive considering how fast he'd been going before. Ford disappeared past a thicket of trees, which Stan glided right through, and suddenly he was face-to-face with the creepiest cabin he'd ever seen in his life. The cabin itself was nice enough– well built and sturdy looking– but it was almost intimidating in the way that it sat darkly amidst the trees, and the whole building had a dark aura around it. Surrounding the cabin were metal rods and antennae, making the place look like it belonged to Dr. Frankenstein or something. And were those barrels of radioactive waste? There was no way his brother lived here, right? This had to be some abandoned haunted attraction that Ford was studying, which would be awkward for Stan because then he'd have to deal with a bunch of other ghosts, but at least it would explain what Ford was doing here. Ford threw open the door and slammed it behind him, Stan floating after him and freezing at the sight he was met with.

Moving boxes still full of stuff were stacked all around the room, which looked like it was supposed to be a living room, but it wasn't really set up. There was a dusty-looking couch, a fish tank, a plastic skeleton, and– was that a dinosaur skull? Never mind. The most concerning part was the plates of moldy food and trash sprinkled between what looked like incomplete experiments and the heavy coating of dust covering pretty much everything. Ford dug through a stack of papers before stomping off to a bookshelf and pulling on a book, the shelf moving away from the wall with a click. Blinking slowly, Stan watched his brother tug on the shelf like a door, revealing a staircase that looked like it led to the basement– which Ford promptly walked down– the shelf swinging closed behind him. What. The. Fuck. This place definitely belonged to Ford– only he would have a dorky hidden room. Now alone, Stan figured he'd take the time to explore the rest of the house.

He landed on the floor and walked into the kitchen, wincing at the sink piled high with dirty dishes, flies buzzing around it. The counters were cluttered with more books and metal scraps and splattered with a mysterious goo. Yikes. Sticking his head into all of the cabinets, the fridge, and the pantry, Stan found Ford was out of food. Like, completely out, not even a can of peas left. Sighing, Stan rubbed a hand down his face. It seemed like Ford hadn't changed much since their teenage years– so focused on science that he forgot to eat, sleep, or clean. That said, this place was wrecked to a concerning degree, and Stan was really starting to worry about his brother's living arrangements. Ha, it was pretty ironic for Stan, who was dead, to fret over how Ford was living. Old habits die hard though (no pun intended), and Stan couldn't help but be concerned for his brother. Estranged for ten years, and he still cared too damn much. Upstairs, much to his dismay, wasn't any better. In fact it was, dare he say, worse than everywhere else, not necessarily because it was a mess, but because it looked entirely un-lived in, as though no one had been up there in years. The bedrooms were damp and permeated with dust but otherwise clean and clearly unused. Did Ford not sleep in a bed? Did he have a bed somewhere else? Maybe in the basement he'd gone down too. He peeked into the hallway bathroom, but it was too dark to see anything. Trying to flick on the light switch proved fruitless as his fingers seemed unable to interact with it.

"Oh, come on! Shouldn't I have ghost powers or somethin'?" Stan grunted, throwing his hands up. All at once, the lights flickered on, buzzing, and the bathroom was suddenly brightly illuminated. Stan's face dropped. Drops of dried blood stained the sink, more blood smeared over the faucet and counter, and the mirror was shattered as if something heavy had slammed into it. In the tub, dirty clothes were resting in grey water. Stan shuddered at the sight of it all, floating slowly back into the hall. Something was wrong, really wrong– Wrong with Ford. Ford was– Was he in trouble? That had to be it; what else would make him act like this?