The house was set up with a simple blueprint, with the larger bedrooms on top (four in all, one with its own private bathroom and patio for the president), a handful of smaller bedrooms on the second story, and the living spaces on the first floor. All were connected with a long and elegant staircase, one of the older and more respectable constructions of the house. The staircase was lined with a very old, very worn red carpet fastened to the wood with golden pegs and it turned twice before getting to any landing, making it rather difficult to slide down the banister if you were sober. The staircase only failed to link the top most floors to the basement, which was where most of the parties occurred. That could only be accessed by a small wooden door in the kitchen, one that led to the most deteriorated and uncomfortable part of the house. During the week the basement remained unoccupied, and to be quite honest John had always found the place rather haunting. Inside it had been constructed with a bar and a dance floor, though when the music wasn't playing and the lights weren't flashing he found the shadows to be terrifying. It was a still, dank place, with plaster walls built around all of the more important pieces of infrastructure so as to keep any party goers' elbows from damaging the water heater or the gas stove. No one went down there on their own accord unless it was truly necessary, though the maintenance men of the college were the ones who frequented it the most. Due to the house's age it was no surprise that the appliances didn't always work. Often there was water on the floor or a foul odor in the air, and more than once the boys all had to be corralled outside for fear of some deadly explosion happening in the concrete depths of the house. Thankfully the basement was none of John's concern at the present moment, for as soon as he arrived in the living room he was met with a majority of familiar faces, all messing around as Sebastian Moran tried to organize everyone into their seats. The living room was the widest of all rooms on the second floor, with a small entry way separating it from the kitchen on the other side. Here the boys settled to do their homework or to socialize, oftentimes enjoying the radio or a game of cards on the carpets. By rule there was no television, for the presidents of long ago found that television drained most social skills from the boys, as well as deterred attention to their academics. It was an appropriate rule for sure, and John didn't necessarily miss it. Tonight, all of the furniture had been set up so as to look towards a single chair, presumably the one Sebastian had set aside for himself, and to compliment some of the more comfortable couches there were also some metal folding chairs set up for the boys at the bottom of the pecking order. Without being instructed John and Greg sat themselves on these, figuring if they dared to sit on the couches one of the senior boys would give them the first punishment of the fall semester. There were about twenty boys who lived in the house, all of which were juniors and seniors of the Sigma Eta fraternity. Each one of them was different in their own way, though upon appearances they seemed to have all been cut from the same mold. Each boy was fairly tall and athletic, all with a look of youthful mischief in their face. And of course in times like this each one was messing around, harassing their closest friends with a good heart or messing with their least favorites with an intentional spite. The room was loud and chaotic, with limbs flying this way and that and pushes being dealt, kicks being received, and orders being shouted from their already exasperated president. It was the just the sort of atmosphere John had most missed, the sort of excitement that his summer had been severely lacking. At last Sebastian regained the attention of the room, though he had to stand up on his chair and shriek for the entire room to quiet. It was a heinous sound,w to which Greg chuckled and John cringed, though at last order had been called and each one of the boys looked up anxiously towards their president.
"Boys, you're all off to a very bad start." Sebastian declared, hopping down from his chair before seating himself rather daintily.
"You sound like my professors." came a snarky little voice from the crowd, one that John couldn't yet recognize.
"I'm not that, Clay. I'm worse than that." Sebastian reminded them, to which John had to hide his smile behind his hand. Of course he took Sebastian's threats seriously, for he was one of the only ones in the house who could inflict punishments on everyone below him. Then again his enthusiasm with the role, particularly in his dedication to evoke fear, was almost laughable so early in the semester. Nevertheless the boys paid attention as best as they could, for no one wanted to be the first to step out of line. That was always the one who was the example; the first punishment was always the worst.
"I called you all here tonight to go over ground rules, and to tell you what to expect from this house for the rest of the year. Primarily, we have three main rules. For those who are just moving in for the first time, you may not be aware. Rule number one, Tobias, could you please enlighten us?" Sebastian suggested. Tobias Gregson, one of the seniors who had the honor of living in his own room upstairs, stirred from his spot on the couch. Nevertheless he stood, as if this was some sort of formal speech.
"Rule number one, no drugs." He announced, looking around towards the wandering eyes of the junior class.
"Very good. No drugs. You boys may like to party, but there are plenty of other ways to enjoy your night. Drugs are not only expensive, but they're dangerous, and they're entirely illegal. If we get caught with anything, even marijuana, we could get shut down." Sebastian warned. "Anderson, can you tell us rule number two?" A rather stuffy looking boy stood up, with a strange mop of brown hair arranged atop of his head. John didn't recognize him, though he knew the name from his initiation process.
"Clean up after yourself." He announced in a monotone voice, with a pitch as if he was holding his nose throughout his short statement.
"Indeed. When our pledging class comes around they'll be doing most of the heavy work, but until then we'll rely on our faithful junior class to clean up the bathrooms and the kitchen. However, every one of us is responsible for keeping this place in order. That means picking up after yourself, putting things where they belong, and most importantly, most importantly, doing your own dishes. If I find a single spoon that hasn't been washed I'll make all of you do laps outside the house naked." Sebastian promised, his eyes narrowing so as to make sure his point was received with perfect clarity. John felt a little bit uneasy with this rule, considering that he was never one for doing his own dishes. There were some advantages of having an overprotective mother, and because of her habit of pampering him dish washing was a skill he had never quite perfected.
"The last rule, Bradstreet if you will." Sebastian instructed, beckoning to one of the larger men in the crowd. John recognized him from the football team, though they had never yet exchanged words. Bradstreet didn't stand, instead he bellowed out the final rule from his squishy armchair.
"Don't be an a**hole!" he exclaimed, to which the boys all gave a couple of shouts of agreement and excitement.
"That one is open to interpretation for those in power, and most all of your crimes can fall under that category. Mind the rules, boys." Sebastian warned, nodding his head towards Bradstreet who was smiling in a very satisfied way. Perhaps he liked to feel included. The rest of the meeting included rather boring introductions, a sort of game of Sebastian's own creation where the boys had to recite each other boy's name before they could introduce themselves. By the end of the night John had at least been able to recognize each one of his brothers, though as soon as they left this memorized order he wasn't sure he could place a name to each. All of the boys seemed relatively laid back, and John could tell that this semester was becoming ever the more promising. There was excitement in the air, pungent as any sweet smell. Each one of these boys was electrically charged with their own enthusiasm, and even if John couldn't quite place their names to their faces he knew that they were related now, not by blood but instead by letters. It was a curious brotherhood, though one that seemed to be preferable to his actual family all the same. Each boy retreated back towards their bedrooms as soon as the meeting was dismissed, and slowly each light was extinguished from the individual windows, the very windows which Victor now studied carefully within the photograph. 

The beeping of the microwave finally interrupted his study of the picture, and at long last he set down the folder and retrieved his now cooling noodles. Slowly he stirred in the flavor packet, and from where he stood near the microwave he could still catch a decent glimpse at the picture where it lay on the stack of undisturbed papers. It was strange what such an innocent structure had the capabilities to do, and equally strange what nature could do in return. When that photograph was taken there was not a blemish on the house, it was as well up kept as each one of its neighbors. How could such a building fall into decay? It was infuriating to Victor, sitting here helpless but to wonder. The salted steam tickled his senses back into reality, though before he could return to his spot at the table he was halted by a loud, aggressive knocking. It sounded as though a fist was pounding as hard as it could from somewhere in the front of the apartment, not so obvious as the front door, but with more of a hallow sound...almost as if it was coming from someone already inside.
"Hello?" Victor called abruptly, setting the noodles down upon the counter and instinctively taking up a pair of scissors in his hand, as if a little weapon would defend him from a home intruder. Though at the moment he was not taking into consideration his personal safety, in fact even now he was wandering towards the folder, with one hand brandishing his makeshift weapon and with the other clasping the folder securely shut and tucking it towards his chest. The knocking came again, this time it sounded as though it was upon the doorframe that led into the living room, hidden within the convenient shadows yet making its presence known.
"Show your face!" Victor demanded, now wishing that he had left some more lights on within the apartment. He hadn't expected a response, for now the house had fallen back into its usual silence. If he was not so sure of the first two knocks Victor might've thought that he was losing his mind, for he looked rather silly in the kitchen light. Yet the light...it was fading. As Victor focused in the doorway he was not aware of the shadows that were beginning to stretch along the walls, shadows moving as if with human dexterity along the paint, seeping up the outskirts of kitchen bulb so that the sphere of illumination was dwindling ever so slightly. With arms and legs they creeped, sliding across the walls or crawling about the floor, so quiet that Victor didn't notice until it was far too late. Suddenly, as if a hundred hands had suddenly clasped over his eyes, the shadows overtook the entire room. And as soon as the lights went out Victor was pushed backwards, pushed with two very real, very human hands into the kitchen counter. He was blinded, and in his confusion his hand slacked away from the folder, allowing it to slip from his hands and burst through the latch, the pictures and documents all spilling out onto the messy tiled floor. Victor slid to the floor after it, trying to force himself on top of the papers and so protect them from whichever outside forces were trying to take them from his care. He wasn't sure what he was fighting, whether it be an army of darkness or perhaps a couple of teenagers with the electrical skills to cut the wires out back, thus blinding the poor man in his own home. Either way he knew why they had come, not for him or his money but instead for the information he was only just beginning to soak up. Somehow someone had gotten word of his folder, and yet he was not going to give it up so easily. Suddenly there were fingers upon him, moving all throughout his body as if from disembodied hands, each one grabbing and frisking as they rolled him carefully over, each one working in unison with the other as if the shadows had some sort of agenda. Victor let forth a scream, the only reasonable thing he could think to do now that he was proven defenseless.
"Who are you, what do you want with me?" Victor demanded, flailing his limbs and slashing here and there with the scissors, trying to impale the bodies these hands were obeying. Though wherever he thrashed he never seemed to make contact, yet he was still being touched, he was still being handled. He heard the sounds of shuffled papers, as if someone was searching for something within the pile...
"I only want to show you my face." whispered a voice, directly in his ear. It was a deep voice, ancient, and it was followed almost immediately by the unmistakable feeling of lips upon his own, an aggressive kiss by what could only be the darkness itself. When Victor swatted at the sound, when he hit where the head should have been in relation to his own he was met only with air, and before long he felt as though he was choking on the phantom lips, their kiss so unsettling and so aggressive that he could not force a breath into his lungs. He was being smothered by something he could not touch nor defend himself from, and before long his body lost all strength. He was helpless to do any more fighting, and just as soon as he went limp he was freed from the presence. As soon as he sat back and let this shadow have its fun, suddenly the lights returned. As if a sheet had been drawn from overtop of his head, suddenly the kitchen returned in all of its illuminance. The kiss of death vanished from his mouth, and suddenly Victor could take in long, gasping breaths. The first thing he saw was the ceiling, and the second was what was fluttering downwards from it. A photograph, one with the same proportions as the one which depicted the house itself. 

 Victor didn't go to his office first thing that morning; in fact he hadn't even taken off his coat when he found himself waiting outside of Martha Hudson's office. It was not yet eight o'clock and the hall was still, the campus slept. Though Victor hadn't slept a wink, partially due to his experience of the night before, and partially due to his fear that it might happen again. What had come over him he was not yet sure, but as the time drew on he was beginning to suspect it had all occurred inside of his head. Perhaps he had been dreaming, fallen asleep at the table while looking through the papers? Perhaps he had scared himself too badly during the day, with all this talk of ghosts and vendettas! Well certainly his subconsciousness was going to create a ghost for him, especially when a real one didn't arrive. There was nothing that his logical brain could grasp onto, no reasonable explanation for what could only be described as a moment of immense horror. What had come over him last night, and what was it after? 

"Martha!" Victor exclaimed, at last spotting the woman as she made her way from the staircase and down the hall. The clicking of her heels had alerted him, and before long he had nearly pounced on the poor woman before she could even unlock her office door.
"Professor, rather early for a social visit?" Martha muttered, though the look in her eyes seemed serious enough. She might have understood in that moment that this was not a social visit, rather one which had been prompted by a sense of necessity.
"I need to talk to you." Victor admitted.
"Evidently." Martha commented, pushing past the poor man so that she could push one of her many keys into the lock on the door.
"Urgently, if possible." Victor added, seeing as though she seemed rather disinterested.
"Is this about our mutual investigation?" Martha presumed, pushing the door open but spinning towards her guest, as if to ask him if he thought his conversation would be worth her time.
"It is. I don't...well I'd rather speak about it privately." Victor admitted, noticing how the hall was beginning to move. Footsteps echoed above, doors shut below. People were filing in, perhaps for their early classes already.
"If you insist. Come on then, I'll make you a cup of coffee." Martha offered, seeming only a touch exasperated as she held open the door and ushered in the rather frazzled professor. Before long Victor was sitting comfortably in front of her desk, the door shut behind him and the sunlight coming in through the windows, a relaxing and all together safe environment to discuss the most gruesome experiences. He held a cup of coffee within his hands, though he noticed that however still he tried to hold it the cup shook, the hot liquid brimming dangerously with the small ripples his nerves created.
"Professor you seem afraid." Martha commented at last.
"You can call me Victor." He offered, not sure whether she was being formal or if she had just forgotten his first name. She nodded, though didn't respond. "I am afraid, honestly. Though I'm not sure if I have any good reason to be."
"Have you been looking through the folder I lent you?" she wondered, her hands stilling even as she stirred in two sugar cubes. Victor nodded, readjusting himself in the chair and finally setting the coffee down onto Martha's desk, so as to free his hands for any demonstrative purposes.
"I was only able to glance at one, a photograph of the house before it was vacated." He admitted nervously. "It was beautiful, truly. But then I got up to go to the microwave, and before I was able to sit back down I was attacked. By what I couldn't tell you, but it wasn't human. It was...well I hate to think that it was all a dream!"
"What do you mean attacked?" Martha clarified, her eyes narrowing as she tried to restrain herself from getting too suddenly afraid.
"I was pushed, and I asked it who it was, I asked it to show its face! The whole room went dark, and someone whispered in my ear, someone kissed me..." Victor shuttered, drawing his hands around himself for just a moment as if to protect himself from the outside air. His nerves tingled at the mere thought of his experience, though as he recounted it he couldn't quite depict what had made it so frightening. Surely it was a hallucination, a trick of the mind and of startled nerves? Though if this was a foreign experience, wouldn't Martha have debated it? Certainly she would not be sitting there, looking so grave?
"So you've met him." she muttered quietly, her eyes having glazed over now as if she was recounting her own horror stories within her head.
"Him? You mean there was...there was someone in my house?" Victor exclaimed, not entirely sure if he was relieved or not to hear that there was a human attached to all of this.
"No, no one. I refer to him as such because I heard his voice; saw his face...only once. He came as a shadow, Victor, as a bad omen." Martha warned. "If he's found you already then certainly you must abandon your mission."
"You mean he's a ghost?" Victor clarified.
"I don't know what he is!" the woman exclaimed, her voice breaking fearfully. "But if he's found you then he might be back, he might be coming for us both!"
"He's connected to the house, to the folder?" Victor presumed.
"The house is connected to him. Don't you see, Victor, it's just a house, it's just walls. But it has something inside, someone inside..." the woman shuttered, taking an anxious sip of her coffee and shaking her head agressivley. "I should have burned those photos while I had the chance."
"Martha you're not making sense. You're scaring me." Victor admitted at last, feeling like a child who had just been read a terrible ghost story. The woman fell silent, as if to admit that she was scaring herself as well, though she did nothing to amend her past words. She seemed much more pale, as if she realized now that the two of them were facing something much beyond their understanding.
"It left me this. When the lights came back, when I was alone again, this was fluttering onto my chest. The voice promised to show me his face, and this picture was all I had." Victor admitted, at last remembering the true purpose of his errand. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he unearthed the photo which had been pulled from the rest, setting it onto Martha's desk and turning it for her to examine. It was a curious picture, though perfectly innocent when it was taken. It was a photograph taken at a party, from what Victor could tell it must have been inside of the frat house when it was still operational. There were many smiling faces; at the forefront were two athletic blonde haired boys, both dressed in what appeared to be luau attire. One was wearing a grass skirt and the other a palm tree tie overtop of a bare chest, and in their hands were two cans of cheap beer, a brand long since forgotten to time. Though there were faces in the background, faces lingering through the shadows of the dimly lit house, not all of which were supposed to be there.