-All of this seems like the world's worst joke to you. You'd take anything over this, -- the quiet nothingness and small town fishbowl of Mercer, your cramped apartment in Cleveland, the constantly bustling traffic of New Orleans, but no. You're in LA, on Cielo Drive, in the house where one of the most horrible murders of all time occured. 

- You're petrified from the time you first walk through that infamous door. It's terrifyingly surreal; you had seen what this house looked like time and time again in books and documentaries, its upper-crust beauty marred by such a gruesome crime. It doesn't wear those scars as clearly now; though some of the collateral damage has been preserved, it looks astonishingly... normal. That doesn't mean you don't shiver as you close the door behind you, reminding yourself that this place is actually yours now.

- Trent swears he didn't pick this house out for its history; in fact, he'll deny that he even knew about what happened here until his face turns blue. You don't believe him one bit; both of you are far too well-versed in gristly things like this. He looks a bit awed as he walks through the place, too, toting bags of your shared belongings. 

-Desperate to distract yourself, you ask him: "how long are we planning to stay here again?" Much to your horror, he shrugs, far too nonchalant. "Long enough to record an album or two." Those words put a terrible sinking feeling in your stomach. 

- Over the next few days, you find millions of ways to convince yourself that the house is very, very haunted. If the tragic circumstances of its desertion wasn't enough to put unsettled spirits here, the strange going-ons that one observes while living in it are a dead giveaway. You swear that things move around on their own here; turn around for just a few seconds, and objects move inches away from where you last left them. It also always seems to be absolutely frigid, even though you're in the heart of California, for crying out loud. You're starting to think that the chills you get aren't even really a temperature thing. Sometimes, it feels just a bit more sinister, like eyes, fixed on your back.

- Trent acts like you're ridiculous when you tell him these things, rolling his eyes when you tell him that you swear the newspaper moved by itself or speak of something -- or someone, -- watching you. "You're paranoid," he tells you, waving it off. "Just try to relax, okay?" 

- Considering that Trent doesn't seem to want to listen to you, you turn to Maise for reassurance. "Animals are supposed to be able to see ghosts, right? You know, since they can't tell humans about them," you ramble, scratching her behind the ears as the three of sit by candlelight one evening. (The light isn't making anything any better, but if it aids Trent's creative process, you go along with it.) "She'd be acting weird if she saw anything, wouldn't she?"

- "Shhh," Trent replies. He takes your hand absentmindedly, bringing up to his lips for a gentle kiss. Frustrated by his lack of response, you pull it away, angrily wiping it on the (long) sleeve of your shirt. 

- Just a week into living in the house, everything is starting to put you on edge. You're trying your best not to touch anything, you're constantly policing yourself to make sure that you don't anger any ghosts, and every moment you spend in a room by yourself while Trent and everyone else are busy feels like a creative new form of torture. The ominous noises are the worst part; you've heartd everything from the vaguest creaking noises to blood-curdling screams. Each time you go to tell Trent that you absolutely must get out of this house right now, you find him in front of his soundboard, claiming responsibility for the sounds himself.

- "Jesus... come closer." Now you reach for him in the dark, trying your best to pull his body closer to you, hoping you can find peace in his warmth, maybe even feel protected. 

- "Okay, okay. God." Despite the frustration in his voice, Trent is grinning to himself as he pulls you to him, sleepily enveloping you in his arms. You're somewhat relieved by his heartbeat against your cheek, real and obvious and alive. 

- In his affectionate half-asleep state, Trent plays with your hair, smiling. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he says. "You want to make sure that, if there are ghosts here, they get me first. Right?"

- "Mmm..." You shake your head, yawning. "You'd fight 'em off."

- He chuckles. "Yeah, right," he says. "You've seen me lose fights with forces that are from this world. Al shaved my head, remember?"

- "Shut up," you groan, burying your face in his chest. He laughs, tightening his arms around you. You know then that you'll at least be okay throughout the night,  no matter what he says.

- "You make me feel really safe, Reznor," you tell him, looking up at him with heavily-lidded but adoring eyes. "You really shouldn't, but you do." 

- "You're right. I shouldn't." These words leave, creating a surprisingly comfortable silence. Exhausted and warm, you let your eyes drift shut, feeling at peace for the first time since you first walked through the house's doors.