My Little Spiel: Okay, yes I realize this is not what I'm supposed to be doing right now. Explanations for my disappearance and other stuff will be in the next chapter of APoS for any of you interested. Also, I wanted to be that cool committed person who worked on one story at one time until it was finished but...yeah creativity and inspiration don't tend to follow any protocol or rules so...I've decided I'll put up whatever I have from now on and try to systematically add to the different stories. Thanks for understanding and hope you enjoy this!

P.S.: This story is weird in the fact that I plan to upload "episode" like chapters with a central plot that is built in the shadows. Sort of like a written TV show. Some chapters will be filler and others will have significance so I am pretty much playing with this. But I love the story and think it'll be fun.

P.P.S: If anyone is interested in beta-ing for the story please let me know!

Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater, American Horror Story, The Shining, the DSM, Does It Offend You, Yeah?, the TV channel Chiller, Ramen noodles, Lord of the Rings, the Wizard of Oz, or any other generic horror/haunted house movie/idea. I only own the sarcasm ;)

Episode 00- Never Let The Man-Whore Pick Out Your New Home

She wasn't entirely surprised when weird things started happening. If anyone had cared enough to ask her about it beforehand, she would've bet money on something like this occurring. Her first step in this place sent shivers running up and down her spine and left her wondering what her deranged father had gotten them into now.

It wasn't unusual for Papa to drive her crazy with his thoughtless actions and his constant philandering. She had known the moment the pretty violet-haired realtor with her huge boobs and itty bitty waist came into view that her dumbass father would buy the house—if only because he strived to bed the enticing seller.

Though his moronic sexual actions pissed the hell out of her, the purchase of their new place of dwelling hadn't mattered much initially. She had wholeheartedly agreed with her father's desire to move houses, which eventually escalated to moving cross country to a different state. Neither of them wanted to remain in the painful, suffocating cloud of memories that settled like an unwelcome visitor in their old home. It was a chance meeting in a coffee shop that led to her father acquiring a well-paying job down in Death City, Nevada and voila! New state, new city, and, a new structure soon to be called "home."

This particular house (or was estate the proper word?) was reasonably priced, actually greatly reduced from its original value, and was lovely. It was old, Victorian, and probably too large for only two people to live in, but it possessed a strong aura and…character. She could picture herself lounging on the duvet in the sunroom on Sundays reading Jane Austen novels or spreading out numerous ingredients along the black marble island in the kitchen to practice different dishes and courses for the cooking class she had signed up for.

Yes, Maka Albarn could easily imagine herself living in Gallows Mansion, at least this last year before she graduated.

Well, until she stepped inside and her "spidey-senses" started tingling.

At first, she merely acknowledged it as irrational (but explainable) nerves. Somewhere deep down (WAY down) inside of her, she knew her inner child waited, foolishly holding on to the hope that mommy and daddy would get back together and she'd return to her simple pink bedroom with the fuzzy white carpet in the cozy abode of her birth. The cynical adult that dominated her thought processes, however, was positive not only were her parents never going to reconcile but mommy-dearest wasn't even going to return to America; she was too caught up in her need to run from the pain and betrayal of her cheating husband to stay and look after her only child.

But the farther she "intruded" into the manor, the worse she felt. Tingles and shivers escalated to shakes and feverish chills. Every now and then she'd glance over her shoulder after swearing something flashed along her peripheral vision. What had once been a promising, charming house was quickly morphing into one of the possessed manors that dominated the horror movie genre.

Maka wasn't too keen on being murdered in her sleep by vengeful ghosts and demons, thank you very much.

Yet what was her father doing? Oh yeah. Attempting to seduce the seductress who was obviously pulling a fast one on them. Cheap old house with creepy gut feelings? She didn't need "redrum" written on the wall to alert her to the American horror story they were about to embark on.

Wait, was he signing the god damn papers?

Damn her chauvinistic, horny Papa! And damn that poorly dyed purple double-Ds bombshell realtor! She had better not expect "getting any" after selling what was most likely a house riddled with curses and unsolved murders to them!

It only took two weeks for her father's idiotic, dick-propelled decision to cause her to go crazy.

Like, literally crazy.

Maka was smart and wanted to be a psych major; though she had listened to her gut which sarcastically mused the possibilities of a supernatural terror tucked in the basement, her logical, scientific mind wouldn't allow such a theory to be realistically considered. She knew the different mental illnesses and all the definitions of "mentally unstable" and that was the only explanation that fit all the strange things she witnessed.

Having hallucinations, auditory or visual, were pretty good signs of the infamous "I think I've lost my marbles" diagnosis.

And she was having both.

Originally, the fiery blonde thought of nothing but bashing in her father's skull with Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace for actually causing her to "go crazy," but to be fair it wasn't all Papa's fault. The majority of the blame for her constant unreal imaginations she vehemently believed lied with the suspicious, unusual air of the house. And the town, too. Everyone in Death City gave off the tiniest impression of being almost off their rockers.

And she was mature enough to accept a partial bit of the blame for her current predicament and misery. She had foolishly and submissively gone along with this auspicious ordeal, slipping on an extremely fake slaphappy smile when seller and buyer had turned to ask her for her opinion. Course, her father sort of signed the god damn papers before he asked if she was privy to the house and wouldn't mind living there, but still. She liked to think that if she had mentioned her unease or dislike of Gallows Mansion he would've backed down and respected her wishes. Then, they wouldn't be living in a house that was either haunted (yeah, right!) or was slowly driving its smartest inhabitant to unreality and white walls in a loony bin.

Lesson number one: never let the man-whore pick out your new home. Eighty-five percent of realtors were young women after all…

And thirty percent of home owners were violently murdered inside their homes; no doubt a Victorian structure of this age and magnitude housed numerous spirits from times long gone…

Hell, when had all this supernatural bullshit settled in her brain? Maka resolutely promised to give up Chiller marathons for the next month in the hopes that this unnatural paranoia (and the schizophreniformic hallucinations tied with it) would pass.

The beginning was how one would anticipate a haunted house movie to commence. Doors would open randomly when she walked by or shut close with a loud, reverberating bang after she made it through the frame; some doors wouldn't open at all, like the ones in the West wing of the house or the basement. Certain areas of the building emitted spooky whispers or were dreadfully chilly when walked through. Sometimes, the young girl would awake in the middle of the night either from a very disconcerting but not recallable dream or from repetitive thumps in the attic—only to discover that the attic was completely and utterly empty the next day. And things would go missing and show up at random times and even more random places.

One time, she had set her keys down on a coffee table upon coming home from school. After a brief raid of the kitchen for a snack, she returned to find that they were nowhere in the vicinity. Puzzled and a little estranged, Maka had inevitably ended up spending the whole day scoring the house for them, tossing decorative pillows off of furniture and finding several dust bunnies the size of her head after thrusting her hand into places she probably shouldn't have in search for them. Maybe they ought to invest in a maid to help keep house. Then, of course, her father appeared later on in the evening, keys dangling in between his thumb and index finger, and questioned her as to why he had found them in the roast he was preparing for dinner.

Maka never could figure out an acceptable answer for him.

And her room was so fickle! An eccentric statement for sure, but one that Maka couldn't completely dispel from the recesses of her mind. If houses could be haunted and if hers was, then she was almost positive an extremely angry (and bitchy) menopausal woman was residing in her claimed space. One second the temperature was delightful. Perfect. Matched the thermostat in the hallway. The next? Clothing was forcefully removed as the heat became unbearable.

What was she supposed to think when the thermostat in the hallway just outside her door mockingly stated it was a comfortable seventy degrees, but a step inside her room had her melting like the wicked witch of the West?

She originally (logically) assumed it was her body enduring heat flashes, though she was quite sure menopause was not the reason behind them. A few sleeps on the couch with her skin not crispy or slick with sweat upon awakening later had her hypothesizing that it was the air conditioning in her wing of the house that was messed up, though the realtor insisted all the appliances and fixtures of the building had been updated and fixed. Maka wasn't so sure about that. She certainly wasn't going to take a top heavy saleswoman's word for it.

So she invested in a handyman who made an expensive visit to inform her that there was, indeed, nothing wrong.

Yet every time she left her room, it was as if she were wading out of thick, heavy soup, like someone had constructed a second door to pass through—made of invisible gelatin. Once she erupted from the other side of the doorway, the temperature was instantly cooler and more appropriate for human living standards. Confused and slightly freaked out, Maka soon came to the alarming realization that it was only her room in the entire house that fluctuated from "it's kind of nice in here" to "welcome to the fires of Mordor."

Her resistance to dropping herself at the nearest institution held out a bit longer as she ignored these things for another few weeks. It was simpler that way. She refused to acknowledge the clammy sensation of entering her sacred area, the disappearance (and irrational reappearance) of her items, the low noises only she apparently heard, or the recent prickling, goose bump-inducing feeling she had of being watched.

However, after a month of weird stuff continuously pestering her, she ended up conceding and began to seriously doubt her sanity and mentality.

What do you do when you think you've lost it?

Maka found it very unfortunate that they never seemed to provide that particular answer in psychology textbooks.

Nonetheless, despite her supposed loss of reality, the young girl did not want to give up all that she worked for because of a momentary "slip of the mind" most likely due to witnessing a stressful divorce and moving away from everything she'd ever known…and living in one creepy, large house with her rambunctious, mostly absent father.

Until that day…

She had been doing well…or so she liked to think. She wasn't entirely "better," but she was on the road to improvement. When the scratchy voices purred in her ear, Maka would swat at them once and then throw on loud music to drown them out. When doors squeaked open, she would steadfastly stare straight ahead and slam them shut as she passed. She never visited the basement where nonexistent chainsaws screamed for release. She locked the empty attic to prevent her inquisitive wanderings after a restless night because of enthusiastic poundings from up above and settled into the new routine of wearing earplugs to bed. And to deal with her room…

Maka planned to admit defeat for the sake of her mental stability (or whatever was left of it) and gathered her things to move to a different section of the house—the quieter, albeit darker, West wing. Locked doors wouldn't be able to keep her from cool, dreamless sleep!

That was the day her hallucinations really got out of control.

Because that was the day she saw him for the first time.

Maka knew she was gifted with an especially strong and inspiring imagination. The many years of being an only child and hiding away from her parents' constant fights led her to books which in turn opened up wondrous realms full of possibilities. With her innate creativity and love for language, the shift from reading books to writing books was a natural, effortless progression. There were (unfortunately) several occasions where she abashedly admitted her talent got a little out of hand. Namely, those weeks where she sat at her computer typing so long she almost forgot what another human being looked like as well as how one conducts themselves in public. When her mother would eventually drag her out of her room and haul her off to eat a "proper" dinner (apparently Ramen noodles did not count as sustenance or food), she would usually, by the end of a night, spill five beverages, break three plates, drop her silverware twice, and accidentally throw someone's dinner on the floor.

But those instances looked like child's play compared to the new thing her wild imagination had conjured.

She could deal with the freaky noises that reverberated solely in her head. She could deal with the frequent "lapses in her memory" that accounted for the string of missing and inexplicably found items in and around the house. She also could deal with the doors that opened without anyone touching them or the myriad of flashes in her peripheral vision. Hell, she could even deal with the imaginary wall of jelly, the revolting daily pattern of parading around in her swimsuit after school because of her room's unexplainable production of heat, and the growing paranoia of being watched constantly. But this…this was too much.

Why the fucking hell did she see a person sitting on her bed?

And wait a second…was said person a he?

It was official—the straight jacket and foamed walls were calling her name.

Maka's shriek of surprise and dismay in finding how out of hand her chemical imbalance had become (understatement of the year) was met with a lazy smirk of victory and twinkling red eyes from said "chemical imbalance." As though he had expected her shrill entrance.

Which made sense since he obviously did not exist outside of her demented, insane mind. Of course, he would know that she would scream because he wasn't real except to her because in a convoluted sense he was her and therefore would know what she would do and…dear Lord what was going on? What happened? Did she sniff too much diacetone alcohol when using Sharpies yesterday? Was that what pushed her brain over the edge and down into a spiral of madness and illusions?

In short Maka Albarn repeated the million dollar question to herself…

What do you do when you think you've lost it?