Things have not been weird per say, not even quite awkward, now that Sloane thinks of it. Staying at the mansion has mostly felt like a breather, if one can fully ignore anything that happens within its walls at night. She does not want to call it haunted, that would imply the existence of something less malevolent. The things trapped her are volatile, violent if she is to believe everything she hears during the hours she cannot fall asleep.

The banging on her door has been replaced by desperate scraping in the walls a few days ago. It is a rhythmic skritch, skritch, skritch that nearly lulls her to sleep every time. It is the same pattern, the same pauses and drawn out noises. One night she rises from her bed, searches the room for anything to write with. She finds parchment and an old type pen. It makes her chuckle how out of time this mansion seems to be.

With writing utensils at the ready Sloane waits for the scratched pattern to repeat. She notes down the following.

.... . / -.- -. --- .-- ... / --- ..-. / -.-- --- ..-

It looks like Morse code, maybe. Sadly enough she never developed any need to learn it, so she is left to stare at dots and lines. Sloane halfway expects them to maybe shift into words, seeing as nothing on this island is normal, but the code remains, mocking her ineptitude. Perhaps later she can ask someone about it, not Irene though and certainly not Lydia. She doesn't want them to think she is snooping around too much yet again. She likes the sort of peace they all have established after everything and perhaps she likes the attention Irene gives her now. 

For a while everything just feels nice, pleasant even. Again she ignores the warning signs of Mawbrook until she cannot. The scratching turns endless, the banging returns and her bones begin to ache with a need to return to the museum to actively satisfy her ever growing curiosity. So one day she decides that she cannot stall anymore and returns to the museum, its vibes off as always.

This time however, she finds its doors locked. A sign plastered to the glass of the door reads 'Closed due to illness. We apologize for the inconvenience.'

Perhaps this is the universe telling her "No.". Sloane chooses to ignore this. After all, the situation she is presented with is perfect for snooping, even if it requires a little breaking and entering. Preferably no one will be in the museum, leaving her to find all the answers she wishes to, if possible. It would certainly be nice to know what the fuck is going on. So, like any other person desperate for answers she rounds the museum multiple times to find a point of entry. The windows are these old, rickety single hung type windows. She tries to slide the panels of each on up, though all of them appear firmly locked.

She wastes thirty minutes on this, fingertips raw from where she tried to wedge them between the window panels. Perhaps she is a bit of a fool to think breaking into a place would be simply that easy. She glances down, spots a reasonably sized rock. 

"Might as well start with the breaking part."

Sloane picks up the rock, winds back her arm for a nice throw. It is here that a window to her left gives a low, grating creak. She freezes mid motion. Of course this is the moment she is going to be caught by someone.

However, there is no one but a window opened the smallest of smidgens when she turns her head to look. She drops the rock, slips her fingers beneath the panel. It is a tight fit, but if she ignored the discomfort she can wiggle in her fingers until she has enough leverage to slide the window open. She squeezes through the resulting space, hissing when some splinters dig into the tender flesh of her hand. 

The room she finds herself in is dark, the light from outside catching on the particles of dust that float about. The air smells old, stale, nothing like the time when she was here just a few days ago. Without other light sources the building feels different. It feels dead, like a carcass picked clean of any warmth. Should a normal building feel like this?

Sloane finds her answer once she turns around. There, sitting in the middle of the room is the well. The sparse lighting hits is smooth, dark rock and gets sucked right up. Somewhere deep below echoes the sounds of rushing water, like fists that beat against open flesh. It is a steady beat, one that echoes deep in her bones. It drones in the confines of her skull. She takes a step back, the feeling intensifies until it is near painful enough to force her to her knees. Her eyes water, the pressure behind them unbearable. Sloane is overcome with the urge to tear them out, to make it stop. It staggers her, pushes her a bit closer to the well.

It speaks to her. It whispers to her within the sound of blood rushing in her ears. It is sweet things, wonderful things. She finds herself drawn to the depths of the well like a sailor drawn into the depths of the sea. One step after the other she closes in on the void. Somewhere is the steady drip, drip, drip of something. An insignificant rhythm that too gets swallowed by the well in the end. Her hands graze the rock, the smooth surface of it. The cool of it is instant relief to her too hot skin. When has she gotten this warm? 

Sloane leans over, gazes into the beckoning void. One leg over the railing and she thinks perhaps falling into it would feel a bit like coming home. She keeps moving, her balance nearly tipped over.

Drip, drip, drip.

Something wet splatters against the back of her hand. Other drops follow. Her eyes are slow to focus, but the liquid is unmistakably blood. Another drop, another one until her hand is nearly covered in it. She reaches up, feels it smear across her check, across her mouth. Her nose is bleeding.

It is now that the twisting dread of the situation sets in.

Her heartbeat jackrabbits. The droning inside her head turns into a piercing shriek. It sounds angry, volatile. It is a creature that has been denied the satisfaction of sating its hunger.

The walls rattle. Something within them scratches, skitters. Something wants to break out or perhaps something wants to pull her in. Either way she does not want to stay and find out. Her limbs only barely follow her command to move. That shriek sounds again and this time it seems closer.

Desperately, Sloane scrambles out through the window. The shrieking, the empty feeling, follow. There is something oily, something heavy that clings to her. It nearly makes running impossible. The key word being nearly. Her chest aches, her legs burn. The ground beneath her has turned soft and mossy. Overhead the last rays of sunlight manage to peak just barely through the treetops.

Sloane feels like screaming. Maybe she needs a good cry too. Of course she ends up in the forest, because why would she ever end up where she wants to be? Everything here looks the fucking same, so she is not only tired, but also lost. She stomps her foot, picks her direction and hopes for the best. After all, she should be an expert at escaping life threatening danger out of sheer, dumb luck by now.

"Stupid swimming rock with its stupid little hauntings."

Her foot catches on a root and she stumbles, nearly making her face acquainted with a tree. It must be instant karma. Luckily enough she twist herself just in time. Her shoulder connects with the bark and yeah, that is definitely gonna bruise tomorrow.

"Alright, alright. Sheesh... You as an island are not too bad I guess.", she halt, groans, "And now I'm talking to it. What an article that would be. Journalist driven to insanity by a sentient island. Surely that will get me a job somewhere, yep."

Here, she starts giggling. The situation really is just that hilarious. For days she has found out nothing, has been haunted and nearly killed and all she has to show for it is literally fucking nothing. One cannot fault her the small bout of insanity that overcomes her in this very moment.

Three hours. It takes her three whole hours to find her way back to the mansion. By then the moon has already taken its place high within the sky, providing the bare minimum of light so that she doesn't fall and crack her head open.

The lights inside the mansion are all shut off. Guilt settles somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach. Lydia may be hospitable, but knocking her awake in the middle of the night may be too much. She will be burden, she-

The door is flung open before that thought can take a particular shape. Before her now stands Irene, illuminated by the half light of her lamp. The woman looks as frazzled as Sloane feels. Within moments she finds herself tucked into a warm embrace. Her heart and brain may or may not be giving out for a few seconds here.

"Oh darling.... We were worried about you when you did not return for dinner. Wherever have you run off to, huh?"

Nevermind, this right here is the part where she dies, wrapped up in the warmth of this beautiful woman. Irene is soft, gentle in the way that she holds her, chin resting on Sloane's shoulder. She really hopes the other woman cannot hear how terribly loud her own heart is beating. Sloane thinks she might start crying, if it weren't for the fact that gentle carting of fingers through her hair nearly puts her to sleep.

The steps of the staircase give a low creak. Both their heads snap up at the sound, though Sloane can only see so much with her face tucked this firmly into the crook of Irene's neck. She catches just a bit of Lydia and from what she sees the lady of the house seems displeased.

"Good to see Ms. Aldrich safe and sound. Do make sure that she gets a proper rest, Irene."

Irene nods and that's that.