beeandheroddobsessions
Drop It! Warnings: Supernatural elements. Dead!Elvis. Reader’s father is dead. Reader denotes elvis to his face. Dilapidated Graceland. Summary: It’s move-in day! Reader spends the day fixing up the house. By the end of the night, she just wants to relax but something, or someone, needs to talk to her. A/N: I am fully aware that graceland is cared for and not at all in ruin but the story calls for it. I put a lot of thought into this series and i really want everyone to enjoy it! The story is inspired by my house and what it’s like living here. though i’ve never come face to face with my goulish friends, i do respect them. A small bit, while comical, is something i actually did experience. Granted, i never spoke to anyone, or at least, never got an audible response. Most of this series includes odd happenings that i’ve dealt with. Isn’t that fun? Non-beliver or not, i hope you enjoy it. Happy reading- Bee💕 September 2023 The keys resting in your palms bring nothing but joy, even after dealing with a snippy mother and grumbling movers on an overcast Thursday afternoon. It should've been alarming, the way that realtor hightailed it off the property, but you were just glad to get your hands on what once was a beautiful home. Graceland had nearly fallen to ruin; once the previous owner's legacy began to deteriorate, so did respect for the house. Squatters, Drug dealers, vandals, this house has seen it all. Yet, under all that muck and destruction, you saw a chance to restore its beauty. Your mother was a bit...perturbed by the decision, wondering what she had done in your childhood that could've led to this point. When the idea was first pitched, she laughed it off, assuming it was another one of your odd bouts, like it was some fairytale. So imagine her surprise when you tossed the paperwork onto the breakfast table. Your mother's concerns only doubled when she actually saw the house. Move-in day is supposed to be exciting, and for you, it is. Pushing past the doors into your new home is something magical. You don't know where to start. The kitchen? The front room? Upstairs? It's all so tempting. "Mama, this place, it's so beautiful. Doesn't it jus' make you wanna cry?" You exclaim, unable to contain the excitement rushing through your body. "...That's...well, that's one way to put it." your mother says, watching for possible loose beams as you traverse through the house. You kiss your teeth at her tone and begin rattling on about your ideas for the space. "I can fix her up in no time. We can start with the walls; they only need a few patches and a fresh coat a' paint. Oh! And then we can work on the floors. And I'm sure we can find some replicas or have 'em made. I think-" "Y/n!" your mother interrupts, "Rome wasn't built in a day, baby. Don't get too ahead of yourself. You already broke the bank buyin' this...place and-" You shake your head "Mama, don't you know who used to live here? Daddy woulda-" The older woman before you holds up her hand, face dropping into an unamused expression. "Don't compare me to your daddy; we never did have the same tastes. And of course, I know; Elvis was my crush before you were even thought of." You tilt your head, shifting to move a box. "But you just said you n' daddy didn’t have the same-" She cuts you off before you can finish your thought. "Hush up and listen to your mama." A chuckle leaves your mouth as she scolds you. "After all this time, daddy still can't catch a break?" Your mother lets out a saddened sigh, "Well, he may not be here physically, but pokin' fun at him is the only way I know he's still around." Your shoulders drop, and you set the box down. Your father passed away six years ago; he didn't want his family knowing he was sick. You thought it was a cruel joke, some twisted prank set to traumatize you forever. The wails your mother let out that night on the kitchen floor told you otherwise. She tries to pretend but hasn't been the same since—the idea of remarrying tossed to the wind like a dandelion's pappi. "Mama, don't you think daddy would've wanted you to let him go?" you lament, hoping your mother would consider it this time. But, alas, the notion is shot down once again. "You may not believe in ghosts or the afterlife, y/n, but I do. Your daddy is always with me. It wouldn't be right to get hitched in his face." You shrug and continue unpacking, "If you say so mama, I jus couldn't imagine stickin' it out till the very end." That statement seems to tickle your mama pink. "You ain't never been in love, sugar pie. When you meet your mister right, you'll know what I mean." You purse your lips. Even while talking about her dead husband, she hints at your sad love life. To you, love is just a feeling, and the dead are just that, dead. So your mother's musings about 'ghosts' and 'true loves' are nothing short of fantasy in your world. "O...kay. Well, we've got a lot to do, and we've been talkin' bout nothin' for ten whole minutes. Let's hop to it!" Your mother rolls her eyes, "This ain't my dream house, honey. I ain't GOT to do nothin' but stay black and die." "Oh, here you go with that mess. You agreed to help your only baby move in so that I wouldn't 'die in my sleep cause some spider decided to munch on me,' so don't give me none of that." You mock. Your mother pops your arm and grabs a broom. "You yo' daddy's daughter, alright. Couldn't have got that mouth from me." She mutters. For the next four hours, the two of you dispose of odd findings, scrub, wash, disinfect, and grumble through the house. By the time you finish, the home is as clean as clean gets. The sun has set, and all you want to do is eat and sleep. The last thing to set up is the bedroom. You feel a little strange sleeping in a room that once belonged to such a legend, but he isn't here, and the house belongs to you. The wall of TVs would be dealt with later. For now, a flatscreen was simply placed in front of them; aside from that, you pre-ordered replicas of the bedroom furniture, not wanting to personalize too much. After kissing your mother goodbye, you trudge up the stairs, stopping halfway to crack your back. Once you return to the master suite, flopping on the bed only seems fitting. A groan escapes you as you realize you still need to shower. Rolling over, you grab a towel from your suitcase, lay out some pajamas on the center of the bed, and head for the bathroom. While waiting for the water to warm, perched on the porcelain throne, the lights flicker. You'll need to replace the bulbs later; simple fix. When the water reaches hell, you waste no time jumping in. It soothes your aching body, and all of the tension from today washes down the drain. You hum a nonsensical tune to keep you entertained while you clean away the dirt and grime. In the middle of the improvised song, a crash steals your attention. You finish rinsing and shut off the water, quickly making your way to the bedroom door. You aren't going to investigate; too bright (or too experienced in the horror genre) to even give that a thought. No, you lock the door and mind your business; that is a morning problem. When you turn back to retrieve your nightwear, you find them on a chair in the corner of the room. Odd. You could've sworn you left them in the middle of the bed. Whatever, you think as you throw them on. Plopping down on the edge of the bed, you grab the remote and turn the TV on—finally, a moment of peace. You flick through Netflix, desperate to find good background noise. Landing on your favorite show, 'The Good Place,' is enough for you. It's ironic, don't believe in anything after death, or love, and here you are, watching two dead people fall in love. Halfway through Episode six, the source of entertainment shuts off. You huff; it was getting good too. The remote is behind you, out of reach, so you aren't exactly sure what could've caused this. "Probably just a glitch," you mumble, turning the TV back on and resuming your minor addiction. This time, you place the remote on the dresser, ensuring no interruptions. Despite your effort, it happens again; A guttural noise leaves your body. You're broke in a house that's falling apart with no man, pets, and no energy. TV is the one pleasure you have left, and even that is beginning to frustrate you. Repeating the process, you hold the remote in your hands, eyebrows raised, daring your peace to try and leave again. After a few moments, you sigh in relief as the halfway point passes and set the remote down. As soon as it comes in contact with the plush, black comforter, the TV again fails you. "Oh, for fuck's sake." You exclaim. "Ladies shouldn't swear; ain't attractive." A voice bellows from behind you. A shrill shriek is all that is heard as you scramble off the bed. Your eyes search for the source but find nothing. Slowly, you creep toward the bed and snatch up the remote. "Can't go downstairs till morning, and I'm losin' it in here. What a night." You whisper. A shiver rolls through your body, and you decide it's better to sit on the floor. Again you try with your tv (which you will be returning in the morning), and of course, that doesn't last long. "Sugarpie, I don't wanna see that junk. If you're gon' watch somethin' in my bed, I suggest it be somethin' good. Not some trash show that don't know the first thing bout bein' dead." The strange voice booms again. This time when you jump out of your skin and turn to face the intruder, you see what you can only assume to be the world's most accurate Elvis impersonator. "What the hell are you doin' in my house?!" You screech, "Get out! Get the hell out." The man before you is nowhere near ready for the projectiles flying his way. Clothes, shoes, books, and a stuffed bear. You name it; it's flying at his head. "Hey! I—I said—, goddamn! You got an arm on ya! Put the—," Elvis can't even finish his sentence as you continue to fling whatever you can at him. "Get. Out. Of. My. House!" You grunt, each word punctuated with the throw of an object. The tall, blue-eyed stranger ducks and dodges with precision, but when he sees you getting ready to toss a picture frame, one you no doubt failed to realize the importance of in your defensive state, the fun and games stop. "Drop it! Drop that damn picture right now! Your mama would tan your hide for days if she saw that you broke that frame." Elvis booms. Your chest is heaving, and you blink, glancing over at the photo. "S'your daddy, right? Y'all were talkin' in the kitchen bout how it's the last thing he gave ya. You promised ta take care of it. So drop it." You nod and gently place the photo on the bed, reaching for a good substitute. "Jus—Just how long have you been here?" you question, ready to launch the lamp in your hand. Elvis ponders for a moment. "What year is it?" He asks, seeming genuine. You quirk an eyebrow, unamused with the game he's playing. "You can't be serious." He looks at you expectantly, waiting for an actual answer. Your phone is across the room, and the chances of getting past this psycho-wannabe Elvis are slim to none. So, you entertain him. "It's twenty-twenty-three, you should know that." You say, face stoic. Elvis's eyes widen, "Twenty- Good lord!" He chuckles in disbelief. "Well, to answer your question lil' mama, if that's true, I've been here for sixty-six years if you're countin' when I bought the house." You shake your head; there's no way the idiot in front of you is this dedicated. "Yeah, sure, I reckon you want me to believe you're Elvis Presley himself. Is that what this is? Some attempt to scare me?" Elvis chuckles and shakes his head, "No, ma'am. Ain't no pretendin' round here. I'm the real deal." You can't help the cackle that slips past your lips. "My ass!" Elvis's smirk fades, "I told ya that shit isn't cute. And if ya don't believe me, try to shake my hand." He says, extending the appendage forward. You scrunch your nose, "Now, why would I do that?" He shrugs, hand still held out. "Well, I ain't goin' nowhere for a long time n' you're the first person to see or hear me in ages. Whether ya do or don't, it really ain't too concernin' for me." You sigh, knowing this is how dumb girls in movies usually meet their end. Can't believe m'doin' this. Shakily, you extend your hand, and when it meets his, it goes right through. You gasp as the limb turns to smoke before materializing again. "Sweet jesus," you sputter. "I wouldn't know if he was sweet, I ain't met him yet." Elvis jokes. You back away, very spooked. "T-This, this isn't possible. Ghosts they—they aren't-" "Real?" Elvis cuts you off, "Yeah, I heard that part too, jus didn't wanna scare your mama, so I waited till it was jus you n' me." You scoff, offended, "My mama gets a pass, and I don't?" He chuckles and sits on the bed, "She believed, you didn't. For someone with a gift this great, ya sure do love ta act like ya don't know what she's talkin' about." You fold your arms, looking down, "I don't have-" "Oh, yes ya do. Don't give me none of that. I spent the whole afternoon chit-chattin' with your old man. " Your head snaps up, eyes meeting his. "You spoke to my daddy? How is he? Did he ask bout mama? Because she'd be thrilled. I gave up. I knew I shouldn't have. I'd been tryin' to reach him since he died, but he never-" The smug look on Elvis's face shuts you up. "Well, first off. Why would ya need to call a man who's in the same house as ya? Second, you'd been tryin' so hard to find happiness for a woman who don't need it, that ya pushed your daddy away anytime he tried. A ghost can only do so much without scarin' someone half to death, baby." This is all too much; Ghosts exist, Elvis Presley is in front of you, and your daddy hasn't moved on. Mama was right. You lift the covers and shimmy under them. "I need to sleep on this. Jus—I...I don't know where you go, but scram for the night please." Elvis chuckles, nodding. In a flash, he evaporates, fumes left behind as he finds another room to settle in. You breathe through your nose as you think. What a night indeed, miss y/n. Taglist: @prayerstopresley @powerofelvis @re3kin
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