the resident of number five only paid attention to the most enthusiastic gossip and rumours that circulated anytown, easily dismissing that which was most outrageous or irrelevant: the colour of the barmaid's underwear was of no interest to the wraith that lurked in dark back-alleys and withered pub booths. no, as a forensic investigator and conspiracy theorist amelia was far more interest in ghost stories, death threats, changes in behaviour and rumours of aliens. the obnoxiously large and antiquated manor that sat aside the main village had fallen into this category, not long bought up by some guy they described as equally ginormous and old. the blonde had forgotten the name by now, of estate and militant both, more interested in the story than the particulars. she'd come to investigate ( by day, shockingly; doing her best to keep out of neighbours suspicions what with the uneasiness that lingered now about the night ) but instead of a haunted house and grouchy old warthog, the roux woman was confronted with the clucking of a chicken.

          she pauses, pale glare settling rather irately upon the grey commotion that comes nearer and nearer without seeming to notice, distracted in its food-frenzied frolicking. so simple minded, the disgusted thought, nose wrinkling. it does provide an opportunity though. slowly, the short government worker sinks to her heels, gaze unwavering as though hoping to pierce the hen in place through sheer force of will. unsurprisingly, the attempts of remote paralysis by a non-psychic were entirely unsuccessful, as were the first few irritated lunges. tackling in soccer, however, has taught the blonde cretin benefits of trapping and boxing in an enemy and she eventually manages to pin the squawking fowl in some shrubbery, roughly handling the prized pet of mister haunted house until it sat firmly nestled against her side with wings pinned beneath a coarse hand. ( your head is pounding, the angry bird's screeching drilling directly through the skull, but finally you have a reason to probe the mysterious gigantor without coming across as the psycho everyone's coming to suspect you are )

          composure in the form of typical dour expression replaces twitching eyebrow and curled lips, fingers flexing about mess of feathers as short stride carries the athletic woman down what she hoped was some kind of hack-sawed path to the house.