#bedfeet

[call-sign-shark]

Layla… That was FANTASTIC. Admittedly I’m super late in my reading of Trouble, but I’m already a bit acquainted with Sonya and Sylvie so let me tell you that the trope of the twin ghosts is PERFECT. I loved it so much I don’t even know what to say except that your talent hit me like a train. I know you were a formidable writer, but the way you write horror and the uncanny is just wonderfully efficient. The style of this text is really close to the gothic literary genre! In someway it makes me think a lot about Mary Shelley Wollstonecraft.

From the introduction to the house party to the chilling descriptions of each family members, this piece of work is pure genius. You know horror is my favorite genre, so you can’t imagine how delighted I was during my reading. I just love how you portrayed the Shelby and the twins. Like they are not directly mean nor malevolent, but their smirk and chilling eyes are WORSE. The way you wrote your twins OCs is also terrific: I could almost picture them at the bedfeet, dressing with white dress and holding hands, their blank grey eyes looking at Mrs. Shelby… I’m scared now. Also the idea of them bullshitting —or not?— about Polly’s reason to leave the wing of the house was a clever detail that added a layer of mystery. One last comment: I loved the short way you described your character and the reference to “the dying swan she was playing”. I love it. Bear with me because despite being a slow reader, you can be sure I’ll read and comment through your whole Trouble series!🖤

Love In a Haunted House

I wrote this for @zablife 's 2k celebration. Congratulations again lovely and thank you for coming up with this cool and creative spooky little idea for a celebration!!! This was lots of fun to write, I am so sorry it's so so long, I guess I got a little carried away!!! I also hope that I've done this right and its at least somewhere in the realms of what you were hoping for!!!!

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The Shelby Manor was everything she'd been warned it would be but it was also so much worse...

It had begun that very first night, the night of the welcome home party being held in your honour. The newly weds happily returned home from their honeymoon. Tommy and his beautiful - almost too beautiful - bride.

You had stood hand in hand whilst Arthur had made his somewhat awkward celebratory speech, wishing prosperity, wishing happiness and many, many babies, a speech which could have been written for anyone. A speech which sounded as though it had already been spoken once, for someone else, one of those other women had loved before he'd loved you.

You'd stood there at the center of the ballroom trying to ignore the clawing sensation of suspicious eyes trailing you, studying and scrutinising you. Every mumur which drifted to you over the music disturbed you, tugged at your own suspicions. The suspicion that you just didn't quite match up to the woman who had once stood where you stood now. Who had once been held by the hands which held you now, one on your waist, one on your cheek. The eyes which looked into yours, perhaps they searched yours for the echo of someone else.

Tommy had done his best to reassure you, he'd told you that his family were always suspicious of outsiders.

"We have to be careful angel, they know that, it takes them a long time to put their trust in strangers but don't worry..."

"What if I am worried Tommy?"

"If you are then you shouldn't be, they won't let you stay a stranger very long..."

At first you hadn't been certain what he meant by that, the glow of warmth in his eyes doing little to quell your nerves. However when finally you began to meet them you started joining the dots.

They were curious. That is to say they asked a lot of questions and even when they weren't asking a question their eyes shimmered and shadowed with them. Unspoken remarks, things they knew they didn't need to say. Even the little compliments they did give felt backhanded or riddled with hidden meaning.

From Aberama and the infamous Aunt Pol, whom Tommy had always talked so fond and so proud of, to Arthur, Ada, John and Finn... some of Tommy's treasured siblings, the ice had felt thick. They were all so much colder than Tommy had told you they would be. All of them icy behind their grey and blue eyes. Ada hadn't a thing to say to you that wasn't accompanied by a smirk. John had looked at you with the removed serenity of a ghost. That is to say he didn't look serene at all.

Michael, the cousin, had been reserved but his friend Isaiah had been charming, the warmest person in the room and the only person who offered you any kind of real welcome. But it was Isaiah that had started the trouble. Or at least it was the girl his laughter and summoned.

"There you are Fen, where's you sister?" Tommy had smiled at the youngest Shelby sibling as she wrapped her arms around Isaiah's shoulders and stood on tiptoe to rest her chin in the crook of his neck. Her eyes fixed on you, flickered over you and then glared cold and stubborn into your eyes.

You could only watch, struck with a shyness that Sylvia Gray was no stranger to. It happened all the time, especially when she was dressed as she was now - as if she'd just dropped in from a night at the ballet, her white tights shimmering, her silk skirt draped from her hips like wilting petals about to fall.

She had a grey, clouded gaze and when she let her eyes rest on you you felt a cold creep up your spine. Icy fingers on the back of your neck.

"Ask Bonnie..." she shrugged refusing to look at her brother. Her eyes unblinking, fixed on you. You tried to hold her gaze, tried to smile but that only seemed to make her worse because when you smiled her lips remained set, a thin line, her cheeks somehow hollowed, her expression stark. Quiet and uncanny.

You wanted to look away but you couldn't. It felt like watching two cars collide in slow motion. It felt like watching a man with a gun held to his head.

"Fen," Tommy coughed, "this is y/n," he said fixing his sister with a cold stare of his own. One which might have scared her once.

"Oh," she blinked, her expression changed in a heartbeat, her smile wide, her eyes shimmering as she clasped your hands in hers, "it's so good to finally meet you! You know Tommy didn't do you any justice at all, you're much prettier than he described..." it would have left you smiling had Isaiah not narrowed his eyes, it would have been a welcome warmth had Tommy not sighed and wrapped his arm around you as though to protect you from a chill.

"Don't worry angel, the twins are only visiting, they aren't staying long..."

"Oh," you said softly, saddened because Sylvie had so far, said the kindest words you'd heard all evening and the thought that the only sweet Shelby might be leaving in a couple of days filled you with disappointment. "That's a shame."

Tommy didn't correct you, only gave your hand a squeeze. He was beginning to wonder if all of this was a mistake.

"The twins are very defensive," he said, "they lost their mother when they were very.."

"Not spilling all our secrets I hope Tommy..."

Her voice was cold and sweet, like frost on the windows on the first winter morning. Her complexion was just as cold. She'd come out of nowhere but now she stood before you both like a waif. Her eyes cloudy and daydreamy, hauntingly distant as she gazed up at you and not at her brother.

You recognised the young man who caught her hand and tugged her back a step, his eyes looking between the two of you with what was becoming a familiar concern.

"Y/N's family now Fen, don't keep secrets in this family do we..."

"Only fools tell the truth in this family," she said her voice drifting in as though from far away. It was hard to imagine her as anything but the ghost of the dying swan you knew she was famed for playing.

"They hate me don't they?" You whispered to Tommy later. The two of you were slow dancing, your guests dancing just as slow and swaying as you. They surrounded you, moving in time with the music and yet their bodies were not enough to shield you from that clawing, unforgiving gaze.

The twins were watching you from across the room. Their eyes dark, gloomy and frosted over. They were holding hands, perfectly still. Their dresses wilting from their ghostly bodies. Their eyes followed you around the room, shimmering, haunted, threatening you quietly.

You couldn't understand how those two boys could stand so close. How they could hold their hands without catching a chill.

Yes, there was something haunted about the twins. Something which haunted you for the rest of the evening and for many evenings to come.

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The haunting began that night. Tommy had taken you to bed the way a good husband should. He'd helped you undress, delicate fingers undoing all the little ribbons and ties which had held you together all evening. He'd dropped to his knees as he'd slipped the fabric of your silk dress down your waist, bunched it up in his fists at your hips and then dragged it down over your thighs letting it fall in a crumpled heap at your feet.

He'd kissed you a thousand times, every inch of you touched, caressed and sighed upon, made love to you and made you feel loved. And then he'd held you, he'd fallen asleep holding you in his arms, his hand resting on your back as you used his body as your bed. Your hair splayed across his chest.

But where he had fallen asleep quickly, where he'd found home comfort and rest you had found yourself restless. Worried, taunted by memories of the evening. All of those suspicious glances, all of those feigned welcomes. The short smiles. The cold eyes. The stiff way his family had spoken to you.

John who had drifted around like a ghost. Ada who had distanced herself from you. Who hadn't let Karl near you even when he'd asked to dance with the "pretty lady in the red dress."

The twins who had gazed at you the way one might gaze at a doomed creature about to stumble in the dark of an unforgiving wood.

You had thought you might have finally been about to sleep, your eyes were heavy, the room was dark but for the pale glow of an orange harvest moon.

And that's when you heard it. The whispering.

You couldn't make out the words but you were certain that that's what they were. That someone was talking to you, a voice just behind you. Coming from the walls.

"Holy Mother of God,"

"Pray for us."

"Holy Virgin of virgins,"

"Pray for us."

"St. Michael"

"Pray for us."

"At Gabriel..."

You recognised the names of the saints listed one by one, the whispers overlapping and weaving in and out of one another so that you couldn't be sure how many voices there were. How many ghosts were watching over you then.

You reached for Tommy, tried to whisper his name but something silenced you, fear caught in your throat.

You tried to strain your eyes through the dark but there was nothing. You tried to reason with yourself but you couldn't deny what you heard. The litany of the saints being whispered through the walls, soft scratching voices in the dark, dancing all around the bed. All you could do was lie there, listening, gazing up at the ceiling, saying a little prayer of your own. One for silence. For peace.

You awoke the next morning with dry stinging eyes. Your head hurt. You couldn't remember falling asleep, you could only remember lying there, stiff and still, Tommy's warm body beneath yours unable to offer even a shred of comfort to you as your heart raced, thudding in your ears but never loud enough to drown those whispers out...

"You look tired love," Tommy frowned when you pushed yourself up and away from him, his hands caught your lower back and tried to hold you still and close to him. "Come love, settle down, we've nowhere to be, stay with me eh, make the most of this privacy whilst we've still got it..."

But all you could think about were those voices. Those relentless whispers which had taunted you all through the night so you frowned and shook your head and left your husband feeling cold.

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Three nights later you lay awake. Listening.

"All holy angels and archangels,"

"Pray for us,"

You lay on your back starring up at the ceiling through the dark, eyes burning and dry, stinging with exhaustion. Your husband sleeping peacefully beneath you, blissful and unaware of your torment. Of this nightly trial you were forcing yourself to endure alone.

"All holy orders of blessed spirits,"

"Pray for us."

Shimmering ethereal voices, ghostly, fae like. They wouldn't leave you alone. Always whispering to you through the walls.

It was an old house and you weren't stupid. You'd checked the wall for cavities, done your best to examine the bedroom in the daylight searching for any tricks which could be being played on you. But you'd found nothing.

"St. John the Baptist,"

"Pray for us,"

"St. Joseph,"

"Pray for us,"

You'd taken a Bible from the library and you'd scoured it for the words you could remember from each long uneasy night but your research was fruitless and every night since moving into Arrow House you'd found yourself haunted, lying awake unable to tune out of the sound of your racing heart and those frantic weaving whispers which tangled around your bed like a cloud of cursed mist.

"All holy patriarchs and prophets,"

"Pray for us..."

The morning after the second night at Arrow House you'd been lingering around the archives in the library, fingers skimming over the spines of books which documented the history of the local area.

"Taking a history lesson love?" Asked Polly who had been resting on a chaise longe not so far away. You'd turned to her, feeling shy, feeling silly. Trying to hold back the question on your lips.

"This house Polly... is it haunted?"

But the woman had only smirked, her eyes full of shadows, all these things she knew that you didn't. Things which perhaps Tommy's previous wife had known. Ghosts which perhaps she hadn't been afraid of.

"Aren't they all?"

You'd felt like a fool, welled up with shame for having asked. Welled up with shame for having been frightened now by Polly too. She'd looked at you and her smirk had remained, hadn't faded,hadn't broken to a reassuring smile.

She'd looked at you as though she'd already made up her mind about you. It took guts to be a Shelby. Guts which perhaps you just didn't have.

You'd stewed and sulked all the day long. Loathing yourself for scaring so easily. Loathing yourself for behaving like a frightened little girl.

Tonight, you had decided would be different.

Tonight you were too tired to go on, so exhausted that you couldn't bare to lie still and tortured any longer. So exhausted that you hardly even noticed your feet slip from the bed to the cool floor, your legs carrying you against your will to the window. It was as though you were possessed. Your ears burnt with the fear you'd carried in your soul all week, your cheeks burnt with it too. You were aware of your pulse rushing through you, could feel its relentless beat in your wrists and your neck. You could hear it in your ears.

"St. Peter,"

"Pray for us,"

"St. Paul,"

"Pray for us."

As you moved quietly across the bedroom floor you felt their voices lick at your bare arms. Cold fingers crawling up your neck. Spider silk touches tangling all around you.

You needed air. You needed to open the bedroom window. You needed to look out at the still night and remind yourself how the dark can play tricks on you. How the human brain can be oh so vulnerable to suggestion.

This could all just be a terrible dream.

"St. Andrew,"

"Pray for us,"

"St James,"

"Pray for us."

Your fingers curled around the window ledge as you struggled to push the panel up over your head. It was stiff, as if it hadn't been opened for years, and when finally it came loose the scrape of wood against wood made your skin bristle. A gado escaping you. You stood frozen, holding your breath. Trying to hear Tommy's soft snores. Trying to reassure yourself that you were still alright, that you were far more brave than you thought.

But when you tried to tune into Tommy's soft snores all you could hear was the whispering...

"St. John,"

"Pray for us,"

"St. Thomas,"

"Pray for us,"

And that's when you saw her. White glow beneath the moon, dress shimmering, moving gently with the midnight breeze.

A waif of a girl strung up on a wooden cross in the middle of the lawn. Her head hanging limp, her fingers thin and lifeless. A ghost scintillating casting a shadow on the lawn.

The sound of your scream seemed to come to you from far away, from somewhere outside of yourself as you let go of the windowsill and stumbled backwards knocking into the bed, your hands clasped over your mouth.

You hit your head on the bed post, a pain shooting through your lower back as you tumbled and someone's arms wrapped around you. A voice trying to hush you... a voice you could hardly hear above that relentless whispering.

"St. Matthias,"

"Pray for us "

"St. Barnabas,"

"Pray for us."

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"St. Luke,"

"Pray for us,"

"St. Mark,"

"Pray for us."

When you awoke you could hear them still. Your head ached and a sharp pain shot through you when you tried to use yourself up but you were determined not to appear weak and you could sense eyes on you.

They were holding hands. The twins sitting just across from you, gazing down at you where you lay on your back, head resting against the pillows.

"Oh," smiled Sonya, or was it Sylvie, today you couldn't tell, their eyes were glazed and cloudy grey identical. The cold way they watched you didn't match their smiles.

"You're awake, one of us should tell Tommy,"

"He's been worrying about you,"

You couldn't help but wonder why then they didn't move. Why Tommy wasn't there. Why both girls were just sitting there, holding hands, gazing at you as if you were a rabbit caught in a trap.

You did your best to hold their gaze but there was something so detached about them, their cloudy eyes, their sweet smiles, the way they moved in perfect harmony. It disturbed you, left you struggling to hide the tremble of your fingers as their wispy brown hair caught int he draft and moved delicately on a breeze. Reminded you of the girl you'd see on the lawn last night.

Finally Sonya stood. She dropped her sisters hand and drifted out of the room. You could hear her talking to someone in the hallway and hoped it was Tommy. You didn't want to be left alone with Sylvie for too long. Not when you were sure she'd not blinked since you had opened your eyes. Not when she was watching you now the way a spider stalks its pray. When she spoke you couldn't hide your start.

"We were praying for you, could you hear us?"

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After the incident in the bedroom things settled, not quite comfortably quiet but just enough that for a day or two you began to relax.

Tommy had hardly left your side because you'd bruised your back on the bedpost quite badly when you'd fallen and the doctor had instructed you to get a lot of rest. You'd hit your head badly too and so Tommy had gotten himself all wound up and worried about you. The doctor had said a lot of rest but Tommy had overruled and so for several days you were confined to your bed. Head propped up on pillows, the maids in attendance constantly checking that the new Mrs Shelby was comfortable. That you had enough to drink, to eat, that you weren't going to take another turn.

Tommy spent as much of his day with you as he could. He was sorry you'd had such an unfortunate welcome into the family. That your first week at the house had taken such a sour turn. But what concerned him most of all is that so far you'd not said a word to him about what had given you such a fright in the first place. He knew you, you were a smart, brave girl. You might have been younger than his last wife, you might have had less worldly experience but you certainly weren't frail, naive or stupid. And yet something had happened, something had scared you enough that you'd screamed and fallen with such a shock as to hit your head, as to spend a day unconscious but for strange, frantic mumbling as you slept. He'd asked you several times what it was that had given you such a fright, determined to understand what had really happened, but you were so conscious of sounding like a silly little girl that you daren't tell him what you'd seen. You didn't want him to think you were the kind of immature girl who believed in ghosts.

So you'd kept quiet and you'd tried to reason with yourself. Tried to convince yourself that you hadn't really seen anything at all. That you'd simply been tired, that you'd simply been tired to the point of exhaustion. Your mind had been playing tricks on you. You'd let your imagination get the better of you. Perhaps Polly was right, perhaps every house is haunted, but you'd never seen a ghost before and it would be silly to imagine you had suddenly developed The Sight now.

Aside from Tommy the rest of the family didn't pay you many visits. Ada was busy with Karl but Tommy always told you she'd asked after you at breakfast. Polly, he said, didn't come to this wing of the house anymore. You'd tried not to dwell on the shadow in his eyes when he'd said that. The men were all busy of course. But to your surprise and guilted dismay, the twins came to see you several times. Usually when Tommy was busy with work. They offered to sit with you so that you wouldn't be alone.

"You never know, she might tell us what happened..."

"Girls talk to one another don't they Tom."

It was on your sixth morning in Arrow House that you decided to ask them a question which had been niggling at you for a little while. You feared their answer but not as much as you feared their silence. The way they watched you wordlessly, the way they sat there silently, holding hands, starring at you. No, it was better to try and engage the strange girls in conversation that it was to endure their skin crawling silence. So you asked.

"Tommy said something the other day..." you started, "about your aunt Pol,"

"You look scared," said Sylvie.

"Does Pol scare you?" smirked Sonya. They were laughing at you, they weren't giggling out loud but you could see the amusement in their eyes. You'd heard twins often shared telepathy, you wondered if they were laughing together. If they were talking about you now.

"Tommy said she doesn't come to this wing of the house anymore..." you said, "he made it sound like there was... I don't know? Some kind of reason for that? Did she used to?"

"Oh," they breathed, their voices sighing in harmony, sending a shiver down your spine. Cold fingers on the back of your neck.

"She used to live in this wing..." started Sonya, her fingers laced with Sylvia's, locking and unlocking slowly.

"These used to be her quarters actually but then..." Sylvie trailed off, her voice blending with Sonya's, the two of them talking to you so seamlessly that their voices seemed to weave in and out and mist in the air around you. The effect was dizzying and you blinked back at them, spellbound.

"She... well, its a family matter really..."

"She's a private woman, likes to keep her secrets..."

"Tommy says we don't have secrets in this family..." You said quietly, your eyes flickering between them trying to keep track of which voice belonged to which girl.

"Only fools tell the truth in this family," they said together, their eyes going dead, their lips set in a thin line. Their fingers locked together.

"Something happened to Polly a few years ago..."

"A brush with death..."

"She hasn't been the same since... she..."

"Started hearing things... started saying she could speak with..."

"The dead... dark stuff you know, she stopped eating, stopped sleeping..."

"Said they were driving her mad because they never stopped,"

"From dusk till dawn always the same... all these poor souls..."

"Always praying..."

"What?" you tried to hide the way you shook but you voice wavered, your eyes a little wide. For a second you felt your heart beating in your throat. Had to struggle to swallow it down. "Did... did she ever see anything?" you asked but before you could finish the sentence they were smirking. Their eyes glistening with another laugh. You felt stupid before they were giggling. You felt worse the longer their laughter dragged out.

"Its shit y/n," Sylvie cracked a grin, her laugh sharp as she started giggling, her sister dissolving into giggles beside her.

"Total shit, Polly just wanted the newer wing, its prettier, warmer in the winter..."

"Like we said, only fools tell the truth in this family..."

But there'd been something about their story you couldn't ignore. Something in the way their voices had woven in and out of one another. How they knew the story so well that they'd been able to tell it side by side, finishing each others sentences. Lies are never told so seamlessly.

They left you then, told you you really ought to get some sleep.

"You look like shit y/n,"

"You look worse than Sonny on opening night!"

And you did, get a little that is.

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You must have drifted off sometime before lunch because the first time you awoke you found a tray with toast and eggs gone cold. The silverware had steamed and condensed and when you lifted the lid little droplets of water dampened the stale dish, left dew drops on the china plate. You felt a tinge of sadness then knowing that Tommy hadn't bothered to visit you at lunch the way he usually did. Knowing that even the servants must have decided to turn on you since they'd not even bothered to wake you. Just left the tray to go cold.

You fell back against your pillows and sighed. Your eyes returning to the window where the sun shone through the misty afternoon and flocked the curtains with little rainbows. It was when you closed your eyes that you heard it begin again.

At first you weren't sure. You'd never heard those desperate murmurs in the daylight, only ever in the loneliest hours of the night. But when you opened your eyes and let them flicker around the room, as your ears strained to hear the words, you grew certain. It was that nightmarish congregation again. Praying. Just as Polly had heard.

"All holy martyrs,"

"Pray for us."

You felt a wave of desperation, of hopelessness wash over you then. Realising that though you'd hoped your torment could be explained away with exhaustion and anxiety, you were realising that perhaps this haunting was in fact real.

That these voices were the reason Polly didn't venture to this side of the house. That perhaps all houses were haunted, just as she'd said.

"St. Sylvester,"

"Pray for us."

You closed your eyes, held your hands over your ears trying to block out the voices but you couldn't. You knew the litany by heart yourself, and no matter how hard you tried the whispering penetrated into your mind and weaved its menacing enchantment through you.

You were nervous now, yes, trembling. Your eyes squeezed shut.

"St. Gregory,"

"Pray for us."

When you realised your lips were mumbling along you clenched your jaw, bit down until you could taste blood.

"St. Ambrose,"

"Pray for us."

You couldn't tell if you were asleep or awake, head swirling with a heavy cloud, a fearful cloud. The litany weaving and lacing through from dream to reality.

When you opened your eyes it was daylight. The sun through the mist, rainbows refracted on the curtains.

Two girls holding hands at the foot of your bed. their heads hanging limp. They're white nightgowns moving just as ghostly as their whispy blonde hair, caught gentle sway on the draught from the open window.

"St. Dominic,"

"Pray for us."

"St. Francis,"

"Pray for us."

You watched them in horror, paralysed with fear where you lay. You wanted to scream but there was something in your throat, your breath caught there, a lump your voice couldn't push past. So you watched in silence, willing yourself to faint. Willing them to disappear.

"All holy priests and levites,"

"Pray for us."

You couldn't see their faces, couldn't see their lips moving but you knew it was them. You knew it was their prayer which had been haunting you now for days.

"All holy monks and hermits,"

"Pray for us."

Could they be praying for their sister? The girl in the garden strung up on the cross?

Your eyes grew heavy, your body dragged down into the mattress by some inhuman weight. As sleep dragged you returning to, or perhaps just leaving your dream you felt a doomed shadow grip you. A melancholy, a hysteria you couldn't hold onto.

The next time you awoke it was evening. The sun was a wash of milky orange on the curtains which had been drawn over the window. Someone had left it open and when the drapes billowed, moving like candle flame in the breeze, you shivered to remember what you weren't sure you'd really seen.

Those two girls at the foot of your bed. Ghostly. It was the only way to describe them. Spectre like with their shadowy translucence. Their haunted prayer which drifted back to you know. The Litany going on and on and on. A hushed whisper guiding you from your restless sleep to the real world. A hushed whisper luring you now too, even now when you were sitting up, certain that you were awake. Certain that this moment now was real, not a dream.

"Be merciful,"

"Spare us, 0 Lord."

A hushed whisper guiding your eyes from your trembling fingers to the foot of the bed where instead of two girls standing over you rested a heart shaped box.

"Be merciful,"

You frowned, curious, your gaze resting on the pretty pink box. It looked like a box of chocolates. A gift perhaps left by Tommy?

"Graciously hear us, 0 Lord."

You reached for it, leaning forward, a twist of discomfort in your stomach as you picked it up, felt the weight of it in your hands. You shook it but it didn't rattle.

A gift from Tommy, you weren't so sure, nervous to hope. Nervous to hold onto the glimmer of hope it could be a comfort from him.

You fingers took the note tag and spun it round. As you closed your eyes you couldn't help but join in with those whispered prayers...

"Be merciful,"

[thetoepimps]

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