#forgot to add those ears and tail are an inside joke with a friend

[angelxcainn]

“Rumor in alagadda is there was an angel who fell from the heavens into there. The king upon finding the angel found out about their powers, powers that brought luck and healing to others. The king locked away the angel for his own desire to use the angels power. Rumor has it you can hear it clawing and singing inside its cage. Begging for its freedom, and to soar the beautiful sky once more.”

————

Silly persona for alagadda! I’m happy I finally finished it

[ehlnofay]

I wanted to post something for summerfest free day this year but I wasn't sure what to do... so here is an excerpt from something I wrote ages ago to flesh out how efri spends her time at the college. full thing is posted to my ao3 :)

Because she is sensible, Efri does not jump down through the hole in the landing built for the blue-light fountain to go through. Even though she very much wants to. (She reckons she could land well enough not to snap her ankles – but she’s been told the light is magic and raw and would burn all her skin off, and there’s not really any way to avoid that.) She walks downstairs, sedately, at least until she gets to the last few steps and jumps. She jars her knee a bit when she hits the ground. (Leaping down stairs is better in the snow, she thinks.)

She hits the ground running all the same, and half-jogs, half-stumbles to J’zargo’s door, choosing to thud against it like a wind-drunk seagull instead of knocking. She can hear talking inside that cuts off when she announces her presence.

There’s a brief pause, and then, “Efri?”

She turns the knob and lets herself in. “How did you know it was me?”

“J’zargo knows many things,” J’zargo proclaims from where he lounges on the floor, Kazari sitting comfortably on all his blankets; his put-on air of grandiose mystique is immediately destroyed when he grins hard enough his eyes squinch and adds, “Who else would come knocking that way? His other friends are much too polite. Except,” he waves a hand theatrically in Kazari’s direction, accidentally whacking them in the leg, “that one, but she hardly has other options. And she is politer about it besides.”

“Fair enough,” Efri says. She has to step over his wriggling body to get to the bedframe (he’s a bit like her, that way; never stops moving.)

Kazari makes a scoffing noise and lashes her tail in one of those weird wobbly motions that must mean something Efri can’t parse. (She has to lift her tail pretty high so J’zargo can see her do it from the floor.) J’zargo laughs and says something back, words throaty and rapid, spilling out of him like a waterfall. He likes the chance to talk in Ta’agra, Efri thinks. There are few Khajiit here. And of course Kazari can’t talk any other way. It’s lucky that they get along, in the swaggering (on his side) and pseudo-aggrieved (on hers) way that either of them get along with anyone.

They often talk in Ta’agra when Efri’s there. They know she’ll interrupt if she wants to join in the conversation, and most of the time she’s perfectly content to watch.

So she sits curled up on the hard slats of the bedframe, leaning on the wooden footboard, stick laid across the slats, watching. She can’t catch a word of what J’zargo says – he talks too quick for her to find the patterns – but she thinks she’s getting better at catching the miniscule twitches on both of their faces, the shifts in posture. J’zargo seems to talk with his tail just as much as Kazari does. (Efri wonders if he could have two different conversations at once – saying one thing with his words and another with everything else.)

There’s a splinter peeling off of one of the wooden boards in the bedframe; Efri helpfully picks it off. Kazari says something that makes J’zargo crumple in laughter. “Good joke,” Efri says, though she has no idea what was said; she slings an encouraging arm around Kazari’s neck.

Kazari leans into it – then tilts their head away, making a low noise. A twitch of the nose, ears briefly flattened, tail curling in a way Efri’s definitely seen before.

The noise, she’s not sure about, but the rest of it clicks.

“I forgot to wash my hands,” she says, drawing her arm back. “Sorry. I was making cheese in the kitchen. That’s probably why they smell funny.”

She hopes she didn’t get the vinegary smell of curdling pot-cheese on Errion’s clothes; he probably would have mentioned it if she did, though.

Kazari is looking at her now, instead of at J’zargo. They’re both looking at her.

Efri asks, “Can I have the water to rinse them?”

Something shifts in Kazari’s eyes. They signal something; Efri latches on to a twitch of one ear, a dip of the chin. (It’s a familiar motion.)

“I’m not sure what – um.” Efri shifts, pillowing her face on the harsh wooden footboard; it digs into her cheek as she says, “Am I not understanding? Are you understanding? Who’s understanding what?”

From the floor, J’zargo starts to cackle. He reaches for the bowl of water and holds it up, dripping it carefully into Efri’s hands when she holds them out. There’s no soap, but it will do, hopefully. She knows they can both smell better than she can and it would be rude to spread spoiled milk smells all over her friend’s room.

Kazari is blinking. Efri doesn’t know if that’s talking or not.

There’s no confusion as to whether J’zargo speaks. He says something – still Ta’agra, but slowed down almost comically, like each sound is forced out through a mouthful of treacle. He’s also grinning ear to ear and looking Efri right in the face. She’s not sure what to take from this.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she tells him.

He hoists himself ungracefully up to sit on the bedframe. (It would have been easier if he just stood up and sat down again.) “This one said that you are sly!” he declares, and elbows her in the ribs. He looks delighted. “You have been eavesdropping on us!”

Efri gapes. “I have not!”

He flaps a hand and says something. She thinks he’s calling her something. She’s not sure what the something is. “Rascal,” he adds, as an afterthought. He still looks entirely too pleased.

“I wasn’t,” Efri insists. “Urag said that immersion is the most important thing for learning a language.” He hadn’t said that, actually – the book she’d badgered him into reading a few pages of for her had – but what does the difference matter?

Kazari motions something; J’zargo snorts. “And how is immersion going for you?” he asks, nudging her again. She can’t tell if he’s translating or not.

“Slowly,” she complains instead of asking. She’d thought it would be a lot quicker. “I only know about five words, and I can’t even say them because I don’t have the right ears.”

“Kazari says they’re sure you know more than five,” J’zargo tells her. “And J’zargo says, if you wanted to learn you could have asked him!”

Efri wrinkles her nose. “I didn’t want to do lessons,” she says; J’zargo nods as though this is a weighty point. “I just wanted to figure it out.”

“You will,” he says with great confidence. He taps a finger to her forehead. “In no time. And J’zargo can tell you how to say things without ears. You could learn both the – eh – sound-talk and sight-talk if you learned it in the Ohmes way.”

All the words Efri’s learned to understand are body-words. Sight-talk, she guesses; she wonders if that’s a proper translation or just one he made up on the fly. “It’s like two different languages in one,” she says.

J’zargo scoffs at that. “Oh, many more,” he says, which Efri has to acknowledge must be true – if there’s so many different Khajiit with so many different types of bodies the language must be splintered impossibly to incorporate them all. It’s so complicated.

“Kazari is very happy that you are learning, by the way,” J’zargo adds after several seconds of silence. “Dearly appreciative. Moments away from crying ecstatic tears.”

Efri looks up. Kazari is glaring at J’zargo, and Efri can’t read all of her motions, but she knows the head-tip of no and the jagged gesture of bad.

“I don’t think that is what they’re saying,” Efri says. Kazari signals yes with their chin.

“No, they are,” J’zargo assures her placidly. “Just wait. The sobbing – ow!” and when Kazari headbutts him hard in the chest he manages to grab onto Efri’s shoulder and drag her down with him.

It doesn’t help him – he pulls her on top of him, so all he gets for his trouble is her bony shoulder in his ribs. Efri is perfectly cushioned. He’s the only one with cause to complain.

And complain he does. “Ow,” he whines again. “Don’t be mean, you need this one to translate.”

Kazari frowns down at him. It’s not no, but it’s close. Don’t, maybe. I don’t?

“Well, he needs to translate so he doesn’t lose his mind watching you play charades every time you have to ask a question.” J’zargo helpfully tips Efri off of him before he sits up himself. “It is hard to do this if he is frightened for his life.”

“You’re doing that project with Mister Neloren, though, right?” Efri asks. (She can never remember his first name – Sissel never calls him by it. It’s supposed to be master, she thinks, not mister, but she doesn’t like that title. It sounds so self-congratulatory.) (Maybe she’ll use it when Sissel is one. But not before.) “So once that’s done, you won’t need to translate anymore.”

Kazari’s eyes crinkle; J’zargo nods very seriously. “You’re right, Efri. She will have no use for J’zargo after it is over. His days are numbered.”

“No-one’s going to kill you,” Efri tells him; she’s pretty sure Kazari is signalling the same thing. (If they are, she likes the kill motion – a flick of the tail, curl of the paw, flash of the teeth.)

“You never know,” J’zargo says. He grins again. “J’zargo will die at the hands of a jealous rival – like that one – or J’zargo will never die.”

Kazari says something, face flat and unimpressed, that makes J’zargo laugh so hard he almost tips himself back onto the wooden slats again. Efri watches him, giggling a bit herself. It’s contagious.

She doesn’t get the joke yet, but she will.

(full piece here)

[tigerseye46]

List of Peachpigshipping headcanons

Feel free to send or share with me some of your own!

For some reason, I can rarely see Wukong doing the dishes and Pigsy makes fun of him for it, both out of amusement and annoyance. Examples: “I can’t even convince my boyfriend/husband to do the dishes, what makes you think I can convince him to do [x]?” “Oh my gods you did the dishes, what did you do?” “Wow, you must really love me for once.”

I picture them being that couple that shows each other up, Wukong more than Pigsy because the pig is more easily flustered with public acts of affection. Wukong purposefully does sappy stuff to make him as flustered as possible. Pigsy secretly likes it but will deny it like crazy.

Like most of the fandom, I picture them being on the outs at the beginning but they get really soft around each other when they’re actually a couple. They call the other sweet nicknames since Wukong already has a habit of calling people nicknames in canon.

They give off vibes of a couple that act like they’re better than other couples and get completely smug. They are the best couple and they’ll fight whoever says otherwise.

Wukong insists Pigsy stay in bed with him and will try to convince him in any way possible.

If Pigsy is yelling at Wukong for something in a one-sided argument, Wukong’s reaction is to snark at him and roll his eyes or if Pigsy does something like cup his face during it, the king stares at him with loving eyes and gets lost in those blue orbs which frustrates Pigsy because the king should really be paying attention, he’s also trying not to blush under his gaze.

If they’re both arguing, they can argue for hours since they’re stubborn until they storm off to cool down or the person who’s at fault, if anyone is at fault, apologizes. Or they both realize how stupid they’re being. Once they storm off, they’re tempted to go back to each other which they either do so or hold back and become a little melancholic after that.

Favorite place to kiss besides each other’s lips: For Pigsy, it’s Wukong’s cheek and forehead. For Wukong, it’s Pigsy’s thighs/legs and stomach.

Pigsy likes to comb through the king’s fur, to the monkey, his partner’s hands feel like magic and it takes all his willpower to not fall asleep.

Pigsy constantly makes sure Wukong is eating properly since the king has a habit of eating his own hair along with other things like peaches that Pigsy argues doesn’t count as a full meal.

They have to be touching each other in some way, shape or form. Wukong usually just wraps a tail around Pigsy’s waist if their hands are full or they’re trying to be subtle. I thought about how they wouldn’t do this if Pigsy was cooking, but that’s completely wrong, Wukong would still bother Pigsy. He would plaster himself to Pigsy’s back, despite his partner’s protest. The regulars think it’s cute. “Is that your boyfriend?” “Unfortunately.” “I wish my partner was as affectionate as that.” “No… no, ya don’t.” (Almost forgot to add this one thing. Someone: *gestures to Pigsy who has Wukong’s face buried against his back* What have you got there? Pigsy: *holding a bowl of noodles* Noodles.)

They like to tease and joke with each other, their jabs are always filled with some love behind it.

Wukong is more traditional when it comes to courtship stuff while Pigsy is okay with it and goes with what Wukong wants.

Courtship bracelets:

-Wukong: A circular silver bracelet with a pink heart gem in the middle, it is surrounded by patterns of leaves. engraving on the inside reads “My peach”

-Pigsy: A circular gold bracelet with two gems on it. One is red in an antique cushion shape while the other is orange and circular. It has ovals patterns around it. Engraving on the inside reads “My fellow king (my equal).” I don’t see Pigsy as the type to wear big fancy jewelry, maybe usually just some earrings but he wears the bracelet anyway.

They stay more at Pigsy’s apartment than Wukong’s mountain since it’s a lot of effort for Pigsy to travel back and forth for work even with Wukong’s cloud.

They have moments where they stand there, completely still and Wukong has his arms wrapped around the pig, he rests his chin on top of his head while Pigsy has his face buried in his partner’s chest, and both just breathe in each other’s scent.

Pigsy oinks when he laughs sometimes, he gets embarrassed about it but Wukong thinks it the cutest thing in the world.

The monkeys like Pigsy despite his gruff nature, they really like his cooking and are happy that their king found someone.

Picture Wukong and Pigsy are sitting on the cloud, watching the sunset and Wukong has a tail around Pigsy’s waist while Pigsy clings to Wukong’s sleeves and leans his head on his shoulder (a friend came up with this one!).

When they’re on the couch, Wukong rests his head on his partner’s stomach and will look up with love and adoration present on his face, if Pigsy is checking his phone or reading, he’ll take quick glances at Wukong, only to find the monkey staring at him. “Why are ya starin’?” “You’re gorgeous.” “... Shad-shaddup.”

If Macaque is around, Pigsy sometimes gets jealous because he and the king have history that he feels he’ll never have with Wukong even though Pigsy has history with Wukong that he doesn’t remember *coughs* *coughs*.

I would think that Wukong does have some cooking ability (immortals get bored too, you know) and he’ll cook for Pigsy and the pig adores it, although he will take the time to criticize bits of it while simultaneously loving it.

Wukong absolutely loves when Pigsy rambles on about his family, the way the pig lights up when he rambles makes Wukong’s heart beat wildly against his chest.

In turn, Pigsy loves it when the king goes on about the journey even though he’s heard the stories before. It gets better when the king shares details never mentioned, because it feels like Wukong trusts him enough to share something so important, no matter how small it is and for some reason, it feels familiar to him like he was around for the Journey. *coughs*

“at some point while depowered Pigsy had carried Wukong for miscellaneous 'take care of yourself idiot' reasons, and now nothing makes Wukong flustered quicker than Pigsy princess carrying him. Also there's probably a "my hero~♡" joke in there somewhere” Princess Carry Headcanon from an anon

“Heres another PeachPig headcannon for u soul: that theory/speculation about Wukong shapeshifting himself taller and is in fact still the shortest one here? Well, every so often, if Pigsy's clearly had a rough day, Wukong will just... take on his actual size for cuddling purpouses. Its super embarrassing for wukong bc hes sensitive about his height but Pigsy seems to love both not being the short one and having his partner the size of one of those beeg plushies thats perfect cuddling size. So its whatever” Wukong shapeshifting when Pigsy has a rough day (given by anon + a small fic)

[poetic-emptiness-fanfic]

Something There

The name of this fic is from a song Something There from Beauty and the Beast.

Characters: Hande Kuura, Reidunn & Lydik - Reidunn and Lydik belong to @vikinglumberjack

The first meeting of Hande and Lydik!

No content warnings.

Words: ~4 000

Hande enjoys spring: it's that time of year when nature comes back to life after months of slumber. A smile creeps across her face while she's walking towards the marketplace, not only because of the warmth or budding flowers and leaves, but because today she will meet her best friend after a long time. Reidunn has returned from her months-long journey to Longyearbyen, so of course they had to arrange a meeting.

It doesn't take long for Hande to spot the redhead from the crowd. She starts to wave at her friend whose face turns to meet Hande's eyes. They both smile to each other and Hande takes the huldra into a warm hug.

”Dunna, welcome back! I've missed you! How was your journey? Any news from your family?”

”Takkâ, Hande! I've missed you, too! It was fine, sometimes the weather was a little stormy on my way back home, but I was happy to see my family again. They're all fine, thank you for asking! They sent their love to you – they had hoped you would come with me again.”

”I'm glad you didn't experience anything too harsh on your way home! I would've loved to come with you, but you know how it is: Nadia needs me with this mental health clinic project,” Hande chuckles before she continues, ”That's what you get when you say an idea out loud and the Countess actually ends up liking it.”

Reidunn pats her friend on the shoulder, reassuring Hande it was great, that Vesuvia is going to have an important institution thanks to her. The magician quickly brushes it off, changing the subject to Longyearbyen. The huldra decides to indulge Hande this time, and tells about all the things she's done during her stay at her childhood home. They keep sauntering the marketplace until they stop at Selasi's bakery to grab some pumpkin bread. They're sitting on a table, enjoying the warm weather and each other's company.

”So, Dunna, it seems that you haven't just come back to Vesuvia. What have you been up to, or have you just rested after the journey?”

”I've tried to rest, yes, but I also had to make some arrangements. I need to make some space to my new roommate.”

”Oh, you have a roommate now? That's so nice! How did you end up with this situation?”

”He's a friend of mine. I haven't seen him a while, but when I was at Longyearbyen, he approached me and asked if he could come with me to Vesuvia.”

”How neat! What's his name? Is he a Fosna?”

”His name is Lydik. No, he is not a Fosna. He's a fae – a Nøkken, actually.”

Hande's eyes widen and her posture becomes stiff. Reidunn has a Nøkken as a friend? One of those scary, human-eating water creatures? For all of her life, Hande has been warned about them, how they lure their victims to the water to drown them. She also knows some people in Hjalle who have lost their loved one to a Nøkken. And now there's one living in Vesuvia...

Lost in her thoughts, Hande whispers, ”Näkki maalle, minä veteen...¹”

”What is it, Hande?”

Hande turns her gaze to Reidunn, still a little absentminded, ”Oh, it's a Forestian spell, to banish a  Nøkken from water if you're going to swim.You need to throw a stone into the water while saying those words and then a creature needs to go to the shore and can't go back unless you let it return with another spell. I... Why do you have a Nøkken as a friend? They're monsters, they've only caused harm in Hjalle – I've heard too many stories of disappeared people whose steps lead to water and not back. People didn't even find their bodies to bury...”

”Oh, I'm so sorry to startle you, Hande! I forgot how that could be upsetting for you. But it isn't what you think, Lydik isn't like that! Actually, he saved my, Guivi's and Bilzi's lives when we got lost as children.”

”Oh?” Hande looks surprised, but also intrigued, ”I didn't know that could be possible. How did it happen, may I ask?”

Reidunn starts to tell about her adventure with her siblings and how Lydik had taken them under his wing. How he had showed kindness to the children by entertaining and protecting them during the night. The huldra can see her friend relaxing a little, although the magician still looks astonished.

”Wow, that really is something else,” she says, ”I've never heard of a Nøkken who has saved human lives instead of taking them. Sorry, Dunna, it seems like I judged too harshly.”

Reidunn reaches for Hande's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, ”It's okay, Hande. I should have warned you first.” The huldra seems to think for a moment and then smiles to her friend, ”If you want, we can go to my place. Lydik's there so... I've told him about you and I think it would be nice for you to meet.”

”You have?” Hande sounds surprised. She gives a little smirk for Reidunn and adds, ”I hope you've told only good things, and haven't frightened him by telling that I'm a Nøkken discriminator.”

The huldra bursts into laughter at Hande's latest remark. Reidunn is also relieved – she doesn't want to upset Hande, and it could be troublesome for Lydik if her best friend would decide to dislike Lydik without actually getting to know him. The duo raise from their seats and head to Reidunn's home.

***

Reidunn lets Hande enter first to her herbalist shop-apartment. The magician is greeted by music – fiddle music, to be exact. Hande stops in her tracks, starting to listen the sound that comes from upstairs. A melody is swaying and gentle, and has lots of short glissandos in it. The magician can hear a tuning of an instrument differs from her own violin: it sounds warmer, raspier and more ”homemade”. A shy smile rises on her face and she closes her eyes, taking in the whole experience.

Hande's friend can hear the music, too, which fills her mind with worry. Oh no, it's Thursday! Reidunn approaches the magician quickly, fearing she'll be traumatised after this incident. Before she's reached Hande she becomes a little baffled: Hande isn't walking towards upstairs. The huldra slows down and circles to meet the face of her friend. The magician's eyes are still closed, taking in the pleasant melody. Reidunn can see how Hande picks out the tune with her fingers against her thumb, like it's the fingerboard of her violin. Reidunn relaxes immediately. Phew, Hande isn't in trance. The huldra decides to wait for the song to end before she'll speak, for she doesn't want to startle her friend.

When the song ends, Hande opens her eyes and smiles at Reidunn, ”That was beautiful. How did you do it?”

Reidunn thinks for a moment before she opens her mouth, ”It was... Hande, don't freak out, but it was Lydik.”

Realization hits Hande and she feels dumbfounded. It the Nøkken is playing the fiddle, then why...

”Why am I not in trance?” Hande places her hand on her forehead, as if to feel if she has fever. The magician had no idea about this ability of hers. Reidunn seems as much surprised as her but then answers, ”I am not sure what may be the reason of this, but it seems like you're immune to Nøkkens' music.”

The magician, still a little confused, ponders out loud, ”I guess quite a few can do that – maybe it's related to families that have had magicians in their bloodline? There's nothing special about me in addition to that...”

Reidunn looks at her friend, giving her a wistful smile, ”That is a rare ability, I've never heard of anyone who is able to resist Nøkkens' playing. Not any human, at least.”

Hande isn't sure what to say – this ability of hers has taken her completely off-guard. The magician decides she doesn't have the time to muse about it too much – she will have time to think about it and ask from her family later. Now she can see the humorous side of this incident and chuckles to Reidunn, ”That kind of hospitality, eh? Trying to trick unsuspecting guests with his beautiful playing! How rude.”

The huldra looks a little confused, not sure whether her friend is joking or not. Her tail swishes nervously before she answers, ”No, Hande, it isn't a trick. I just brought a friend home. I'm sorry, it's Thursday and for some reason Lydik plays instinctively on Thursdays, and I didn't realise to warn you.”

Hande approaches her friend, hugging her lightly, ”It's okay, Dunna. I was only joking. How could you know he's playing right now? Besides, this was spontaneous visit, so Lydik doesn't know I'm here, either.”

Reidunn relaxes, her tail calming down as well. The huldra can't help but admire Hande's abilty to see humorous side of situations even soon after she has been nervous or baffled because of them. ”Would you like to meet him?” Reidunn asks with a warm smile on her face.

Hande answers her friend's smile with a smirk, ”Weeell, maybe this once. And if something goes wrong, I can always incant him inside of a water orb!”

Reidunn lets out a giggle and leads Hande to upstairs. Lydik is still playing his fiddle, apparently unaware of the company he's going to get. Hande is still a little nervous, but her curiosity is taking over – it's not every day you get an opportunity to meet a fae, after all. She waits behind Reidunn when the huldra knocks on a door that apparently leads to Lydik's room. The fiddle playing ceases and Hande hears a low grunt behind the door. Reidunn turns to Hande, ”For your information: Lydik can't speak, but I can interpret his communication to you. He understands what we are saying.” Hande nods after which Reidunn opens the door.

Lydik has put his fiddle away and turned to see the comers. Whatever Hande has expected to see, it wasn't this: a thin creature almost twice of her height with green skin, only loose pants covering his body. The Nøkken has yellow-green, wavy hair with twigs poking out of it, straight nose, elf-like ears and green, glowing eyes that reminds Hande of alligators.

A yelp, ”Ei perkele, hän on pitkä!²” escapes from the magician's mouth while she instinctively takes a step back towards the door. Her back hits the door and her brain catches up with her reactions. Don't be stupid, startling because of his height! There's nothing he could drown me with, and besides, why would he try to kill me, Reidunn's friend.

Hande's body is filled with embarrassment. ”I... I'm so sorry... I didn't mean to... I... I just got a little startled of how tall you are. I don't know why, but I get this stupid inferiority complex every time I am near someone who's much taller than me...” she stutters, trying to meet the Nøkken's eyes despite of their huge height difference.

Reidunn observes the situation a little worried: she can notice how Lydik has tensed a little, probably willing to hide, and now also Hande is nervous and starting a tangent in order to hide it.

”It's not because of you, it's completely on me... I've never met a Nøkken before and half of my family has always warned me about your kind... Reidunn told me how you helped her when she was a child, I really don't have anything against you, I'm so, so sorry...” Hande continues her rambling, unable to stop the flood of words. Her mind races, like she's on the back of a kelpie, unable to get off while the creature gallops towards the water. Great, now I'm thinking of horses...The last thing I need to do now... The magician starts to wringle her hands and she wants to do is to flee the scene, but she feels like her feet are glued on the floor.

Lydik is watching this new acquaintance in confusion. He isn't sure what he's supposed to do. He can sense the woman is nervous, even a little scared, but isn't sure if it's because of him, or like she claims, because of her. He glances at Reidunn pleadingly and the huldra goes to comfort the woman, who still hasn't stopped her nervous talking.

”Hande, it's okay. Just breathe,” Reidunn says calmly while rubbing her friend's back. Her best friend's voice helps Hande calm down – she feels safe, accepted. Reidunn has always had this skill of making Hande feel comfortable, since the beginning of their friendship. She is Hande's pillar of strength, always there for her, like Hande is for Reidunn. Little by little tha magician's breathing stabilizes and she's able to collect her thoughts. It doesn't make her feel any better about her messing up, but at least she's stopped rambling.

”Well, that was awkard... I'm so sorry, I don't know why I get this nervous in new situations... It seems like I'm socially rustier than I used to be,” Hande raises her gaze to meet Lydik's eyes once again, ”Please, let me try again: My name is Hande Kuura and I'm delighted to meet you.” Hande places her right hand above her heart and bows at the Nøkken in order to greet him.

Lydik is still a little confused, but his body relaxes. He glances at Reidunn who is still by Hande's side. The huldra gives him a nod – it's okay now, even Lydik himself can sense the woman next to Reidunn has calmed down. He cocks his head, but then he gives Hande a small smile while mimicking the magician's gesture. After his greeting he pews at Hande.

The magician looks questioningly at Reidunn, not sure what that sound means. ”I think Lydik is trying to say he's also delighted to meet you. Pew is a friendly sound,” Reidunn interprets.

Hande answers to Lydik's smile. ”I heard you playing, it was beautiful,” Hande says sincerely after a moment of silence. The Nøkken's smile turns into a friendly grin, revealing his sharp teeth. The magician doesn't get startled by that, ironically enough.

”You look different than I imagined,” Hande states looking pensive.

Lydik cocks his head again. This time Hande realises he's asking a question. She thinks for a moment, but then decides she can say her thought out loud, ”Well, to be honest, I expected to meet a huge pile of alga with scary eyes,” she gestures to his direction with her hand, giving the Nøkken a bashful grin, ”This... It is a positive surprise. My expectation would have been way too creepy for me to handle.”

Lydik looks at Hande for a moment, but then he starts to chuff. This yellow-haired woman is funny indeed. His chuffing increases which creates a confused look on Hande's face. The Nøkken notices that and approaches a shelf nearby. He starts to tap some kind of rhythm onto it with his finger. Reidunn follows him carefully while Hande's confusion seems to increase.

When Lydik stops, Reidunn nods and turns to face her friend, ”Lydik used Morse code. He said that he would've thought that sharp teeth would be more creepy than some algae with eyes. He found your remark funny, by the way: that chuffing noise means he's laughing.”

Hande chuckles, surprised by the fact Lydik is laughing at her sayings. ”Morse code, you say?” the magician asks creefully, ”I need to learn that, so I can understand what you're saying.”

A realisation hits Lydik who starts to look confused once more. Still by the shelf, he starts tapping, looking at Reidunn questioningly.

”Oh yes,” Reidunn exclaims, ”Lydik asked how you're fine although he played, Hande,” the huldra turns towards Lydik before she continues, ”Well, it seems like that Hande is immune to Nøkken music. It didn't affect her at all, and Hande didn't even realise at first it was you who was playing.”

Hande nods in affirmative, ”I don't know how, but it seems like Reidunn is right about my immunity”. Lydiks turns to meet Hande's eyes. He looks like he's impressed. Once again the Nøkken taps and Reidunn interprets, ”He says: Woah, I've never met someone who could do that.”

Hande lowers her gaze to the ground, feeling embarrassed for the attention she's getting. In the hopes that Reidunn will indulge her, she tries to slightly change the direction of the discussion. ”Well, your playing did affect me, though. Like I mentioned before, it was very beautiful. I just wanted to stay and listen for a while. I play a violin myself, so it's nice to meet someone who can also do that,” she says wholeheartedly with a friendly smile on her face.

Lydik's impression brightens and he gives Hande a wide smile with some cheerful pews. He places his hands in front of him and then he draws his hands to the opposite directions in the air: his left hand upwards and right hand downwards. The Nøkken's fiddle and bow appear in his hands from thin air.

Hande smiles at Lydik looking impressed, ”That's a neat trick! I have to settle for a case and then glare at anyone who almost kicks it.”

Lydik chuffs and then gestures to his instrument, asking if Hande wants him to play again. The magician's smile softens when she replies, ”Please.”

Lydik lifts his fiddle onto his shoulder. He doesn't need to think for long what he wants to play. The song is faster than the previous one, something one would dance to. Most of the time Lydik concentrates on playing, but from time to time he glances towards the women in his room. Reidunn is swaying with the music and Hande taps the rhythm with her foot. The Nøkken notices Hande's face is lit up with a pure delight, not an empty smile what those people in trance would have. He finds it fascinating, intriguing even, and he wants to play even better because of that. Lydik really likes seeing that look on Hande's face.

After the song ends Hande starts applauding, Reidunn following suit. Lydik is confused, because he isn't sure why the women are clapping, but judging by the smiles on their faces, it is something positive. He smiles a little sheepishly and makes his instrument disappear once again.

Hande notices Lydik's confused expression and hurries to explain, ”Oh sorry, I'm so used to doing this I didn't realise it might be new to you. People start to applaud to a person if they've enjoyed their performance, usually something related to music, but it can be dancing, a speech or something like that. You really are playing well, thank you for this performance.”

Pleased with himself, Lydik grins widely to Hande. A chuckle escapes Hande's mouth, but it's a kindhearted one, so neither Lydik or Reidunn thinks anything of it. The magician seems to think for a moment, before she opens her mouth again, ”Lydik, have you made your fiddle yourself?”

The Nøkken nods in affirmative and Hande's face lits up again, ”That's wonderful! Unfortunately I can't make violins, but my uncle Paavo – he's the brother of my mother – has made mine. From what wood are your fiddle made of?”

The room is filled with Hande's questions, Lydik's tapping and Reidunn's interpreting. The atmosphere is completely relaxed which fills Reidunn with relief – she has been a little nervous when she noticed that her friends were uncomfortable, but now that they have warmed to each other, both of them are able to show their best sides which the huldra enjoys to watch. Lydik's expression grows brighter and brighter, now that he's able to talk about one of his passions with someone who actually understands the details.

After Hande has learned that Lydik has used Nøkken magic to make his fiddle waterproof she starts to wonder about differences between Nøkken and humans in general. The magician keeps eyeing Lydik curiously, trying to determine what kind of skin does the Nøkken have. Only if she could touch it... No, it's not appropriate to touch others! But what if I ask permission first? No! Hande tries her best to listen Reidunn, but she's buzzing with curiosity and it gets harder and harder to contain herself. She must know.

Before Hande can decide whether to open her mouth or keep silent, Lydik's eyes lock on hers. Ugh, he must've sensed I was ogling... She gives him a bashful smile which the Nøkken answers. Feeling a little more courageous, the magician blurts, ”Can I touch you?”

Reidunn turns to watch Hande, looking extremely surprised. Lydik's smile turns into an expression of confusion once more which causes Hande to wince. ”Ugh, sorry... That came out wrong... I meant to ask, if I can touch your skin, to try how it feels like? It seems like the texture of your skin is different from human skin... Of course you don't need to let me if you don't want to, my curiosity just took the best of me...”

Before Hande can start another ramble, Lydik holds out his arm to her, smiling encouragingly to her. Hande holds her tongue and glances at his arm, a little hesitant. ”Are you sure?” the magician asks to which Lydik only nods. Slowly Hande reaches out her right hand towards Lydik's arm. She lightly strokes his hardel with her forefinger a few times. ”I didn't expect it to be this soft,” she states absentmindedly, ”It feels like a skin of a lizard... Interesting...”

Sensing Lydik's pretty intense gaze on her, Hande becomes extremely self-conscious and lets go of Lydik's arm. The magician clears her throat and thanks Lydik for letting her inspect his skin. Then she looks like she just rememberd something and exclaims, ”How rude of me! I kept touching you like a test subject, but didn't offer the same for you. If you want, you can touch my arm.” While saying the last sentence, Hande holds her arm to Lydik in turn.

Lydik isn't quite sure what Hande meant with ”test subject”, but he touches Hande's arm, mimicking her previous movements. The magician's skin feels smooth under his fingers and only soft arm hair offers some texture to it. Lydik notices how the hair on Hande's arm rises up and her muscles tense up a little, so he stops stroking, cocking his head once again.

”Oh, it's okay. I just am not used to new acquaintances touching me,” Hande says bashfully, ”To be honest, usually I don't like being touched at all, if the person is not a close friend of mine or a family member. I was ready to make an exception because of my intrusiveness.”

Lydik is still watching Hande, feeling a little puzzled about how to response to her latest remark. He didn't feel the woman had been intrusive, she has asked permission. This has been the first time someone has asked permission to touch him before doing that, except for Reidunn. Hande has been nervous, yes, but she's also been kind and friendly to him, even though she has learned to fear his kind, if rightfully so.

Lydiks smiles at Hande and gives a clumsy pat on her shoulder with some pews. Reidunn swallows up a giggle and states, ”I think Lydik tries to say he likes you, Hande.”

Hande answers Lydik's smile. ”Thank you, Lydik,” she says sincerely, but after that her smile turns into a mischievious grin, ”I think you're okay... for a Nøkken.”

Everyone stays silent for a moment, but then Lydik starts chuffing which causes Reidunn and Hande to burst into laughter, as well. The atmosphere is full of warmth, and it looks like a magician and a Nøkken have found a friend from each other.

TRANSLATIONS:

¹ ”A Nøkken onto the ground, I into the water...”

² ”Holy shit, he's tall!”

[a-solitary-marshmallow]

Do No Harm Take No Shit Chapter 5 - Home(room) Coming

They discussed how best to break the news to everyone, while feeding each other ice cream. (call Adrien a sap, he didn’t care, this was the best day of his fucking life) It seemed a bit obtrusive to walk into class and announce, ‘Hello Marinette is my girlfriend now, any questions?’

On the other hand, Lila would probably take advantage of any ambiguity. Not to mention Adrien’s fans – they would throw a tantrum when he and Marinette went public.

In the end, the simple approach was taken. Adrien took a selfie of them sharing their couples’ cone, one in which Marinette’s face was scrunched up adorably as he dabbed strawberry ice cream on the tip of her nose. Her hair was out and tumbling in the breeze, slapping Adrien on the cheek while he laughed and held the camera up blindly. It was his favourite shot – he was almost loathe to share it with the world. A quick caption. Magical ice cream with my magical girlfriend – best day of my life. Adrien posted it on Monday morning while the Gorilla drove them to school.

“Aaaaand… done.” He leaned his head against Marinette’s shoulder and watched the comments start to filter in.

“That was fast.” Marinette said.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ve got a few stalkers on here.”

“You don’t say.” She teased.

Paris flashed by, and then they had arrived. They walked into the school hand in hand – Marinette’s hand was an honour Adrien held with pride. In the hallway Mylène glanced at them, glanced away casually, and then her gaze snapped back, accompanied by unashamed jaw-dropping. She elbowed Ivan, who looked around and blinked at the two, before grinning excitedly. They started to whisper between themselves. Adrien stifled a laugh.

“So,” He murmured as they walked, “How many people know about your huge crush on me, exactly?”

Marinette groaned. “No.”

“Because if Alya and Nino were shipping us…”

“Please, there are too many names to remember. You are the one person who didn’t know.”

“Was everyone on team Marinette-Adrien?”

“Adrienette.”

“What?”

Marinette looked away, face blushing a lovely shade of red. “Nothing.”

Adrien hummed and swung their joined hands. After a moment, Marinette gathered her courage and spoke again.

“Most people were on the team. Except for Chloe, of course.”

“Chloe’s always the exception.” Adrien noted.

They stepped inside the class, and Rose began to squeal. Adrien jumped at the pitch of it – all eyes were on them suddenly. He smiled nervously at the wide-mouthed stares.

“Uh, hi?”

“Congratulations!” Rose squealed. She rushed down from her chair to hug Marinette and Adrien in turn, swiftly followed by a grinning Alya who slung an arm around her best friend’s shoulder.

“Mari! Why didn’t you say something earlier? Congrats you two!”

The class was loud with cheers and excited voices. Kim laughed from his seat, “Adrien, bro! We thought you were gonna be oblivious forever.”

“Well, what can I say?” Adrien shrugged, fingers still tangled with Marinette’s. “I saw the light.”

“Oh, this is wonderful!” Rose cried. She glanced back to the very stiff figure sitting at her desk, “Lila, I told you they would figure it out!”

“Yes, you did.” Lila’s voice dripped with saccharine contempt. Adrien could feel her glare drilling into him from across the classroom. He suppressed the animalistic urge to bristle and hiss, instead sending a sweet smile towards the teeth-gritting girl. ‘Look out. You have no idea who you’re messing with.’

“So, when did this happen?” Alya urged. Marinette shrugged.

“This weekend. We went out, and talked, and… well.” She slightly lifted their joined hands, and the girls cooed. Marinette’s cheeks were flushed with happiness – even Lila’s presence didn’t seem to impact her. Adrien wished she could be this happy all the time. Damn it if he wasn’t going to try and make it so. “I’m expecting some rabid fangirl lashback though.”

Alya crinkled her nose. “Ew. Don’t worry Mari, we’ve got your back.”

“I know. Thank you.”                

“Soooo,” Alya leaned in towards the new couple, “I was wondering, would you guys object to a slight seat change today? I really want to sit next to my boyfriend, and – gosh – that leaves you two together in the front row!”

“Real smooth, Alya.” Alix elbowed her with a snort. Marinette laughed.

“I’d like that. Adrien?”

“Definitely.” He said fervently.

“Oh, and do you guys want to have lunch at my house?” Marinette offered Nino and Alya. Nino sighed happily.

“Ah, Dupain-Cheng pastries. It’s been too long.”

“So that’s a yes.” Alya clarified.

 The classes went quickly, with Marinette by Adrien’s side. When she was waiting for the other students to finish up with their note taking, she would doodle in the corners of her sketchbook. Adrien picked up her pen to draw a little love heart on her cast. She returned the favour on the back of his hand. At lunch time he, Marinette, Alya and Nino met outside the classroom to walk to Marinette’s house. They were about to start off when a voice called out.

“Oh! Would you mind if I joined you?” Lila’s sickeningly sweet cry made Adrien stiffen. Marinette bit her lip, hard, as Alya and Nino turned to see the brunette hurrying over. Alya tipped her head with a confused smile.

“Of course, girl, but I thought you were busy? You said you were having lunch with… a special someone?” Alya pointed surreptitiously to her earrings. Lila sighed, an impressive show of disappointment.

“Oh, I was so looking forward to having lunch together, but she had to cancel! Her partner got into trouble and she had to go and bail him out again. Honestly, cats can be so troublesome can’t they?”

Oh. Cats, earrings. Was Lila really talking about Ladybug? Having lunch with Ladybug? Not only was that an incredibly stupid thing to brag about, given the whole being-targeted-by-a-supervillain thing, but Lila had picked the wrong people to boast to. Adrien was almost ready to give her a cataclysm to the face.

But he wasn’t suited up right now, and Alya had already invited Lila along with a smile and a reassurance that she was sure it wasn’t personal, Lila’s bestie was a very busy person after all. A quick glance at Marinette’s uninjured arm revealed the way her fists were clenched. Adrien threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed her hand. I know. It’s bullshit.

“Are you guys coming?” Nino called from up ahead. The others had already started off. Adrien pasted on his model smile.

“Yep! We’ll catch up to you in a sec.”

“Adrien.” Marinette whispered. He turned to her, allowed his smile to drop into a scowl that mirrored hers. “I don’t want Lila in my house.”

He shuddered. “Ugh, I know, I’ve already had that experience. She’s creepy.”

“No, you don’t understand.” She whispered desperately. “Lila hates me. What if she gets her hands on something important? What if she finds the miracle box? Or lies to my parents? Or spills paint on my ball gown commission? She knows I’m being commissioned by Clara Nightingale, she asked Alya about it the other day. I’ve been working on it for weeks, if she ruins it I’ll have to start again and buy all the fabrics with my own money and the bakery will go broke and Maman and Papa will have to sell and I’ll never get a job in fashion and I’ll live on the streets and get stabbed in a mugging and-”

Adrien squeezed her hand, and Marinette trailed off.

“It’ll be fine.” He promised. “We won’t go to your house.”

Marinette looked up at him with such desperation, that Adrien felt his heart break. Had he really made her feel like this? That no one was here for her? Adrien lifted her hand to kiss it before turning to call after the three students on the footpath ahead of them.

“Guys, hold up! Marinette forgot about a huge order her parents have at the bakery, if we go there we’ll just be in the way. There’s a cool café down the road we can go to instead.”

Lila’s eyes widened like a kicked puppy’s. “I-I don’t have any money with me, I gave it all to Prince’s Ali’s charity for disabled orphans.” She put on a pained smile. “It’s okay, though. I don’t need to get anything – my diabetes won’t be a huge problem if I skip a meal or two. It’s enough to just spend time with my favourite people.”

Alya ‘awww’ed and slung an arm around Lila’s shoulder. “Mari, are you sure we can’t just stop by your place? Your folks have plenty of food they don’t sell, right?”

Marinette squeaked. Adrien spoke over her smoothly. “Don’t worry, Lila! I’ll pay for your lunch. It’s the least I can do, after how good you are to those disabled orphans.”

He could feel Lila’s glare, and it was hilarious. She said sweetly, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly take your money!”

“I’m literally rich. Besides, wouldn’t it be the same if you took Marinette’s food?” He smiled at the fuming girl. “Please, let me treat you. I’d do the same for any friend.”

He was really laying it on thick now, he could tell from Marinette’s stifled giggle. At Lila’s side, however, Alya hadn’t picked up on the passive aggressive note. She was beaming as she linked arms with Nino and Lila. “Great! Let’s go, before lunch time runs out.”

Marinette and Adrien followed behind. As they walked Marinette leaned in to murmur, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Adrien whispered back. “Your knight in shining leather is always here to help.”

She snorted and bumped him. Adrien grinned.

“It’s a tail as old as time. Fur as long as I can remember, it’s always been the princess and her alley cat against the world.” Marinette groaned, but the sparkle in her eye betrayed her. “What’s wrong, Milady? Are you feline okay? You didn’t catch a cold or something, did you?”

“What secrets are you two whispering about?” Nino joked. Adrien sent him an innocent smile.

“I have no idea what you mean. I’m just complimenting my beautiful girlfriend.” He leaned in to Marinette to add, “Let me know if all the whiskering is bugging you.”

Marinette laughed out loud. “Please, Adrien. Please get some new material.”

“Why would I, when I have the purrfect puns already?” He lowered his voice again. “Seriously though, if I am annoying you or if Lila’s making you feel uncomfortable, just let me know.”

“I will, kitty.” Marinette smiled. Adrien was thrilled that he could make her smile like that. He would tell awful puns every day for the rest of his life if it would make Marinette smile.

They walked together, with a liar, to go get lunch.

  ­­­Two months later

“Are you sure about this?” Adrien asked for what seemed like the umpteenth time as Marinette shoved her bag into her locker. She still held her newly-uncasted arm carefully against her body, out of habit. “I can do it instead, it doesn’t have to be you.”

“Yes it does.” Marinette closed her locker firmly. “I have to do this. You just make sure to get it all, okay? You have an important part.”

“Of course, Milady.” Adrien wrapped his arms around her and kissed the top of her hair. Marinette hummed happily and buried her face in his jacket. And everything was wonderful for a short, blissful moment.

There was a faint zipping sound, and then Plagg stuck his head through the wall of the deserted locker room and barked, “She’s alone in the courtyard. Now’s the time, Pigtails.”

Adrien wished this moment would never end. Alas, he could not hold the love of his life forever. Marinette proved that when she lifted her head.

“Okay.” She pulled in a deep breath and smiled up at Adrien.

“You’ve got this.” He told her. She nodded.

“Yeah. Okay. Tikki, spots on.”

  When it was over Adrien rushed to meet Marinette in the garden behind the school, tucked away between trees and bundles of flowers. She had beaten him there and had already detransformed, Tikki sitting on a nearby branch and munching on a cookie. When Adrien arrived she looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and lifted her arms.

“Hey, hey.” Adrien ran into her embrace and hugged her tightly. She was shaking. “It’s okay. You did it. You were amazing Marinette, and now it’s all over.”

“I know.” Marinette mumbled again him. “I just can’t believe…”

“I know.” He held her firmly and Marinette returned the gesture, clutching at his back. “You’re done. You can relax now.”

Marinette made a muffled sound. Adrien stroked her hair.

“Do you wanna go home?”

She nodded, not lifting her face from his chest.

“Do you wanna be alone?”

She shook her head.

“Do you wanna cuddle and watch cartoons?”

Marinette nodded again.

“Do you wanna watch the Ladybug and Chat Noir movie and laugh at all the stuff that they got wrong?”

Another nod. Adrien kissed the top of her head.

“Then that can be arranged. And we’ll deal with tomorrow when it comes.”

“When it comes.” Marinette mumbled.

  Adrien walked to the front of the class the next morning just before school was due to start. Most of the students were already in their seats – including Marinette, who Adrien had insisted was due for a break. She had already done the heavy lifting of the plan, now Adrien could see it through. Besides, she didn’t need Lila targeting her even more for this. Speaking of Lila, Adrien could feel the girl’s suspicious glare drilling into his back as he spoke to Ms. Bustier.

“Excuse me miss, is it alright if I show the class something before the lesson starts? It’s urgent.”

She frowned from her desk. “Can it wait? We have a lot of important information to cover this lesson.”

“Ms. Bustier, this is very important information. I think everyone should see it as soon as possible – including you and the other teachers.”

She shook her head. “Mister Agreste, I really don’t see what could be so important that you must interrupt my lesson. Why don’t you go and sit down, and talk to the principal at lunch?”

“Because it concerns my classmates and-”

“All the more reason for it to be dealt with discreetly – we don’t need a spectacle.”

“You didn’t give Marinette that luxury.” Chloe called mildly from the front seat. Adrien turned to stare at her in disbelief. “You called her out in front of everyone during that whole cheating scandal. Why not give Adrien the same luxury? Or do I need to bring my daddy into this?” She pulled out her phone threateningly and Miss Bustier whitened.

“That will not be necessary, Chloe. I’m sure a… a few minutes is fine.”

“It won’t take long.” Adrien assured, sending Chloe a grateful look. She smiled smugly. Adrien quickly plugged in his USB and opened the document, taking a breath to raise his voice to the whole class.

“Thank you all for your time. At first I wasn’t sure if I should share this – but after doing a bit of research, I’ve found some worrying things that I think everyone here should know about.” Adrien could feel Lila’s glare searing through his forehead. He resisted the urge to smirk at her, instead schooling his expression into hesitance and worry. He had a part to play – the innocent bystander. After all, a malicious witness wasn’t very trustworthy. “I sent a copy to Mr. Damocles and the Ladyblog – Alya, you probably haven’t seen it yet – but I think it’s important that you all watch it before anyone else.”

Marinette met his eye, and nodded. Adrien smiled at her and pressed play.

[unto-myself-together]

Of Stories and Songs: A Haunted Mansion Fanfic (Overture)

Here is the alternate (and true) prologue that I was working on.  It’s much, much longer than the prologue I had up before (which was actually not a prologue so much as a teaser?).  

I have edited this.  This is a better version now. 

BEFORE YOU READ: This is a story based off of Disney’s ‘Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion’. The following trigger warnings are for this entire fic. If you are affected by the triggers listed right under the read more, you might want to skip this whole story (as there will be plot points tied to these things).  

It also occurred to me that I can’t edit things before a read more and have it show up on people’s reblog of this post.  :/ Which means I’m going to just put the trigger warnings underneath the read more, just in case I forgot something and need to add it.   That way, everyone who reblogs will always get the most up to date version of the trigger warnings (which is the safest way).   

Trigger warnings: ghosts, death concepts/discussions, murder, suicide, abuse, blood, lots of scary stuff (horror), implied sexual abuse, cursing (damn and hell), drug abuse, domestic violence, attempted rape (never completed; in a later chapter). 

(The audio file is mine. I made it.  You have to open the link to listen, as it will link to another tumblr post.)

~~~~~~~~~

Table of Contents: 

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 ,

Chapter 6 , Chapter 7

~

Prologue (Overture)

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.” --Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~                   

It was a silver flask.

Probably not the first thing that would be in the forefront of your mind. And already, I’m sure, you must be asking:

Is it magic?

To which I will say: No.  It was nothing more than a flask used to hold drink. Often the strong kind.  

And then you might ask:

Is it beautiful?

To which I must say: Why, certainly not.  It was small, barely holding 3 ounces, and had no decorations whatsoever.  No set initials, no carvings or gems set into it, nor even a bit of polish to hide the jutting pewter layers that betrayed the idea that it was of pure silver.

And by now, you must be thinking:

Is it important?

Perhaps to some.  

But to you?

To this tale?

I would hardly think you would notice it missing beyond this chapter.  

And you must surely be furious now.  ‘Why ever would I want to read about boring flasks that are neither magic, nor beautiful, nor important?’

Ah…but you see, my friend.  All of us have such knickknacks in our lives.

Our little baubles.  

Our collections.

And while these things, by themselves, may not necessarily spark the events that shape us as people, they do often bear witness to them.  

Mementos of our first steps.

Our first job.  

Our first kiss.

Weddings, anniversaries, funerals, murders…

Who we are…who we aspire to be…our dreams, our goals, our past and the promise of our future…

We cling to these items because they represent these times.  A physical reminder we can touch...evoking the feelings we have for those we care about…an embodiment of our memories.

Who would we be in life, without our memories?

…Who would we be in death, without some token to leave behind?

After all, what are gravestones, if not markers for the living to remember the dead?

Yes…this particular item was well worn and used, and much beloved by its owner; a man that clung it to himself as any thief might cling a nugget of gold.  

He was a plain looking man with a plain look about him.  A goatee, a mustache, brown hair, brown eyes.   Plain clothes and a plain hat.  In the light of day, he might have looked like anyone else, perhaps even an upstanding citizen, albeit one that never won popularity contests.  But in the dreary dead of night at the cemetery of an abandoned mansion, with his back hunched over and his eyes always shifting to look behind him?  Even the most righteous of people would look suspicious.

A quick drink from the silver flask for courage, and the man creaked open the cemetery gate, lugging behind him a burlap sack and, inexplicably, the large case to a concert contrabass.  

Once he chose a friendly spot among the gravestones, he took out a shovel from the sack.  

For the longest time, he dug in silence. The only noises he made were the sound of shifting earth, accented by the occasional pause by which he took another swing from the flask.  He spoke no sound, but it was just as well, as there was no one in sight for which to speak to.

No one…in his sights….

                       One foot…

               Two foot…

        Three foot…

Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the mansion, a grandfather clock struck midnight, and the echoes of its chime, remarkably, could be heard all the way through the cemetery.   The man paused in his labors to listen; it caught his attention not just because it was strange for there to be a working clock in an old mansion, but because of the song it played.  It sounded vaguely the same of the Big Ben chime, the usual song any respectable grandfather clock would use, but it was warped and distorted as though the clock had grown tired of telling time:

                                Listen to the clock audio file 

  Little did he know, for he was nowhere near the clock to see it, that this grandfather clock was…special.  It had eyes.  It had teeth.  It had a tail, it’s pendulum, swinging gently with each second.  And its bony fingers graced a face that held thirteen at its height.  An impossible thirteen hours.  As the chimes finished counting out their marks, the fingers began to move….backwards.  

They started slow, but, with every passing of the thirteenth mark, they grew faster.

And faster.

And faster.

And all around the halls where the clock stood proudly, the walls seem to vibrate in delight.  Doors seemed to open on their own; the very air seemed to trill with excitement.  

But of course, the man could not have known of any of this, as he was firmly in the graveyard, busy once again with digging.

                                                  Four feet…

                                    Five feet…

                         Six feet…

A crow grabbed at his hat, right as he stood to drink again.   He made a valiant effort to grab his precious flask, but it was no use.  The flask fell to the ground, the little bit left emptied.  

The crow perched at the edge of the hole, puffed up with pride and eyeing the man gleefully.  

“Stupid crow,” He muttered, hopelessly shaking the flask to his ear for any signs of leftovers.  

“Stupid man,” The crow croaked back at him.

The man glared at it.  “I won’t look so stupid to you when I get back up there.”

“Caw caw-You will, you will.  When they catch you, little fool. Caw caw.”

He’d heard of crows mimicking words, but holding actual conversations?

“Oh, but if I catch you, my feathered friend.” He began the tumultuous climb up the sides of his nicely dug hole.  “I feel as though I should light you on fire.  Do you know I could roast you so thoroughly, no one will ever know what you once-“

A green dress.

“…were….”

There was a green dress in front of him right as he hoisted himself up the edge.  As his gaze drew upwards, there was a matching green striped apron.  And upwards again, there was a face.

“Good evening,” The girl said, quite pleasantly.  

He swallowed thickly. “Good evening.”

She seemed a child, but perhaps too old for his sense of ease.  Teenagers that just turned adult were the worst brats, but at least she didn’t look threatening.  Curious, perhaps, in the way she stared at him, head cocked to the side.  Strange, perhaps, in her clothes and how the rain never quite fell on her.  But most certainly not threatening.  Dark brown hair that was cut neatly just as they reached halfway down her neck.  In contrast, her bangs were messy and clumped in three, long, uneven strands, but at the very least they did not reach far enough to impede the view from her startling, brilliant blue eyes.  

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“I could say the same, girl.  This isn’t a place for children to play games. Run along home.”

“I am home.  And I’m not playing games….Yet.”  

He hoisted himself the rest of the way up and stared at her harshly.  “Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to lie?”

“On the contrary, they taught me how to.”

“Ha!  Tell me, where in the hell are your parents that they let you run around in the middle of the night, dressed like that, at an abandoned house.”

“They’re dead,” She said, matter-of-factly. “And I’d rather not consider them to be in hell, thank you very much.”

“Oh.” He made himself busy with the latch on the case.  “My condolences.  I don’t envy them that.”

“You won’t have to. Would you care for a drink?”

The offer was sudden, but it was enough to perk the man’s attention.  His hand hesitated on his contrabass case, before he made the slow, tentative effort to open it.  Inside the case was another burlap sack, wrapped loosely around something (or somethings) so that they were undiscernible.  He gave the object a poke in several places, as if assuring himself that it was still there, before clamping the case shut quickly.  

“…What sort of drink?”

“Name your poison.”  She said, smiling in a disconcerting, daydream-like way.

The man reached to feel for his silver flask, empty but safely tucked in his inner coat pocket.

“…I’ve always been partial to gin. But I don’t suppose a little girl like you carries around alcohol, especially visiting a place like this.”

“Au contraire, good sir.  We happen to have a few good bottles, unopened, from 1883.  I wonder, sir, if that might hold your interest…?”

“Ha.  You’ve got to be joking.  You’ve got a bottle that’s made its way all from the eighteenth century?”

“Nineteenth.” She corrected, “And yes, we do.”

“Whatever century, that’s got to be nearly a hundred years old.  That’s quite a find.”

“If you say so.”

He quirked an eyebrow.  “Once you get older, I think you’ll better appreciate the quality of an aged drink.”

“Of course, sir. I do hope you’ll allow me to lead you inside, so that we may provide to you the very best gin we have.”

There was an odd twitch in her smile, which made him suspicious that she was keeping something from him.  His gaze was drawn back to the case.  

“I assure you, your…case will be left undisturbed.”

The call of the drink was stronger than his desire to keep the case secured… There seemed no one here except the two of them.  Surely no one would touch it, the man thought. ...and yet….

“It’s coming with me.”

He put the effort into hoisting the contrabass case onto his back once more.  

She made an elaborate display in opening the door to the house and bowing to him to enter, which he did after shifting the case around.

“Follow me, please.”

She took a nearby lit candelabra, an ornate thing that had carved monsters and five candlesticks. As he followed behind, he considered the girl once again.  Something was strange about how she moved, how she dressed, how she seemed perfectly at ease in an eerily empty house that she was likely squatting in.  But she didn’t seem to have any weapons on her person, despite the air of confidence she emanated; not a hint of an anxiety in the way she carelessly walked in front of him, not once looking behind to see if he would stab her in the back.  Perhaps that was what discomforted him.  

This child had no fear of strangers, and the man could not for the life of him tell whether he should be wary of this fact.  

“Is it far?” He asked, not at all liking the idea of having to trek through a whole mansion and then finish his digging.  

“The parlor isn’t, no.  At least, not at this time.  You aren’t afraid of the dark, are you?”

“’Course not. Only children are….are afraid of…”

The strangeness in the air had magnified gradually as they walked.  The eyes on the portraits seemed to follow his every move, but only out of the corner of his eye did he ever notice.  

“…I’m not afraid of the dark.”  He said, resolutely.   He whipped his head at the latest portrait, intending to catch it in the act of spying, but froze as he stared at it.

Because his own face was staring back at him.

It was the very painted image of himself, and his hat, in front of a building that was…

......

“Where did you get this from, girl?” He hissed at her.

“Get what?” She said, in that infuriating innocent tone of hers.

He turned angrily at her, nostrils flaring.

“This!  This portrait of me!  How do you know about this…this?!  What happened back then-Where did you get this from?!”  

“A portrait of you? Here?”  She came to take a look.  

But when he went to present it to her, his face and the building were gone. Instead, the visage of a man, quite impossibly tall and with a gnarled face, stood in the frame.  Each of his eyes was unique, and each of his hands held something unique as well; in one was the end of his long noose, and in the other was a sinister looking axe.  

“…Is this you?”  She said, incredulous, “It doesn’t look much like you.  If it is you, you certainly did a good job cleaning yourself up, as the man in this portrait looks rather downright ugl-ouch.”

His mouth was still agape when he turned to witness her sucking her finger. 

“I guess I deserved that.” She said, smiling at him with her finger between her teeth.  His alarm and confusion was still a little hard to gulp away.

“Candlewax,” She said. “Shall we continue then?”

“But the portrait…” He eyes darted back to it, daring it to change again, utterly at a loss as to what to do about it.

“Could it be that you’ve had too much to drink already?  That you’re seeing things that don’t exist? Perhaps I should withhold the gin from you…”

The man hesitated, and tried to consider the logic.  

The incident he thought he saw in the portrait happened ages ago. He had a solid alibi, the police never once considered him a suspect, and half the community didn’t even remember him when he passed through years later.  

Nobody looked for him, nobody knew it was him; why on earth would a girl in the middle of nowhere half the country away know anything about it?  

Perhaps the stress took its toll…

And then there was still the one-hundred year old gin.

“Let’s continue,” he said, motioning for her to continue on. “I must…I must just be imagining things.  It’s been a long night.”

And surely, the man thought to himself, he could still kill her if she blackmailed him.  

“I’m sure.   Right in through here.”

The parlor was a small room, as many old parlors were, but it was far too cold for comfort.  Between the couch on the one wall and the three cushioned seats surrounding the fireplace, it was perhaps only designed to comfortably satisfy, at most, ten people.  The far opposite wall of the couch had a three tier, long bookcase and a service table replete with glasses and decanters.  The mantelpiece was decorated with a long mirror above it, and cherubs that no longer looked angelic carved into the wood.   His throat grew tight simply looking at it.  

“I do apologize for the lack of light,” The girl said, placing her candelabra up on the mantelpiece.  There was still something so very odd about the way she moved. “We don’t have much firewood at the moment.  If you’ll sit down, I’ll pour you a drink mister…?”

He waved her off. “It doesn’t matter.  Call me whatever you’d like, girl.”

“A pleasure to meet you too then,” She smirked, “And you may call me ‘Nell’.  I’d prefer it to girl.”

He huffed, unloaded the burden of the contrabass case, and took his relief in the cushions of one of the fireplace facing seats.  They were still soft, despite looking like antiques that ought to be in a museum.

“Do you mind someone to drink with?”

“You’re too young, Nell.”  He said, flatly, rubbing his arms to get some warmth.

“Oh no, not me. It’s just that the Master was wanting to see you, and he’s certainly not one to pass up a good drink.”

The man couldn’t tell if she was serious or not and eyed her funny.

“’Master’…?  Who is this ‘Master’?”

“Someone who doesn’t like gin.”

He laughed.  A short laugh that gave off his unease, as the tightness in his throat was still there.

“Sure.  Sure, if he isn’t drinking any of my gin, by all means.”

“Well then, your drink, sir.”

She handed him an unopened bottle of ‘Collison’s Gin’, dated 1883 in its feeble looking, plain tag.

“Heh.  The best service is a fast service.”

“I do try.”

Between his chair and the empty one to the left of it, she placed a slew of items on the end table.    First was a unique looking glass that had a bulge straight in its middle.  In it, she poured to the top end of the bulge a liquid that was of a sickly green.  Next, she placed a strange looking slotted spoon over the lip of the glass, and a white cube (sugar?) on top of it.  Finally, she added a clear liquid, steadily pouring over the cube so that it dissolved and the rest of the glass was filled.  Almost instantly, the green clouded into a murky white.

She noticed him staring.  “It’s the Master’s favored drink, and it needs to be prepared very specifically.”

The man swallowed, the tightness beginning to irritate him.   There was something so very ‘off’ about the girl, even up close, and he had yet to put his finger on just what it was.

“Tell me, what brings a respectable gentleman such as yourself out in the middle of a cemetery attached to, and I quote you, ‘an abandoned house’?”

The man took a long swing of his newly gotten goods, contemplating on just what to tell her.

“You know the old mine to the east of here?”

“Sightseeing at Big Thunder Mountain?  I’m sure a lot of the buildings of the town of Rainbow Ridge still stand, though I can’t imagine there would be much to see.”

He paused. “Last I heard, the town was called Tumbleweed…”

“It’s been called many things over time.  Haunted would be another.”

“I don’t much believe in silly superstitions.  The miners back then were just out of their depth in trying to rake a twisted forming mountain.”

The girl laughed, her shadow dancing in the light of the candles in an unnatural way.  

“Perhaps you should start believing in superstitions.  You never know, sir, just what sort of place you’ll end up at.  Better late than never...But, may I ask, does this mean you wish to try and re-open the mine?”

“There’s gold to be had. Plenty of it.  If others want to avoid claiming it, that’s all well and good.  More for me.”

“Is it gold that you have in that case of yours that you were burying?”

He hesitated. He had hoped she wouldn’t have brought up the subject of his case; that she had just forgotten about it, despite its presence in the room.

As he took a slow and steady drink, letting the alcohol linger and burn, he looked towards the ‘Master’s’ glass.

…It was empty…

He nearly choked on his sip.  

“That…the glass. That ‘Master’s’ glass…”

Nell turned to it. “Oh.  Dear me. I must have forgotten to pour the Master’s drink.  How silly of me.”

He watched, the goosebumps creeping, as she painstakingly repeated her earlier actions.

Pour the green liquid up to the top of the bulge.

Balance the slotted spoon on its lip.

Put the cube on the spoon.

Pour the clear liquid over the cube.

With each action, his throat tightened more, and he fiddled with his collar to relief the pressure.

“Now, where were we?” She said, returning to him.  “Oh yes.  Tell me, what brings a respectable gentleman such as yourself out in the middle of a cemetery attached to, and I quote you, ‘an abandoned house’”

The hair on the back of his neck stiffened and prickled.   Hadn't she just asked this question?

“You…you know…the old mine…to the east…”

“Sightseeing at Big Thunder Mountain?  I’m sure a lot of the buildings of the town of Rainbow Ridge still stand, though I can’t imagine there would be much to see.”

“T-tumbleweed…” He sputtered out, correcting her.

“It’s been called many things over time.  Haunted would be another.”

“Don’t believe…No superstition is going to stop me…Not the earthquakes or the flash floods they say about it…”

“Or the runaway ghost trains?”

He fiddled nervously with his collar again.

“Perhaps you should start believing in superstitions. You never know, sir, just what sort of place you’ll end up at.  Better late than never...But, may I ask, does this mean you wish to try and re-open the mine?”

The tightness in his throat irritated him again…and then he heard it.  

Slow and mournful, a musical voice.  A human voice.   She was singing, singing so beautifully and slowly and mournfully that it sounded like the lament for a loved one long since dead.  The hallways carried her chime-like, enchanting voice very well, although the echoes made her sound like an unearthly creature.  

“What is that?” He whispered to the girl, mesmerized.

It was the most alluring sound he had ever heard in his life.

“What is what?”

“The singing…someone is singing…Who else is here?”

“No body is here. Except, of course, the ones we ourselves dragged here.”

“The singing…Beautiful singing…I-“

He froze, as if remembering something, and twisted his head around back to the ‘Master’s’ glass.

His stomach dropped, the singing stopped, and the goosebumps multiplied down his back.  

The glass was empty again.

“The…the glass…” He managed to sputter.  

“Oh.  Dear, dear me.  I must have forgotten to pour the Master’s drink.  How silly of me.”

Bulge.  Green liquid.  Spoon.  Cube.   Clear liquid.

“So tell me, what brings a respectable gentleman such as yourself out in the middle of a cemetery attached to, and I quote you-”

“Just what are you playing at here?”  The man spat, trying to work himself towards a rage.  

“Playing?” Nell asked, her clearly faux look of innocence infuriating him more.

“What do you take me for, hm?  You’ve filled that glass three times, asked that same question three times.”

“Have I really filled the Master’s glass three times already?”  She asked, and her faux innocent smile twitched to a smirk.  “And to think, after all these years, the Master still has a drinking problem.”

The room began to shake, bristling and threatening to topple over the candelabra.  The man held onto his seat, a gnawing worry in the back of his mind that maybe the stories about Big Thunder and earthquakes were true. But the rumbling stopped almost as soon as it began.  

“Now you see?” The girl said.  “A true gentleman can easily show his discontent by giving the room a little shake…not pouring hot wax on me. You should take notes and follow the example.”

“What are you talking about?”  The man was on the very end of his seat, nerves galore, as the girl hadn’t even been looking at him.  

When she did, a layer of surprise clouded her face, as though she had briefly forgotten he was even there or perhaps didn’t think he would comment.  

“Oh.  My apologies if you thought I was talking to you.”

He couldn’t take it anymore.  In mere seconds, the man had the girl up against the side of the mantelpiece, the blade of his three inch folding knife against the pretty little girl’s pretty little throat.

“Now you listen here, girl,” He hissed, “I’ve played house with you long enough.  You better start wagging that tongue of yours and tell me what in the Hell’s going on around here or else I-“

HE WAS BACK IN HIS CHAIR.

It had happened so fast, it was almost a blur.  At one moment, he had the girl’s life in his very hands while she stared, unconcerned and without a trace of fear, back at him.  The very next moment, he was being driven back by a powerful and invisible force; powerful enough to send him sailing through the air and crashing firmly back into the chair.

He sat there shaking, trying to get up again.  But an unseen heavy weight kept him anchored against the cushions, his knife somehow lodged into one of the creepy cherubs out of his reach.  

“My, my, my,” Nell sighed.  She looked unconcerned by men flying through the air, just as unconcerned as she had been when he had held his knife against her throat.  “And here I thought we could all be civil about this.  But I suppose that was too much to ask from someone like you.”

“Someone…someone like me-?”  He croaked out as the tightness in his throat got phenomenally tighter.  

It suddenly occurred to the man that tightness wasn’t the result of nerves.  

She took hold of the candelabra once more.

                               “You aren’t here for gold…”

She stepped closer to him.

                               “You don’t care for riches…”

With every inch made towards the man, the man felt his neck tighten even more.

                  “And you don’t give two wits about Big Thunder…”

She stood directly in front of him as he struggled for breath.  

It was like a rope…

A rope that had been pulled tighter and tighter around his neck this entire time, and he only just started to pay it heed.

But as he struggled and gasped and scratched at his throat, there was nothing there.

There was never anything there.

“L-l-ll-little b-b-bi-” he heaved.

“Insulting the woman you just tried to kill?   It won’t do you much good from where you’re sitting, but by all means, keep digging your own grave.  You’ve already dug a physical one for us.  That was so very kind of you, by the way.  Did I ever thank you?”

The man could no longer speak.  He was forced to glare at her instead.

“No, someone like you isn’t much interested in mines.  And I can especially understand why you might be uncomfortable with ‘silly superstitions’.  I mean, given what you’ve been up to these past few months.”

The man’s eyes grew wide.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, good sir.  I know someone who knows things.  So much so, that I happen to know what’s really in that case.  …And it most certainly isn’t gold from Big Thunder Mountain.”

He tried to resist the invisible restraints, wanting more than ever to run.  

“No.  What’s in your music case is far worse than gold, isn’t it?  And you’ve been worried that people were going to come looking for you because of what you did.  You would kill to keep that from happening. ….And you have killed, many times.  Yet in your attempt to get away, you’ve made one very fatal mistake…”

She loomed over him, the light source in one hand.  And in that terrible, terrible moment, he finally realized what was strange about the girl.

                                    Her shadow was too tall.

Her shadow was too impossibly tall and thin.  And, though the girl was holding a candelabra, her shadow was not.  

It was holding something much different. Longer and thinner, with a bladed edge.

His terrified eyes flicked back to the girl.  Something about her demeanor, the smile that grew on her face, suggested that she knew what he was thinking.  That she knew what he’d just noticed.  

“For someone who doesn’t believe in ‘silly superstitions’, you seem to have great faith in the silliest of all,” She said, her smile wide as she held a finger to her lips, 

“Did you honestly believe the dead tell no tales?”

The candles in her hand went out, plunging everything into darkness.

The sensation in his neck grew tauter, and he reached out, grasping, yearning for anything that might bring relief.  

Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope-

Chanting.  The chanting in the room grew mind numbing. Something heavy was in his hand.

He could feel his fingers growing colder.  The world becoming fuzzier.

He knew what he had to do.  

Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope

With the last of his strength…as he still struggled for breath…he swung the heavy object in one fell swoop towards his neck.

But there was no rope.  There was nothing there.

                                    There was nothing there.

                                         There was nothing there.

There was nothing there but flesh and blood and the remnants of the man’s final screams.  

[infinitehours]

Prologue

BEFORE YOU READ: This is a story based off of Disney’s ‘Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion’. The following trigger warnings are for this entire fic. If you are affected by the triggers listed right under the read more, you might want to skip this whole story (as there will be plot points tied to these things).  

It also occurred to me that I can’t edit things before a read more and have it show up on people’s reblog of this post.  :/ Which means I’m going to just put the trigger warnings underneath the read more, just in case I forgot something and need to add it.   That way, everyone who reblogs will always get the most up to date version of the trigger warnings (which is the safest way).  

Trigger warnings: ghosts, death concepts/discussions, murder, suicide, abuse, blood, lots of scary stuff (horror), implied sexual abuse, cursing (damn and hell), drug abuse, domestic violence, attempted rape (never completed; in a later chapter).

(The audio file is mine. I made it.  You have to open the link to listen, as it will link to another tumblr post.)

~~~~~~~~~

Table of Contents link

~

Prologue (Overture)

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.” --Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~                  

It was a silver flask.

Probably not the first thing that would be in the forefront of your mind. And already, I’m sure, you must be asking:

Is it magic?

To which I will say: No.  It was nothing more than a flask used to hold drink. Often the strong kind.  

And then you might ask:

Is it beautiful?

To which I must say: Why, certainly not.  It was small, barely holding 3 ounces, and had no decorations whatsoever.  No set initials, no carvings or gems set into it, nor even a bit of polish to hide the jutting pewter layers that betrayed the idea that it was of pure silver.

And by now, you must be thinking:

Is it important?

Perhaps to some.  

But to you?

To this tale?

I would hardly think you would notice it missing beyond this chapter.  

And you must surely be furious now.  ‘Why ever would I want to read about boring flasks that are neither magic, nor beautiful, nor important?’

Ah…but you see, my friend.  All of us have such knickknacks in our lives.

Our little baubles.  

Our collections.

And while these things, by themselves, may not necessarily spark the events that shape us as people, they do often bear witness to them.  

Mementos of our first steps.

Our first job.  

Our first kiss.

Weddings, anniversaries, funerals, murders…

Who we are…who we aspire to be…our dreams, our goals, our past and the promise of our future…

We cling to these items because they represent these times.  A physical reminder we can touch...evoking the feelings we have for those we care about…an embodiment of our memories.

Who would we be in life, without our memories?

…Who would we be in death, without some token to leave behind?

After all, what are gravestones, if not markers for the living to remember the dead?

Yes…this particular item was well worn and used, and much beloved by its owner; a man that clung it to himself as any thief might cling a nugget of gold.  

He was a plain looking man with a plain look about him.  A goatee, a mustache, brown hair, brown eyes.   Plain clothes and a plain hat.  In the light of day, he might have looked like anyone else, perhaps even an upstanding citizen, albeit one that never won popularity contests.  But in the dreary dead of night at the cemetery of an abandoned mansion, with his back hunched over and his eyes always shifting to look behind him?  Even the most righteous of people would look suspicious.

A quick drink from the silver flask for courage, and the man creaked open the cemetery gate, lugging behind him a burlap sack and, inexplicably, the large case to a concert contrabass.  

Once he chose a friendly spot among the gravestones, he took out a shovel from the sack.  

For the longest time, he dug in silence. The only noises he made were the sound of shifting earth, accented by the occasional pause by which he took another swing from the flask.  He spoke no sound, but it was just as well, as there was no one in sight for which to speak to.

No one…in his sights….

                      One foot…

              Two foot…

       Three foot…

Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the mansion, a grandfather clock struck midnight, and the echoes of its chime, remarkably, could be heard all the way through the cemetery.   The man paused in his labors to listen; it caught his attention not just because it was strange for there to be a working clock in an old mansion, but because of the song it played.  It sounded vaguely the same of the Big Ben chime, the usual song any respectable grandfather clock would use, but it was warped and distorted as though the clock had grown tired of telling time:

                              Listen to the clock audio file

  Little did he know, for he was nowhere near the clock to see it, that this grandfather clock was…special.  It had eyes.  It had teeth.  It had a tail, it’s pendulum, swinging gently with each second.  And its bony fingers graced a face that held thirteen at its height.  An impossible thirteen hours.  As the chimes finished counting out their marks, the fingers began to move….backwards.  

They started slow, but, with every passing of the thirteenth mark, they grew faster.

And faster.

And faster.

And all around the halls where the clock stood proudly, the walls seem to vibrate in delight.  Doors seemed to open on their own; the very air seemed to trill with excitement.  

But of course, the man could not have known of any of this, as he was firmly in the graveyard, busy once again with digging.

                                                 Four feet…

                                   Five feet…

                        Six feet…

A crow grabbed at his hat, right as he stood to drink again.   He made a valiant effort to grab his precious flask, but it was no use.  The flask fell to the ground, the little bit left emptied.  

The crow perched at the edge of the hole, puffed up with pride and eyeing the man gleefully.  

“Stupid crow,” He muttered, hopelessly shaking the flask to his ear for any signs of leftovers.  

“Stupid man,” The crow croaked back at him.

The man glared at it.  “I won’t look so stupid to you when I get back up there.”

“Caw caw-You will, you will.  When they catch you, little fool. Caw caw.”

He’d heard of crows mimicking words, but holding actual conversations?

“Oh, but if I catch you, my feathered friend.” He began the tumultuous climb up the sides of his nicely dug hole.  “I feel as though I should light you on fire.  Do you know I could roast you so thoroughly, no one will ever know what you once-“

A green dress.

“…were….”

There was a green dress in front of him right as he hoisted himself up the edge.  As his gaze drew upwards, there was a matching green striped apron.  And upwards again, there was a face.

“Good evening,” The girl said, quite pleasantly.  

He swallowed thickly. “Good evening.”

She seemed a child, but perhaps too old for his sense of ease.  Teenagers that just turned adult were the worst brats, but at least she didn’t look threatening.  Curious, perhaps, in the way she stared at him, head cocked to the side.  Strange, perhaps, in her clothes and how the rain never quite fell on her.  But most certainly not threatening.  Dark brown hair that was cut neatly just as they reached halfway down her neck.  In contrast, her bangs were messy and clumped in three, long, uneven strands, but at the very least they did not reach far enough to impede the view from her startling, brilliant blue eyes.  

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“I could say the same, girl.  This isn’t a place for children to play games. Run along home.”

“I am home.  And I’m not playing games….Yet.”  

He hoisted himself the rest of the way up and stared at her harshly.  “Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to lie?”

“On the contrary, they taught me how to.”

“Ha!  Tell me, where in the hell are your parents that they let you run around in the middle of the night, dressed like that, at an abandoned house.”

“They’re dead,” She said, matter-of-factly. “And I’d rather not consider them to be in hell, thank you very much.”

“Oh.” He made himself busy with the latch on the case.  “My condolences.  I don’t envy them that.”

“You won’t have to. Would you care for a drink?”

The offer was sudden, but it was enough to perk the man’s attention.  His hand hesitated on his contrabass case, before he made the slow, tentative effort to open it.  Inside the case was another burlap sack, wrapped loosely around something (or somethings) so that they were undiscernible.  He gave the object a poke in several places, as if assuring himself that it was still there, before clamping the case shut quickly.  

“…What sort of drink?”

“Name your poison.”  She said, smiling in a disconcerting, daydream-like way.

The man reached to feel for his silver flask, empty but safely tucked in his inner coat pocket.

“…I’ve always been partial to gin. But I don’t suppose a little girl like you carries around alcohol, especially visiting a place like this.”

“Au contraire, good sir.  We happen to have a few good bottles, unopened, from 1883.  I wonder, sir, if that might hold your interest…?”

“Ha.  You’ve got to be joking.  You’ve got a bottle that’s made its way all from the eighteenth century?”

“Nineteenth.” She corrected, “And yes, we do.”

“Whatever century, that’s got to be nearly a hundred years old.  That’s quite a find.”

“If you say so.”

He quirked an eyebrow.  “Once you get older, I think you’ll better appreciate the quality of an aged drink.”

“Of course, sir. I do hope you’ll allow me to lead you inside, so that we may provide to you the very best gin we have.”

There was an odd twitch in her smile, which made him suspicious that she was keeping something from him.  His gaze was drawn back to the case.  

“I assure you, your…case will be left undisturbed.”

The call of the drink was stronger than his desire to keep the case secured… There seemed no one here except the two of them.  Surely no one would touch it, the man thought. ...and yet….

“It’s coming with me.”

He put the effort into hoisting the contrabass case onto his back once more.  

She made an elaborate display in opening the door to the house and bowing to him to enter, which he did after shifting the case around.

“Follow me, please.”

She took a nearby lit candelabra, an ornate thing that had carved monsters and five candlesticks. As he followed behind, he considered the girl once again.  Something was strange about how she moved, how she dressed, how she seemed perfectly at ease in an eerily empty house that she was likely squatting in.  But she didn’t seem to have any weapons on her person, despite the air of confidence she emanated; not a hint of an anxiety in the way she carelessly walked in front of him, not once looking behind to see if he would stab her in the back.  Perhaps that was what discomforted him.  

This child had no fear of strangers, and the man could not for the life of him tell whether he should be wary of this fact.  

“Is it far?” He asked, not at all liking the idea of having to trek through a whole mansion and then finish his digging.  

“The parlor isn’t, no.  At least, not at this time.  You aren’t afraid of the dark, are you?”

“’Course not. Only children are….are afraid of…”

The strangeness in the air had magnified gradually as they walked.  The eyes on the portraits seemed to follow his every move, but only out of the corner of his eye did he ever notice.  

“…I’m not afraid of the dark.”  He said, resolutely.   He whipped his head at the latest portrait, intending to catch it in the act of spying, but froze as he stared at it.

Because his own face was staring back at him.

It was the very painted image of himself, and his hat, in front of a building that was…

......

“Where did you get this from, girl?” He hissed at her.

“Get what?” She said, in that infuriating innocent tone of hers.

He turned angrily at her, nostrils flaring.

“This!  This portrait of me!  How do you know about this…this?!  What happened back then-Where did you get this from?!”  

“A portrait of you? Here?”  She came to take a look.  

But when he went to present it to her, his face and the building were gone. Instead, the visage of a man, quite impossibly tall and with a gnarled face, stood in the frame.  Each of his eyes was unique, and each of his hands held something unique as well; in one was the end of his long noose, and in the other was a sinister looking axe.  

“…Is this you?”  She said, incredulous, “It doesn’t look much like you.  If it is you, you certainly did a good job cleaning yourself up, as the man in this portrait looks rather downright ugl-ouch.”

His mouth was still agape when he turned to witness her sucking her finger.

“I guess I deserved that.” She said, smiling at him with her finger between her teeth.  His alarm and confusion was still a little hard to gulp away.

“Candlewax,” She said. “Shall we continue then?”

“But the portrait…” He eyes darted back to it, daring it to change again, utterly at a loss as to what to do about it.

“Could it be that you’ve had too much to drink already?  That you’re seeing things that don’t exist? Perhaps I should withhold the gin from you…”

The man hesitated, and tried to consider the logic.  

The incident he thought he saw in the portrait happened ages ago. He had a solid alibi, the police never once considered him a suspect, and half the community didn’t even remember him when he passed through years later.  

Nobody looked for him, nobody knew it was him; why on earth would a girl in the middle of nowhere half the country away know anything about it?  

Perhaps the stress took its toll…

And then there was still the one-hundred year old gin.

“Let’s continue,” he said, motioning for her to continue on. “I must…I must just be imagining things.  It’s been a long night.”

And surely, the man thought to himself, he could still kill her if she blackmailed him.  

“I’m sure.   Right in through here.”

The parlor was a small room, as many old parlors were, but it was far too cold for comfort.  Between the couch on the one wall and the three cushioned seats surrounding the fireplace, it was perhaps only designed to comfortably satisfy, at most, ten people.  The far opposite wall of the couch had a three tier, long bookcase and a service table replete with glasses and decanters.  The mantelpiece was decorated with a long mirror above it, and cherubs that no longer looked angelic carved into the wood.   His throat grew tight simply looking at it.  

“I do apologize for the lack of light,” The girl said, placing her candelabra up on the mantelpiece.  There was still something so very odd about the way she moved. “We don’t have much firewood at the moment.  If you’ll sit down, I’ll pour you a drink mister…?”

He waved her off. “It doesn’t matter.  Call me whatever you’d like, girl.”

“A pleasure to meet you too then,” She smirked, “And you may call me ‘Nell’.  I’d prefer it to girl.”

He huffed, unloaded the burden of the contrabass case, and took his relief in the cushions of one of the fireplace facing seats.  They were still soft, despite looking like antiques that ought to be in a museum.

“Do you mind someone to drink with?”

“You’re too young, Nell.”  He said, flatly, rubbing his arms to get some warmth.

“Oh no, not me. It’s just that the Master was wanting to see you, and he’s certainly not one to pass up a good drink.”

The man couldn’t tell if she was serious or not and eyed her funny.

“’Master’…?  Who is this ‘Master’?”

“Someone who doesn’t like gin.”

He laughed.  A short laugh that gave off his unease, as the tightness in his throat was still there.

“Sure.  Sure, if he isn’t drinking any of my gin, by all means.”

“Well then, your drink, sir.”

She handed him an unopened bottle of ‘Collison’s Gin’, dated 1883 in its feeble looking, plain tag.

“Heh.  The best service is a fast service.”

“I do try.”

Between his chair and the empty one to the left of it, she placed a slew of items on the end table.    First was a unique looking glass that had a bulge straight in its middle.  In it, she poured to the top end of the bulge a liquid that was of a sickly green.  Next, she placed a strange looking slotted spoon over the lip of the glass, and a white cube (sugar?) on top of it.  Finally, she added a clear liquid, steadily pouring over the cube so that it dissolved and the rest of the glass was filled.  Almost instantly, the green clouded into a murky white.

She noticed him staring.  “It’s the Master’s favored drink, and it needs to be prepared very specifically.”

The man swallowed, the tightness beginning to irritate him.   There was something so very ‘off’ about the girl, even up close, and he had yet to put his finger on just what it was.

“Tell me, what brings a respectable gentleman such as yourself out in the middle of a cemetery attached to, and I quote you, ‘an abandoned house’?”

The man took a long swing of his newly gotten goods, contemplating on just what to tell her.

“You know the old mine to the east of here?”

“Sightseeing at Big Thunder Mountain?  I’m sure a lot of the buildings of the town of Rainbow Ridge still stand, though I can’t imagine there would be much to see.”

He paused. “Last I heard, the town was called Tumbleweed…”

“It’s been called many things over time.  Haunted would be another.”

“I don’t much believe in silly superstitions.  The miners back then were just out of their depth in trying to rake a twisted forming mountain.”

The girl laughed, her shadow dancing in the light of the candles in an unnatural way.  

“Perhaps you should start believing in superstitions.  You never know, sir, just what sort of place you’ll end up at.  Better late than never...But, may I ask, does this mean you wish to try and re-open the mine?”

“There’s gold to be had. Plenty of it.  If others want to avoid claiming it, that’s all well and good.  More for me.”

“Is it gold that you have in that case of yours that you were burying?”

He hesitated. He had hoped she wouldn’t have brought up the subject of his case; that she had just forgotten about it, despite its presence in the room.

As he took a slow and steady drink, letting the alcohol linger and burn, he looked towards the ‘Master’s’ glass.

…It was empty…

He nearly choked on his sip.  

“That…the glass. That ‘Master’s’ glass…”

Nell turned to it. “Oh.  Dear me. I must have forgotten to pour the Master’s drink.  How silly of me.”

He watched, the goosebumps creeping, as she painstakingly repeated her earlier actions.

Pour the green liquid up to the top of the bulge.

Balance the slotted spoon on its lip.

Put the cube on the spoon.

Pour the clear liquid over the cube.

With each action, his throat tightened more, and he fiddled with his collar to relief the pressure.

“Now, where were we?” She said, returning to him.  “Oh yes.  Tell me, what brings a respectable gentleman such as yourself out in the middle of a cemetery attached to, and I quote you, ‘an abandoned house’”

The hair on the back of his neck stiffened and prickled.   Hadn't she just asked this question?

“You…you know…the old mine…to the east…”

“Sightseeing at Big Thunder Mountain?  I’m sure a lot of the buildings of the town of Rainbow Ridge still stand, though I can’t imagine there would be much to see.”

“T-tumbleweed…” He sputtered out, correcting her.

“It’s been called many things over time.  Haunted would be another.”

“Don’t believe…No superstition is going to stop me…Not the earthquakes or the flash floods they say about it…”

“Or the runaway ghost trains?”

He fiddled nervously with his collar again.

“Perhaps you should start believing in superstitions. You never know, sir, just what sort of place you’ll end up at.  Better late than never...But, may I ask, does this mean you wish to try and re-open the mine?”

The tightness in his throat irritated him again…and then he heard it.  

Slow and mournful, a musical voice.  A human voice.   She was singing, singing so beautifully and slowly and mournfully that it sounded like the lament for a loved one long since dead.  The hallways carried her chime-like, enchanting voice very well, although the echoes made her sound like an unearthly creature.  

“What is that?” He whispered to the girl, mesmerized.

It was the most alluring sound he had ever heard in his life.

“What is what?”

“The singing…someone is singing…Who else is here?”

“No body is here. Except, of course, the ones we ourselves dragged here.”

“The singing…Beautiful singing…I-“

He froze, as if remembering something, and twisted his head around back to the ‘Master’s’ glass.

His stomach dropped, the singing stopped, and the goosebumps multiplied down his back.  

The glass was empty again.

“The…the glass…” He managed to sputter.  

“Oh.  Dear, dear me.  I must have forgotten to pour the Master’s drink.  How silly of me.”

Bulge.  Green liquid.  Spoon.  Cube.   Clear liquid.

“So tell me, what brings a respectable gentleman such as yourself out in the middle of a cemetery attached to, and I quote you-”

“Just what are you playing at here?”  The man spat, trying to work himself towards a rage.  

“Playing?” Nell asked, her clearly faux look of innocence infuriating him more.

“What do you take me for, hm?  You’ve filled that glass three times, asked that same question three times.”

“Have I really filled the Master’s glass three times already?”  She asked, and her faux innocent smile twitched to a smirk.  “And to think, after all these years, the Master still has a drinking problem.”

The room began to shake, bristling and threatening to topple over the candelabra.  The man held onto his seat, a gnawing worry in the back of his mind that maybe the stories about Big Thunder and earthquakes were true. But the rumbling stopped almost as soon as it began.  

“Now you see?” The girl said.  “A true gentleman can easily show his discontent by giving the room a little shake…not pouring hot wax on me. You should take notes and follow the example.”

“What are you talking about?”  The man was on the very end of his seat, nerves galore, as the girl hadn’t even been looking at him.  

When she did, a layer of surprise clouded her face, as though she had briefly forgotten he was even there or perhaps didn’t think he would comment.  

“Oh.  My apologies if you thought I was talking to you.”

He couldn’t take it anymore.  In mere seconds, the man had the girl up against the side of the mantelpiece, the blade of his three inch folding knife against the pretty little girl’s pretty little throat.

“Now you listen here, girl,” He hissed, “I’ve played house with you long enough.  You better start wagging that tongue of yours and tell me what in the Hell’s going on around here or else I-“

HE WAS BACK IN HIS CHAIR.

It had happened so fast, it was almost a blur.  At one moment, he had the girl’s life in his very hands while she stared, unconcerned and without a trace of fear, back at him.  The very next moment, he was being driven back by a powerful and invisible force; powerful enough to send him sailing through the air and crashing firmly back into the chair.

He sat there shaking, trying to get up again.  But an unseen heavy weight kept him anchored against the cushions, his knife somehow lodged into one of the creepy cherubs out of his reach.  

“My, my, my,” Nell sighed.  She looked unconcerned by men flying through the air, just as unconcerned as she had been when he had held his knife against her throat.  “And here I thought we could all be civil about this.  But I suppose that was too much to ask from someone like you.”

“Someone…someone like me-?”  He croaked out as the tightness in his throat got phenomenally tighter.  

It suddenly occurred to the man that tightness wasn’t the result of nerves.  

She took hold of the candelabra once more.

                              “You aren’t here for gold…”

She stepped closer to him.

                              “You don’t care for riches…”

With every inch made towards the man, the man felt his neck tighten even more.

                 “And you don’t give two wits about Big Thunder…”

She stood directly in front of him as he struggled for breath.  

It was like a rope…

A rope that had been pulled tighter and tighter around his neck this entire time, and he only just started to pay it heed.

But as he struggled and gasped and scratched at his throat, there was nothing there.

There was never anything there.

“L-l-ll-little b-b-bi-” he heaved.

“Insulting the woman you just tried to kill?   It won’t do you much good from where you’re sitting, but by all means, keep digging your own grave.  You’ve already dug a physical one for us.  That was so very kind of you, by the way.  Did I ever thank you?”

The man could no longer speak.  He was forced to glare at her instead.

“No, someone like you isn’t much interested in mines.  And I can especially understand why you might be uncomfortable with ‘silly superstitions’.  I mean, given what you’ve been up to these past few months.”

The man’s eyes grew wide.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, good sir.  I know someone who knows things.  So much so, that I happen to know what’s really in that case.  …And it most certainly isn’t gold from Big Thunder Mountain.”

He tried to resist the invisible restraints, wanting more than ever to run.  

“No.  What’s in your music case is far worse than gold, isn’t it?  And you’ve been worried that people were going to come looking for you because of what you did.  You would kill to keep that from happening. ….And you have killed, many times.  Yet in your attempt to get away, you’ve made one very fatal mistake…”

She loomed over him, the light source in one hand.  And in that terrible, terrible moment, he finally realized what was strange about the girl.

                                   Her shadow was too tall.

Her shadow was too impossibly tall and thin.  And, though the girl was holding a candelabra, her shadow was not.  

It was holding something much different. Longer and thinner, with a bladed edge.

His terrified eyes flicked back to the girl.  Something about her demeanor, the smile that grew on her face, suggested that she knew what he was thinking.  That she knew what he’d just noticed.  

“For someone who doesn’t believe in ‘silly superstitions’, you seem to have great faith in the silliest of all,” She said, her smile wide as she held a finger to her lips,

                 “Did you honestly believe the dead tell no tales?”

The candles in her hand went out, plunging everything into darkness.

The sensation in his neck grew tauter, and he reached out, grasping, yearning for anything that might bring relief.  

Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope-

Chanting.  The chanting in the room grew mind numbing. Something heavy was in his hand.

He could feel his fingers growing colder.  The world becoming fuzzier.

He knew what he had to do.  

Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope

With the last of his strength…as he still struggled for breath…he swung the heavy object in one fell swoop towards his neck.

But there was no rope.  There was nothing there.

                                   There was nothing there.

                                        There was nothing there.

There was nothing there but flesh and blood and the remnants of the man’s final screams.