#murder at mist tree manor

[macguffinandco]

MURDER AT MIST TREE MANOR 🔎

Our latest microsetting features an idyllic trip to a remote country house that’s definitely, for certain, going to contain absolutely no murders oh god oh no is that a body on the floor

quick please help us solve this fiasco by running to the patreon

[moonchild9350]

The Manor

Summary: both you and your boyfriend Chan love haunted houses so you both decide to check out the one in town, but you both find out soon you may get more than you bargained for.

Pairing: Chan x fab!reader, OT8 x reader throughout

Genre: horror, mystery, smut- 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: presence of spirits/ghosts, attempted drowning, knife play, description of blood, use of blindfolds, violence, description of bruising/assault, poison use, unprotected sex (don’t), creampie, fingering, fear induced arousal, use of guns, attempted strangling, voyerism, mention of stabbing, element of dubcon (one scene), Chan's kind of a dick

Notes: This is it! The last fic for spooktober. I appreciated every kind comment, reblog, etc. throughout this month. Happy Halloween!

Let's see if you can decipher who is who as you read through! Let me know your guesses in the comments or my inbox!

If you enjoyed, please consider a like, reblog, comment as it keeps me motivated ♡

Please do not copy, translate, modify, use, or repost this work elsewhere without my permission. ©moonchild9350 (2024)

“Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, blood and revenge are hammering in my head.” -Willam Shakespeare

“The Edge Manor, established in 1876. Prime of its time. A well respected family in the community until tragedy struck in 1896 when Clara Edge was murdered by her lover, within the very rooms of the manor. It is rumored her ghost haunts the manor and has been spotted by many guests who come to seek out the horrors that lie within its walls.”

“Babe, this seems like an adventure! Can we go? Please? Please?” You begged your boyfriend Chan, giving him the best puppy dog eyes you could muster.

You dragged your leg up his, teasing the hairs there as you looked up into his face. You and Chan were avid lovers of anything horror, and that included haunted houses. You both made it a point to visit and see for yourselves if these places were truly disturbed with the dead as reported.

You found out about Edge Manor through a website, others raving about the manor, claiming to have seen many ghosts within its walls. You were a little skeptical however, knowing that whenever people claimed multiple sightings within one house, there was bound to be a lie somewhere.

Nonetheless, you were more than ready to find out if there was truth in the rumors, leading you to the present, pleading with Chan to come with you.

“Of course baby, let’s go,” Chan said, a smirk on his face. “Maybe we’ll see all these ghosts they claim are there,” he said sarcastically, poking you in the side.

You chuckled, holding him close. You were ready for another adventure, the last one being a bust. You both decided to visit the next weekend, since you both were off from work, that way you could stay overnight and thoroughly explore the manor during the day and night.

You were excited, almost giddy, and hoped the weekend after next would come soon.

Your bags were packed and you were making your way down the winding roads, twists and turns at every corner. The lanes were empty, no one being out this far in the middle of practically nowhere.

It was a cloudy day, the sun deciding to hide within the clouds, the threat of a storm in the horizon. There was already a mist descending from the sky, the droplets covering your windshield. Trees littered both sides of the road, the leaves drifting downward and landing softly like a feather.

You were on your way to Edge Manor to meet Chan, as he had left earlier than you. You hummed the song on the radio, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel to the beat, as you focused on the road. You were almost there according to your GPS, your excitement bubbling at the prospect of a thrill of a weekend.

It didn’t take long until the manor loomed in the distance, the large structure betraying its age. The gray stones did not seem welcoming, almost as if it were an omen to anyone that approached to stay away. The shutters covering the windows were falling apart, yet hanging on, adding to the charm of the menacing manor.

You pulled into the long, gravel drive, slowly making your way to the front of the house. Your mouth hung open in awe as you came to the front door, elegant as much as it was rickety.

You put your car in park and opened the door, your foot touching the gravel below with a crunch. You slowly walked up the steps and to the door, your hand grasping the centuries old knob. Opening the door, you were met with a grand foyer, dim lighting illuminating the room.

Your eyes wandered the room, until you noticed a desk in the center, a man standing behind it, his hands placed precariously on the wood. You walked towards him, a smile steadily growing on his face as you approached.

He had long blond hair that framed his almost angelic face. His large brown eyes gazed at you, radiating with a welcoming kindness. His face was littered with freckles, the spots moving as his smile grew bigger, meeting his eyes.

“Welcome to Edge Manor. My name is Felix, the caretaker of the grounds. Will you be staying with us?”

His voice was deep, with a hint of an accent, the syllables echoing off the ornate walls.

“Yes, I’m uhh...I’m meeting someone here, he’s already checked in. Chan is his name.”

“Ah yes, he checked in a little earlier.”

You watched as he rummaged under the desk, muttering under his breath as he searched for something. Finally, he straightened up with an old fashioned key in his hand, the red label reading 325. Felix smiled and handed you the key, his cold fingers softly brushing against yours before he quickly withdrew his hand once the key was safely in yours.

“I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay. If you are in need of any assistance, please do not hesitate to let me know. The stairs to my left will take you to your room.”

You thanked Felix and grabbed your bag, heading to the stairs he mentioned. You made your way up the plush stairs, your feet feeling almost buoyant on the carpeted stairs. Your eyes wandered, looking at the paintings that lined the wall. Each frame showed a different person, each in period clothing.

Stopping at a particular frame, you took note of a young girl in a beautiful lilac dress holding lily of the valley flowers in her arms. She was beautiful with a gentle face, her eyes an illustrious green. As beautiful as she was, there was a hint of melancholy etched into her eyes, her smile not quite reaching the green orbs.

‘This must be the famous Clara Edge,’ you thought.

With one last glance at the girl, you continued down the hall, looking for your room. It didn’t take long, the room being in the center of the hall. Inserting the key, you unlocked the door, and walked inside.

The room was charming yet simple, a little bit of old charm mixed with new. You placed your bag on the dresser, noticing Chan’s bag was there as well. So he was here. You pulled out your phone to contact him, but noticed there was no service.

“Shit,” you muttered, wondering how you were going to get in contact with him. Surely he wouldn’t have started to explore the manor without you.

You decided to freshen up, while waiting for him to return, as you were feeling a little sweaty after the journey. Unzipping your bag, you pulled out your shower supplies and made your way to the in-suite bathroom. Flicking on the light, you took in the room, a simple claw tub in the corner followed by a sink and a toilet.

The bare minimum, but it would do. You turned the water on, humming a song, waiting for the water to warm up. It surprisingly didn’t take long, so you were able to fill the tub, and quickly get in, as there was a slight chill in the air.

Sinking down in the warm water, you let out a sigh, the tension slowly leaving your body. You leaned back against the tub and closed your eyes, listening to the house settle around you, the creaks of the floor boards and groans of the pipes being your background noise. You hoped Chan would come back soon, wanting to be near him in this strange house.

You were thinking of Chan still when you felt odd, like someone was watching you. The room turned colder, the edge of the tub frosting over. You shivered at the sudden change, opening your eyes in confusion at the sudden change.

You tried to get out of the tub so you could get into some warm clothes. You had your hands on either side of the tub, grasping the icy rim when you felt a hand on both of your shoulders, the fingers colder than the air around you. With force, the hands pushed you back into the water, causing some water to spill up and over the edge of the tub.

You almost slipped on your way back down, stopping your head from going completely under the tepid water. Your heart was beating rapidly within your chest, as you almost had gone under.

“Chan? Very funny babe,” you nervously chuckled.

This would be a funny idea of a joke to Chan, trying to sneak up and scare you in a vulnerable moment.

However, when you turned around to look toward the bathroom door, there was no one there, just you alone within the tub. You were confused, more than sure that someone had touched you just now. You almost went under because of it. Shaking your head, thinking it was a fluke, you tried to get up once more.

Suddenly, you were pushed down again, this time your body slipping completely below the water, your head submerged, your hair floating gently in the water like Ophelia. You were shocked, your mouth agape, water flooding your mouth as you scrambled to get out of the water. However, the more you struggled, the harder you were pushed down by the mysterious hands, your head touching the bottom of the tub.

You kicked your feet, thrashed around, trying anything you could do to get your head above water, but to no avail. You screamed, bubbles floating around you as your voice pierced the water, the sound coming out muffled.

What you saw peering down at you from the surface caused you to scream even louder. The hands pushing you down were connected to a body, a man at that.

He had dark hair that layered his head haphazardly, his fox like brown eyes wide and bloodshot. His lips were pale and shriveled, as if he held them under water for a while. His mouth was twisted in anger, his focus trained on keeping you under.

You brought your hands to his, scratching the flesh, fighting to loosen his grip on you. It was becoming harder to breathe as you had swallowed quite a lot of water, the liquid rapidly filling your lungs while fighting off your assailant.

Your vision became fuzzy, the image of the man blurring around the edges. You were about to succumb to your fate, when strong, sturdy hands grabbed you pulling you out the water.

You gasped, taking a deep breath before coughing, spewing water that was trapped within your throat onto the bathroom floor. You looked up to see Chan, who was now cradling you to his side, brushing back your soaking hair from your face.

“What the hell, y/n! What happened?” He exclaimed, a mixture of confusion and fear mixed on his face.

“I...I’m not sure,” you stuttered. “I was taking a bath when I felt a pair of hands push me down under the water. I couldn’t get back up!” You cried, as you clutched onto Chan tighter.

“Sh, sh,” Chan said as he wrapped a towel around you tight. “Let's dry you off and get you into some warm clothes.”

You nodded your head in agreement and held on tight as Chan carried you to the bedroom. He set you down gently on the bed while he rummaged through your bag for some clothes.

He tossed you your panties, some leggings and a shirt, and helped you get dressed. Once done, you both reclined against the bed, sitting in silence.

What was that? What happened? Who was that? Your mind was all over the place, shock at your run in with...with what? Was that one of the famed ghosts of the manor? The man did seem to have a glow to his frame.

You broke the silence, explaining to Chan what you saw and then explaining your theory. He looked at you skeptically, not sure if he wanted to believe it was a ghost, but what other explanation was there?

You felt adrenaline running through your veins, the feeling of fear not quite dissipating yet. Instead, you felt aroused, the brush with death stirring up feelings deep in your core. You squeezed your thighs together, seeking friction to ease the ache. Chan noticed and smirked. “Are you turned on right now?” You smiled slyly as you looked into his eyes. You scooted closer, wrapping your arms around him before kissing him, your tongue forcing its way into his mouth. You were dripping, never having felt this type of arousal before, the balance between fear and adrenaline teetering like the scale of judgment.

You quickly pushed Chan down, his back hitting the pillows, a “mmhft” leaving his mouth at the impact. You shimmied out of your leggings, tossing them to the side and scrambled to reach into his sweats, your hands wrapping around his hardening cock.

Chan let out a groan as you stroked the tip, pushing your panties to the side, before lifting your hips and dragging his cock through your folds. You both let out a moan as you slid down onto his cock, taking him to the hilt.

There was no time for soft and sweet, but only passion, at the experience you both just went through. You braced yourself, placing your hands on his chest, as you began to bounce on his cock, the sound of skin hitting skin reverberating through the room, as you rode Chan hard and fast.

Strangled cries fell from Chan’s lips as he grabbed your hips, the pleasure quickly building within his belly. He was not going to last long. He quickly brought a finger to your clit, the digits rubbing the bud in gentle, but quick circles, bringing you closer to the edge as you fervently swiveled your hips.

You were close, Chan’s cock hitting your spot just right and his fingers toying with your clit. You braced yourself as you tipped over the edge, giving into the sweet pleasure spreading throughout your body, your release coating Chan’s cock. The spasming of your walls triggered his own release, as he loudly groaned, thrusting his hips into yours as spurts of cum coated your walls.

You sat there, your breath heavy as you came down, staring down at your boyfriend who was in no better shape.

“That was insane babe,” Chan said, a smile on his face.

You laughed agreeing and slipped off his cock, his cum dripping down your thighs as you laid down. Chan walked back to the bathroom, grabbing a towel to wipe you down with.

Once he was done, he slid next to you, cradling you to his body. You could feel the adrenaline finally subsiding, your mind returning back to normal. That was definitely a paranormal entity you had experienced, no doubt about it. But who was it?

Your mind couldn’t keep up with your constant thoughts as your eyes drifted close, sleep taking over your exhaustion body.

You awoke, your belly growling signaling to you that you were hungry. It was midday, the room dark as the sun did not shine on this side of the manor, the shadows dancing across the walls as the wind blew the trees outside.

You were still wrapped up in Chan, his arms around you, holding you close. Your mind went to what happened earlier, your body shivering at the memory of your head under water, the look of the unforgiving eyes of the man that held you under. But, your mind also wandered to after, the way Chan felt under you, the way your senses were heightened ten-fold as the adrenaline spread throughout your body. You had never felt that fear before, but then again, you had never been in this type of situation.

Your stomach growled once more, interrupting your thoughts. Carefully, you untangled your limbs from Chan and got up, deciding to find the kitchen to grab a snack.

You walked the halls, rubbing your eyes, making your way down the grand staircase. You passed by the front desk, Felix standing behind it waiting.

“How’s your stay?” Felix asked suddenly, the ever present smile on his face. “Ok,” you replied, stopping in your tracks. “That’s good to hear! If you are of need of anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know.” You didn’t notice this before, but now that you were settling in, you noticed how Felix spoke, as if he was programmed to say what he was saying. You decided not to think too much of it as your belly continued to growl, reminding you of your hunger.

“Felix, where is the kitchen? I’m a little hungry and would love a snack.”

Felix flashed his smile before saying, “Right down the hall here to my right. Fourth door. Take the stairs down into the kitchen.”

“Great, thank you,” you replied, making your way down the hall as directed.

The hall was dim, the flicker of light from the lamps on the walls not providing adequate lighting. There were more pictures on the wall, depicting the previous occupants of the house.

“One, two, three....and four,” you whispered, coming to the door Felix mentioned.

You opened the door to find a stone staircase, leading to beneath the house, the stairs lit with the soft glow of the lamps. There was a draft, the chilly air causing you to shiver where you stood.

Taking a breath, you began to make your descent, the promise of food spurring you on. Once at the bottom, you stepped into a simple kitchen. There was a wood stove next to the refrigerator, the wide sink basin not too far off. It seemed like the original appliances were still in use.

You padded over to a door, assuming the pantry would be located behind it. You were right as it was piled high with various types of chips, boxes of pasta, desserts, and other types of foods that must be used to cook for the guests.

You decided on a bag of chips, grabbing the bag and walking over to a stool. You opened the bag and dug in, the salty snack hitting the spot. It wasn’t very late, dinner time not yet approaching, so you didn’t have to worry about ruining your dinner.

After eating your fill, you got up to put the bag away and then made your way to the sink to wash your hands. While you ran your hands under the warm water, you heard a clink, the sound echoing off the stone walls surrounding you. You quickly turned around, your soaped up hands held in front of you, looking for the source of the sound.

Seeing no one, you went back to washing the suds off. You were almost done when you felt something press at your throat, feeling cold and solid against your skin. You attempted to turn your head, but stopped in your tracks when the solid object dug deeper into your skin.

You could feel a trickle of blood seep from the area, causing you to gasp, realizing there was a knife at your throat. Your breath became shaky, trying not to make any sudden movements and injury yourself further.

“Who’s there?” You asked, your voice trembling with each word.

You could feel your heart beating rapidly, the sound echoing in your ears. No one responded to your question as there was only silence and the occasional ‘plink plink plink’ of the water dripping from the faucet.

You knew someone was behind you however, as you could feel their breath on your neck, not hot as you would expect, but cold. Whoever it was still had the knife pressed to your throat before you heard a haunting whisper. “Turn around slowly,” the voice said.

The knife was lowered and you let out a breath before slowly turning around. You noticed another man in front of you, this one different than the one you encounter during your bath.

He had black hair like the man before, however, his eyes were almost cat like, the orbs piercing into your skull. He gripped the knife in his hand, occasionally twirling the blade.

“Aren’t you a cutie, kitten,” the man said, his eyes roaming your figure before landing back on your eyes, holding your gaze.

You were trembling in your spot in fear, not sure who the man was. The adrenaline was coursing through your system once more, your body posed to flee once the timing seemed right. You kept eyeing the knife, making sure it stayed far away from you. You must have gazed at it too long, as the man noticed, a smirk forming on his face.

“Wanna see my little friend up close?” He questioned, walking closer to you.

He didn’t stop until he was right in front of your face. You continued to stare into his brown orbs as he lightly dragged the knife up your arms, the little hairs on your arms sticking up. He continued his assault across your chest, down the valley of your breasts before coming back up to your chest.

He eyed your throat, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, almost as if he was savoring you in his head. With a quick motion, the knife was back at your throat, the blade pressing in harder than before.

You were terrified, as you felt the metal dig deeper and deeper, a more steady flow of blood seeping from the wound. With each drop of blood, you couldn't help the arousal that seeped into your panties, the material feeling damp against your core.

With each press of the knife, your pussy clenched around nothing, your body desperately seeking for some type of relief. You shouldn’t be feeling this way, but here you were with a knife at your throat, ready to slice you open and you were turned on.

You needed to get away from this man, before anymore damage could be done. You decided to run across the room and up the stairs and into the hallway, locking the man in this infernal place.

Taking a breath, you counted to three before shoving the man hard, your hands meeting the hard surface of his chest. As he stumbled backwards, you made a run for it, making it to the steps in no time. You took them two at a time, not stopping until you were in the hallway, the door closed tightly behind you.

You quickly made your way back to the foyer, your neck still dripping blood from where the knife was held against your skin. Once in the grand hall, you turned to see Felix looking at you in concern.

“Why y/n, you are bleeding! What happened?” Felix exclaimed, walking over to you with a tissue.

You gratefully accepted the cloth, holding it against the wound on your neck. “Come, this way. Let’s go the sitting room.” Felix guided you toward a room to the left of his desk, swinging open the ornate doors. He waited until you stepped in, before following behind you. “Please sit,” Felix murmured. “I will get a first aid kit to clean up your wound. You can tell me what happened then too.” You watched as Felix scurried out the room, shutting the doors behind him. Now that he was gone, you took in your surroundings, not yet having come across this room. It was large, but cozy, various arm chairs and couches strategically placed throughout. You could hear the tick tock tick tock of a clock somewhere in the room, but other than that, it was silent.

There was a large bay window at the other end of the room. You got up and walked toward it, wanting to see where it overlooked. There was a massive yard, the grass green despite the time of year. It was neatly manicured, keeping up with the prestige of the house.

You were lost in thought, your mind not yet recovered from what just occurred. You weren’t sure what was happening in this house, but you wanted nothing more than to be with your boyfriend, his warm, muscular arms wrapped around you.

As you daydreamed, your head off in the clouds, you did not notice the shift in the air, how the temperature dropped a degree or two, or how there was a presence behind you, gazing at you.

You continued to stare out the window until you felt something cover your eyes, the material soft and delicate, obscuring your eye sight.

“Chan?” You asked, your voice quivering slightly.

“Shhh, behave,” the voice responded, deep and sultry just like Chan’s can be in the bedroom.

You giggled, slightly relaxing at the fact that your boyfriend found you, and not some other person. You started to turn around when a hand stopped you, before turning you back to face what you assumed was the window.

You felt hands glide from your shoulders down your arms, causing shivers to run down your spine. It occurred again and again and again before they made their way to your belly, the digits softly splaying across your soft flesh.

The hands reached lower, reaching your thighs, caressing the supple flesh, as you let out a low moan. Your panties became even more wet, your slick soaking the material as you felt the hands continue to touch you softly, gently, slowly, building anticipation as to what was to come.

You felt a body behind you, the muscular frame pressed against your back so similar to Chan’s, hands continuing to touch you, locking you in.

“Please,” you whimpered, more than ready for him to touch you where you needed it most, to relieve the ache that had never quite gone away, as it steadily built up through your encounter with the man with the knife and now with your boyfriend’s hands touching you, teasing you.

You let out a sigh as the hand finally slipped into your leggings, pass your panties to cup your core. You tried to hold back your moans as you felt a thick finger dip through your folds, teasing your entrance before traveling up to your clit.

The slightest pressure was applied to the nub, causing you to jerk your hips into his hands. You leaned back onto the muscular frame behind you, completely surrendering yourself to the pleasure, as gentle yet firm circles were applied to your clit, bringing you closer to that high you desperately needed.

You felt your knees begin to buckle, needing to move to brace yourself against your high that was ready to explode at any moment. However you couldn't move as his muscular arm was wrapped around you, holding you up, making sure your body was flush with his.

You teetered on the edge of ecstasy, your breath shaky, your toes curling in your shoes, as your hips rocking against the finger that was pressed to your bundle of nerves. Despite the blindfold, you saw colors, the spots swirling this way and that as you tipped over the edge, your hands coming up to grab the two that were wrapped around your body.

You dug your fingernails into the flesh, riding out your high before taking a shaky breath and slowly letting go. The hand move up and out of your leggings, the other arm dropping from your body. The presence of the body behind you was gone in an instant, leaving you alone and out of breath.

You removed your blindfold, ready to turn around and wrap your arms around your boyfriend. However, when you did turn around, there was no one there, only the lingering chill was present in the air. Your eyes scanned the room confused, knowing you would have heard or caught Chan before he left the room.

That was Chan right? It sounded like him, felt like him, but now you’re not so sure. He wouldn’t leave you like this. You looked down at the blindfold that was covering your eyes a moment ago and fingered the material, soft and silky against your touch.

It seemed to be a scarf, one that was not yours. Your started to panic, wondering who you just let touch you in such an intimate way. You didn’t have much longer to fret as the door opened, Felix entering the room with a bag in his hands.

He closed the door and walked towards you, his ever present smile on his face. “Found the first aid kit y/n. Please sit down and I can clean your wound.” You listened to what the blond said, sitting down on the closest couch, surprised that you forgot all about your wound. The blood seemed to have since stopped, the red caked onto your clammy skin.

You watched as Felix opened the kit, pulling out antiseptic, gauze, cream, and a bandage. It was almost calming watching him work, determination in his eyes as he began to clean your wound.

You couldn’t help but stare at his face, taking in his beautiful eyes, soft and gentle, focused on the task at hand. Your eyes wandered his face, taking in the hundreds of freckles that littered the area, enhancing his beauty.

You watched his lips open, as he asked, “So what happened?”

You blinked once, twice before answering, “I was attacked in the kitchens. I was cleaning up after my snack when a man with cat like eyes attacked me, holding a knife to my throat.”

Felix stopped what he was doing, taking a moment to look at you more closely.

“A man with cat eyes?” He asked skeptically.

You looked into Felix’s eyes, trying to read his expression, as it went from shock to almost a knowing look, and then back to shock as if he was trying to cover up something. You may be mistaken but it seemed as if he knew of the man that you described.

“Yes,” you responded. “Is this anyone else staying here besides Chan and I?”

“No, you two are the only ones here at the moment. No one else is supposed to be here until Monday.”

You pondered Felix’s answer as he continued to dress your wound. He was placing the bandage when the door opened again, this time Chan stepping through. When he spotted you sitting on the couch and Felix placing a bandage on, he rushed over, concern on his face.

“Baby, what happened?” He asked, sitting by your side.

You explained everything, as Felix cleaned up the wrappers and dirty linens, silently listening to your tale once more. Once you were done, you didn’t dare look at Chan. You left out what recently happened, your mind wanting to believe that it was indeed Chan who you let touch you.

“Are you sure that’s what happened?” Chan asked, uncertainty in his eyes. You nodded your head. “Yes, I am completely sure.” This was the second time he's questioned your story. Did it really sound that crazy? Who are you kidding, of course it does, you can't blame him really for not believing you. Chan looked at Felix who looked down at his hands, his fingers fiddling with the fabric of his pants. Chan didn’t know what to believe if he was being honest. First the drowning situation and now this? He didn’t want to say anything to upset you, especially in front of Felix.

“Maybe you need fresh air baby, may do you some good.”

You looked at your boyfriend, searching his face for what he was thinking. A walk to clear your head honestly sounded appealing. Maybe fresh air truly is what you needed as this manor was starting to get to you.

Felix cleared his throat, trying to get both of your attention. “There’s a garden out behind the manor. There’s a little flower garden, a mini maze, and some chaise to lounge in. You two go ahead, I’ll prepare snacks and some tea.”

You both nodded and stood up. Chan grabbed your hand, holding it tight in his. You felt comforted and reassured, squeezing his hand for good measure. Chan smiled at you before guiding you out of the sitting room, leaving Felix behind.

Felix watched both of you exit the room. He was at a loss, not sure what to do. The events were occurring again, as he thought they would with a perfectly happy couple staying at the manor. He just hoped things wouldn’t get out of hand the way they did last time.

The fresh air was exactly what you needed. It was nearing dusk, so the air was crisp, filling your lungs with each breath you took. You walked with Chan hand and hand, exploring the backyard, neither one of you in a hurry.

The birds were chittering, as they prepared for night, making last minute runs for food and flying to their homes. You both came across the garden first, taking in the hundreds of flowers resting peacefully in their home. The vibrant colors spilled over onto the walkway, their scent mixing with the cool air.

“They’re so beautiful!” You exclaimed, taking in each flower as you walked past.

Chan hummed agreeing with you, taking in the flowers as well. “This place is beautiful,” he said, “It’s old and filled with history. The manor itself feels...”

Chan paused for a moment, causing you to look up at him. “It feels alive almost,” he finished.

You couldn’t agree more. The manor did feel alive, unsettled almost. You were sure there were spirits present, given that you may have already encountered three of them. You pushed that thought from your mind however, and continued your walk.

You neared some green shrubbery, the neat hedges forming walls on either side of a dirt walkway. This must be the maze Felix mentioned.

“Wanna go in?” Chan asked, looking at you before looking back at the entrance.

“Sure,” you responded.

You thought for a moment, an idea coming to the forefront of your mind. It was probably not the best idea given everything that has occurred, but at least Chan would be in the same vicinity as you.

“Wanna split up and whoever makes it out first gets to buy ice cream when we get back home?”

Chan grinned at your suggestion, “You’re on baby.”

You smiled and then untangled your hand from his. You walked to another entrance that was a few feet away. Giving your boyfriend one last glance, you stepped into the maze, the green walls closing you in.

You walked down the path, carefully making decision after decision as to which direction you wanted to go. You thought you were doing pretty well and hopefully close to the end when you came across a small clearing in your path. In front of you was yet another man, sitting on a stool in front of a canvas, a paintbrush in his hands.

He was just staring at the canvas, the bristles not quite touching the white expanse before him. You tried to be quiet as you turned to go back the way you came, that is until your foot came down on a branch, the brown stick snapping in two.

The man looked up and turned your way, his mouth agape at the interruption. “Ah! A new muse!” He exclaimed, excitement in his eyes as he gazed at you. “Come, come! I must paint you.” He gestured for you to sit on another stool that was definitely not there a moment ago. You cautiously walked over, sitting on the stool, as you looked at the man anxiously.

He had long dark hair, the waves framing his face perfectly. His eyes seemed gentle enough as they darted from you to the canvas. He was wearing simple clothes, his shirt haphazardly hanging off of his shoulders, smattered with various colors.

You listened as he began to mutter, his plush lips opening and closing, forming syllables you couldn’t quite make out.

After mixing some colors he began to paint, the brush lightly dancing across the canvas. You sat in fear, your eyes widened, hands clasped tightly in your lap. You didn’t dare move, not sure what this man was capable of. Time passed, the sky getting darker, the stars starting to peak out in the night sky. You were growing stiff after sitting for so long. You really ought to find Chan, sure he would be worried about you.

“I’m going to...” But before you could finish your sentence, the man sprang from his seat, rushing over to you quickly.

“No, no! You must not leave. The painting is not yet finished my muse!”

You stared into the man’s eyes, now wide and crazed, a sort of desperation in them. You couldn’t help the tingling feeling that began to form in your core, the adrenaline once again coursing through you as you gazed upon his beautiful face. You should be terrified, as this man did not seem stable, however you found that the terror was mixed with desire and lust.

“Here my muse, hold these. They will complete the painting perfectly.” You opened your arms as the man produced a bouquet of flowers. They were dainty and delicate, the white petals enticing to the eye. You were not sure what type of flowers they were and as you opened your mouth to ask, you noticed the man had begun to wildly paint, the brush covering the canvas in more hurried strokes.

“What kind of flowers are these?” You asked, your eyes never leaving his back.

He smirked and continued to paint, his docile face turning over to a more crazed and sinister look. “Hemlock my muse, the perfect flower for the perfect girl on this perfect night. It will complete the painting perfectly.”

Hemlock...hemlock, you repeated in your mind. You had actually heard of the flowers, somewhere at some point in time. But...wait a minute...weren’t hemlocks poisonous, one of the deadliest flowers in the world? You quickly dropped the bouquet, fear etched on your face at what you just touched.

The man looked up, anger in his eyes. He rushed at you and gripped your shoulders, the crazed look in his eye intensified.

“Why did you drop them my muse? Why! Now the painting is ruined, ruined once more!” He screamed into your face.

He was shaking you roughly, your head bobbing back and forth like a rag doll. You had tears in your eyes, as you struggled to get away. However, every time you were able to get loose from his grip, he’d hold onto you tighter, shaking you harder. You were hysterical, clawing, thrashing, and even tried to bite the man, trying to get away so you could run.

The man suddenly stopped shaking you but still gripped your arms. He grinned, an evil look in his eyes, his tongue darting out to lick his plush lips.

“I know how I can finish my painting with my muse!”

In his hand, he produced a flower, the same ones that you were holding moments before. You shrieked as he began to try to shove the flower past your lips, trying to get you to ingest the poisonous beauty.

You kept your lips shut tight, twisting your head left and right, trying to avoid ingesting the flower. Each time you rejected his advances, the angrier and more forceful he became.

You feared for your life, worried this would be the end. Where was Chan? Can he hear your screams, your cries for help?

Just when you were about to give up, you heard a voice and multiple footsteps pound on the gravel, getting closer to you by the second.

As soon as the frenzy began, it stopped, the man and easel with the canvas gone. It was just you, standing in the middle of the path, tears streaming down your face, your hair a mess, and angry bruises beginning to form on your arms from where the man grabbed you.

“Y/n!” Chan yelled, relief in his voice as he made eye contact with you, running to your side and engulfing you with a hug.

Felix made an appearance a moment later, his eyes widened at the scene. You were shaking, hysterical as Chan tried to calm you down, holding you close as you clung onto him.

Night had now fallen, the moon shining bright in the sky, making the maze seem less friendly. You were not sure how long you had stayed on that pathway, being comforted by Chan.

Eventually, the tears stopped and you took a deep breath. You were ready to go back to the manor, the once cheery and harmless garden to you, now filled with darkness and evil lurking around every corner.

“Can we go back?” You hiccuped, looking from Chan to Felix.

Both men nodded and quickly led you away from the maze, the green shrubbery now appearing menacing in the darkness of the night. It didn’t take long for you to make it back to the manor, Felix ushering you both inside before closing the doors and locking them.

“You can both take dinner in the sitting room if you’d like.” Felix said.

Chan guided you to the large room, gently sitting you down on the couch. He sat down next to you, pulling you into his arms, cradling you. You felt much calmer, the threat of the maze gone. You were once more moments from death, which did not sit well with you.

Chan seemed none the wiser, seeming to enjoy his stay at the manor. No crazy events occurred to him. You were confused, wondering why everything was happening to you and not him. What did this place have against you?

Felix brought in dinner consisting of sandwiches and chips, topping it off with tea which you had no problems with and gratefully accepted. You nibbled on the meat and bread, your stomach still uneasy after what just occurred. Nonetheless, you finished your meal and afterwards, settled in next to Chan. “Ready for bed baby?” Chan asked with gentleness in his eyes. You nodded yes and got up, Chan grabbing your hand as you both walked back to your room. You thanked Felix for the food and his help, a smile gracing his face at the praise. He bid both of you goodnight as you started to ascend the staircase.

Once in the safety of your room, you quickly changed clothes and crawled into bed, as you were exhausted. Chan slid in next to you and pulled you close, his hand reaching up to brush your hair from your face.

“Wanna talk about what happened today? I’m worried baby,” Chan said, his eyes searching yours.

“No, I...I just want to sleep,” you whispered, lowering your eyes so he couldn’t see the pain there.

It didn’t take you long to drift off to sleep, the thoughts of men with knives pressed to your throat, unknown hands caressing you gently such as your boyfriend does, and crazed men in front of a canvas swirling around in your head. You were shocked you could sleep at all.

You hoped you could sleep through the night, hoping to maybe bring up with Chan that you both go home tomorrow, away from this place, from this cursed manor.

The next morning you arose, your eyes still heavy with sleep. You did not sleep as well as you wanted, cuddling up to Chan as close as possible each time you awoke. Chan was sitting up, on his phone, his arm draped around you as in to provide protection.

“Good morning baby,” Chan said a smile on his face.

“Morning,” you replied, your voice thick with sleep.

You sat up, stretching your arms before laying your head on Chan’s shoulders. You laid there, watching him read his book on his phone, feeling safe and warm within the comfort of his arms. You were so warm that you could drift off any moment, your eyes threatening to close.

“Wanna go downstairs to get something to eat and maybe explore a little more?” Chan eventually asked, exiting the book he was reading.

You wanted nothing more than to pack up and leave, but maybe you could bring that up after a belly full with food; therefore, you agreed, getting up to get ready. It didn’t take you long, as you threw on a t-shirt and leggings and put your hair up, not caring what you looked like.

You did take a look in the mirror, noticing the bruises on your arm, now a dark red with purple splotches littering your skin. You took in the bandage on your neck, a reminder that you were held at knife point. Your eyes looked tired, dark circles forming beneath them. You looked a wreck, like you had been through hell and back. Shaking your head, you made your way over to Chan, giving him a small smile letting him know you were ready.

Chan grabbed your hand and led you out of your room and down the stairs, making your way to the dining room. You noticed upon the table was a spread of pastries, fruit, bagels, carafes of coffee and jars of water. You picked out a pastry and poured you a cup of coffee before sitting down next to Chan who had chosen a bagel and was scarfing it down.

You ate in silence, slowly picking away at your food. You decided to bring up the topic of going home, as it was as good a time as ever.

“Chan?” You asked with uncertainty. Chan looked up at you expectedly giving you his full attention. “Can we uh...go home? I kinda have had enough of this manor,” you continued, your voice trailing off towards the end. Chan regarded you for a moment. You knew the wheels were turning in his head.

His eyes studied yours, then traveled to the bandage on your neck, to the bruises on your arm.

“We have one more night baby,” Chan replied. He didn’t really want to leave, not quite yet, as you both still had so much to explore.

You stared at Chan in disbelief, your fingers frozen as you were picking apart the last of your pastry. You really didn’t want to stay another night, not wanting to encounter anymore surprises. However, Chan looked hopeful, his eyes never wavering from yours. You’d have to suck it up and endure one more night...for him.

“Fine...” you said in disdain, quickly looking away. Chan reached out to grab your hand in his, his thumb gliding over your knuckles. “One more night baby and then we’ll be home.” One more night.

Sure, you can do this...right?

After breakfast, Chan explained he needed to run back to your room to grab his phone since he left it on the bedside table. He kissed the top of your hand, ensuring you he would be right back.

You watched as he ascended the stairs, taking two at a time. You turned away, seeing Felix standing behind the front desk.

He offered you a smile before going back to his book. You were going to wait for Chan, until you heard a soft melody playing off in one of the rooms. You looked to Felix to see if he heard the music, but he was engrossed in his book, not even looking up.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to investigate the music, following the melancholic notes to a door near the door that led to the kitchen. Twisting the knob, it silently opened, giving way to a beautiful, yet empty room. There were stained glassed windows, the beautiful depictions of cherubs, gods, and goddesses causing a glow in the room.

Your eyes wandered to the center of the room, where there was a white Baby Grande Piano, a man sitting on the bench. His fingers were dancing gracefully amongst the keys, the resulting music sounding hauntingly beautiful. You stood in the doorway as if in a trance, the notes flowing into one ear and out the other.

Whoever it was played beautifully, as they told a story through their fingertips. You carefully walked toward the man, putting one foot in front of the other. You were getting closer and closer, noticing that he had curly brown hair. You wanted to get a look at his face, so you continued to walk, as he continued to play.

You were almost upon him when he suddenly stopped playing and before you knew it, swiveled around on the bench, his arm outstretched with a pistol in his hand. You froze on the spot, your eyes wide, as your brain tried to register that a gun was pointed at you, straight at your heart.

The man didn’t speak but stared at you, his gaze never wavering. He didn’t even blink. He had on glasses, the sun’s rays radiating off the rims. His cheeks were round, with heart shaped lips in between.

Time passed, as you stayed frozen, not daring to move, the man staring you down, his arm never lowering. Your heart was beating rapidly in your chest, the sound so loud that surely it could be heard from where the man was standing. You needed to get out of here before something bad happens.

Trying to be careful, you took a step back, your toe touching the ground first followed by the ball of your foot and then your heel. Your eyes never left the mans, hoping he wouldn’t notice your movement.

However, you knew you had made a mistake when you heard him cock the pistol, the sound ringing out loudly in the near empty room, his arm steady throughout the whole process. Were you really going to die here? You had no way out, not knowing if you could make it out before he fired the gun.

“Please!” You pleaded, tears starting to form in your eyes, “Please let me go!”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears however, as the man simply smiled and pulled the trigger, a gunshot reverberating in the empty room. You stumbled backwards as you let out a scream. You looked up and saw smoke raising from the barrel, obscuring the sneer on the man’s face.

He was preparing to fire at you again, the ‘click’ echoing loud and clear in your ears. You took your chances and made a run for it, running as fast as you could to the door. It didn’t take long, but right as you exited the room, pulling the doors shut, another shot rang out, causing you to duck.

You whimpered as you saw a bullet size hole in the door, right where you were standing only moments before. Standing up, you made a run for it, running towards a door across the hall.

Once safely inside, you sank to the floor, hugging your knees as you tried to regulate your breathing. You almost died, the phrase repeating over and over in your brain. There was a gun pointed to your head, the trigger pulled.

But what’s new? Right? You were so busy in your thoughts, you didn’t notice you had taken refuge in a library. There were book shelves lining the walls, the shelves stacking all the way to the ceiling. Each shelf was filled with books, the smell only books can give off permeating the room.

You got up, and started to look around, your current predicament forgotten. It didn’t seem as if the man was going to follow you. You were safe. You browsed shelf after shelf, noticing various themes of books, the topics catching your interests.

However, the book that caught your interest the most was a large green book, laying on a large wooden desk in the center of the room. You gently brushed your fingers over the cover, taking in the delicate details that were drawn on. There was no title to the book.

You looked at the door to ensure no one was coming in and then opened the book to see what was inside.

Victims of Edge Manor

Read the title on the first page. You thought this strange, but continued to read on, noticing there was a list of names.

Lee Felix Yang Jeongin Lee Minho Seo Changbin Hwang Hyunjin Kim Seungmin Han Jisung

What did these names mean? What did it mean by victims? There was no other information besides the names, leaving you quite confused. You continued to flip through the book, searching for any other information that you may have missed.

“You won’t find anything in there,” a voice said, startling you.

You looked up to see yet another man, with a docile face, his hair short. He reminded you of a golden retriever, which was odd. Yet again, you did not hear him come in.

“What do you mean?” You asked, as you carefully closed the book.

You were on edge, not sure who this person was and why they decided to sneak up on you. You eyed him closely as he slowly walked toward you, his hands behind his back.

“There’s nothing in there but names,” the man calmly said. “But why? Who are they?” He didn’t answer but continued to walk towards you. “You’ll know soon enough,” he cooed, a smirk appearing on his face. He was close to you now, just on the other side of the desk. Your warning bells were going off, telling you to proceed with caution, especially since you didn’t know what was behind his back.

“It’ll soon be over y/n, don’t worry.”

How did he know your name? Did Felix tell him? Was he a new guest? You did not know and frankly you didn’t want to find out.

“Ok...” You said, making your way towards the door. “I’m going to leave now.”

The man eyed you, the smile still plastered on his face. You backed away, never turning your back towards him. You felt you were almost there until you bumped into something, the item brushing against your head.

With a moment’s notice, the man was next to you, grabbing the item that bumped against you. You barely had time to react while he attempted to force a rope around your neck. However, you made it just in time, keeping your hand up at the level of your eye.

The man struggled against you, as he sneered, attempting to lower your head so he could tighten the rope. You tried to scratch at his eyes, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, your brain telling you to survive.

One of your swipes made contact, your nails digging into the skin of his face. He yelled in pain, his hands dropping the rope to instead protect his eyes. You used this opportunity to run the rest of the way to the door, flinging it open and running down the hall, away from the man, away from the library, away from the rope that would have made it’s home around your neck if you hadn’t gotten away.

You weren’t paying attention to where you were going bumping into something... or someone. You yelped and stopped in your tracks, looking up to see Chan, his hands holding you up. Felix looked on in shock, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

“Baby, what happened? Why are you running?” Chan exclaimed.

“There were two men! One in some sort of music room, the other in the library... they both tried to kill me!” You yelled.

You noticed Felix’s face blanche at your outburst, the color draining from his face. He knew something, you just knew it, and you were going to demand he tell you what he knew.

“You know something!” You said, pointing your finger at Felix accusingly.

Felix stuttered at your accusation, not knowing what to say. Eventually, he gave up and hung his head.

“Very well, I shall tell you everything I know.”

Felix walked around the desk and gestured towards the sitting room. “Let’s talk in here.”

You and Chan followed him, sitting down on a couch while Felix sat in a chair across from you. You looked expectedly at Felix, waiting for him to speak.

Felix cleared his throat before beginning.

“You all know that the Edge’s lived in this manor, the most prestigious family of its time. Clara Edge was the mistress of the house and the heir. She needed to marry quickly so the deed could go to her husband, as women were not able to own the manor back in that time period.”

Felix looked at you and Chan, making sure you were both still listening. You nodded at him, signaling he had both of your undivided attention. Felix nodded and continued.

“Clara did indeed find her true love, one she could marry and pass on the family’s good name. The date was set for them to marry, everything was in order. It was a happy time for the household. That is...until Clara found out her husband to be was being unfaithful, catching him with a girl from town.”

“She was heartbroken, her spirit crushed. The wedding was canceled, as she could not be with an adulterer. She was sad, but also angry, her fury getting the best of her whenever he appeared at the manor or when she saw him in town. She’d badger him, ask him again and again ‘why, why, why.’ He never did answer her, just brushed her away, taking the new girl’s hand in his.”

You listened intently. You could feel you were close to the answer, you just needed to listen a little more. You looked at Chan who squeezed your hand in response. You both turned to look at Felix once more, as he continued the tale.

“One day, Clara invited him to the manor, under the pretext that she wanted to make amends. He came right away, happy to put everything behind him so he could move on with his new lover. No one really knows what was said between the two, but before you know it, he walks out of her room, holding a bloody knife, his face grief-stricken. They found Clara on the floor, riddled with fifteen stab wounds. She died instantly, one of the wounds puncturing her lungs. As time went on, those who visited the house and stayed here, report spirits of men and sometimes Clara herself. It seems she goes after couples, her heart full of malice, still distraught that her relationship didn’t work out.”

“We speculate that if she couldn’t be happy, then why should other couples be happy. There have been other deaths within these walls since then, all at the hands of Clara’s ghost. It started with the women and then progressed to the men. Now she enlists the spirits of the men who passed within these walls to target the guests, having them kill in the manner in which they were murdered.”

Felix stopped, taking a breath and looking at both of you. You were in shock, your brain trying to catch up with this information.

“So, all of the men I’ve encountered...” you didn’t finish the sentence, willing to hear it confirmed by Felix. It all made sense…the violent mannerisms you’ve experienced at the hands of the men, all except for one; but, you willed yourself not to think of him, how you gave yourself up so willingly to a stranger.

“Yes, all are victims of Clara and the manor, enlisted to carry out her revenge.” Felix responded.

You watched as he fiddled his thumbs, not looking at you. Something seemed off with him, but you weren’t sure what.

“I saw names in a book, were those the name of those that died here?” You asked, scooting to the edge of your seat.

Felix meerly nodded, still not looking at you and Chan.

“Thank you Felix, I think we will take our leave now. I don’t think we’ll be staying the extra night after all,” you said.

Chan looked at you in shock, but said nothing. You pulled him along, past Felix, through the doors and up the stairs. Once behind the doors of your room, you began to pack, throwing everything in your bag, not caring about folding anything.

You were scurrying around the room when Chan stopped you, his hand on your wrist.

“Y/n, stop!” He said, pulling you to him. “Will you wait, let’s talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about?” You asked in a frenzy. “We’re being targeted, we need to leave. Now.”

Chan regarded you for a moment, his eyes looking deeply into yours. He rubbed soothing circles on your hips, attempting to calm you down. You hated when he did this, knowing the effect it has on you.

You were starting to calm down, your breathing slowing, your mind clearing of the horrors you just learned, but you also felt something else build within. You felt the heat within your core slowly spread throughout your body.

Chan pulled you closer until your lips met, the kiss gentle at first before turning more frenzied. You mewled as you felt Chan pull your leggings and panties down hurriedly, pushing you onto the bed. You watched in anticipation as he pulled his sweats down enough to free his cock.

You spread your legs, your slick leaking out, coating your folds causing them to glisten. You realized it never really stopped since you arrived at this retched place. He grinned at how wet you were, dragging his cock from your clit to your entrance, pushing his cock into your little hole, the slide easy with how wet you were, taking him to the hilt.

You both groaned in unison, as he began to pummel into you, as he dragged his lips along your neck, placing uncoordinated kisses on your skin. You gripped the edges of his hair, holding his head to you as he continued to thrust quickly, his cock brushing against your spongy spot, taking you higher and higher.

You were lost in Chan, your mind forgetting about what you just heard, everything you’ve learned. You were wrapped up in Chan, letting yourself go as Chan’s cock bullied itself within your walls. You felt close, and you knew Chan was too as his thrusts became more sporadic as he tried to get you both over the edge.

You were so close to your release until you opened your eyes and noticed a figure above you.

A beautiful woman in period clothing, the gown stained in a dark maroon, holes scattered throughout the fabric. Her brown hair hung down her face in ringlets, causing her face to appear pale in comparison. She had a glow around her frame, giving her a ghoulish appearance. There was malice in her eyes as she stared down at you, as Chan continued to pump his cock into you, none the wiser to who stood behind him.

You screamed and pushed Chan off of you, watching as he stumbled, his eyes in disbelief. You scrambled to get your clothes back on as Chan stuttered, wondeing what was wrong.

“Let’s go!” You said, rushing to grab your bag even though you weren’t done packing.

Chan couldn’t get a word in, but pulled his sweats up and followed after you, running to catch up with you. You both made it down the stairs, pass the desk, pass Felix who watched you both in shock. You flung open the front doors and continued to run, not stopping until you got to your car.

“I guess I’ll follow you home,” Chan said, confusion still on his face.

You nodded as you got into your car, throwing your bag into the back seat. You started your car and pulled away, exhaling with relief as the manor grew smaller behind you.

As you got closer to the entrance, you gasped as you looked through the rearview mirror at the manor. What you saw made the color drain from your face.

Not only was Felix standing on the stairs, but also the other victims, Jeongin, Minho, Changbin, Jisung, Seungmin, and Clara. They all watched you drive away, not happy their victims got away.

Of course Felix was there, as you just realized he was a victim too. Your mind briefly wondered how he became a victim, but you stopped yourself immediately, not really caring.

You shook your head and faced forward, driving away from the weekend from hell, never to look back again.

Taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @simpforleeknaur @armystay89 @palindrome969 @slut4hee @ivydoesit23 @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @seungfl0wer @velvetmoonlght

[i-am-still-bb]

FiKi Week by @gatheringfiki - Day 2 - 06.23.24

“Love doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints; it takes and it takes and we keep loving anyway.” 

NEW AU - Outlander (1940s) AU

“So what will you do today?” 

“Probably just read, and take whatever tea and treats that Mrs. Baird offers. And I might go out for a walk to look for that henge that Thorin mentioned last night.” Kili sat in the upholstered armchair in the corner of their room. His feet were tucked beneath him and he was curled forward around his book. It always reminded Fili of when they first met. Kili had been sitting in such a position, shoes off, and bare toes wedged between the seat cushion and the arm of the chair. Fine if it was your own chair, but decidedly not fine when said chair was in the University library. Fili had been instructed to inform this wayward patron that he needed to collect his things and leave and not to plan on returning unless he was going to remain fully clothed. 

“Stone circle,” Fili corrected absently. He was doing up the buttons on his white shirt. 

“What?”

“It’s a stone circle, not a henge. A henge is a circular earthen wall or ditch. A henge can have a stone circle, but you can have either without the other. Stonehenge has both.”

There was a spark of sarcasm in Kili’s reply, “Interesting.” He was decidedly more interested in how the circles were used and decorated than how they were constructed. 

“It is,” Fili responded earnestly. 

“I’ll go looking for a stone circle then.”

“Just don’t get lost. I can join you if you care to wait.”

Kili snorted.

“You’re right,” Fili acknowledged. “But do ask for directions, please? You’re as bad as Thorin.”

“I am not.”

“You both got lost on a street that had no intersecting streets. More than once.”

“I promise I’ll ask for directions.” Kili turned back to his book. 

“Good.”

“I’ll see you later,” Kili said, not looking up from his book. “Don’t stay out too late looking at old and moldy papers.”

“I won’t,” Fili straightened his tie. “Don’t forget to eat something,” he teased. 

Kili hummed and turned his face up for the quick kiss that he knew was coming without tearing his eyes off the page of his book. 

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

—

“Kili!” Fili shouted into the rain. His voice was echoed by DI Fundinson and the handful of constables that he had been able to gather for a search party on such short notice.

Mrs. Baird had not seen Kili since he had gone out shortly after midday. When the hour had gotten late and the rain had gone from a gentle mist to a pounding deluge she had assumed that he had been with Fili at the Manor House. It had not been until Fili returned, dripping and cursing and willing to murder for a cup of hot tea, that anyone had realized that Kili was missing and had been for hours.

The locals knew the location of the stone circle that Kili had gone in search of. And one of the constables had quickly spotted the bicycle that Kili had borrowed leaned up against a tree near the main road out of town. 

“Kili!”

Fili’s hair dripped in his eyes. His torch lit a small circle that was tightly enclosed by fat drops of rain. 

“KILI!”

Mud sucked at his shoes. Heather and low hanging branches pulled at his clothes which were soaked all the way through. 

He shouldn��t have let Kili go alone. He should have put personal projects and genealogy aside to indulge Kili’s interests.

Fili did enjoy seeing the old stones, looking at and trying to puzzle out what animals or figures  had been carved into the stones. Carvings that were interspersed with far newer scratchings of dates and initials that simultaneously amused and annoyed them both. But the stones did not hold his interest as long as they held Kili’s. Kili had notebooks filled with the painstakingly copied designs. His letters during the war frequently had at least one doodle in the margins, sometimes that doodle would take up an entire page or more as Kili worked through visual problems. Fili saw them so often that he even began to draw them when his mind drifted during some interminable meeting or another. 

Fili could not see far in the rain. He did see other lights bobbing in the distance appearing and disappearing around trees, other searchers, or a low hill. It was dark in a way that Fili had hated for many years. The dark that seemed to suck and absorb any light that someone dared to put forth. He preferred to stay under the streetlights of Inverness, London, or any other city. But now that darkness made the search even harder.

Kili. 

His voice was raw with shouting when a hand gripped his shoulder.

“They’re calling it a night, lad.”

“Did they find him?” Fili looked over Thorin’s shoulder where he could see the lights gathering together.

Thorin shook his head, flicking rain from the brim of his hat. “Dwalin said that he will have men out here with the first light. With as dark as it is we would only be feet away from him and we wouldn’t see him.”

But he’d hear us. Fili did not say that. Because if Kili could not hear them that opened the door to a whole host of possibilities that Fili did not even want to consider. “I should stay. Keep look—”

“You should go home,” DI Fundinson gruffly interrupted. “You’ll be no use to anybody if you are dead on your feet.”

Fili started to protest.

“Stay at the Manor House,” Thorin said. “It is closer.”

—

The next day brought sun.

But no sight of Kili.

They did find his old jacket with the frayed cuffs that he refused to replace inside of  the stone circle.

—

After a week of no new information DI Fundinson had trained dog handlers brought in from Edinburgh.

—

“I have more in my other account, but I’d have to go down to Oxford to access it.”

“That is a handsome sum,” DI Fundinson said. “I wouldn’t offer too much otherwise you’ll start to attract all kinds of malarkey. As it is, most of the calls won’t lead us anywhere.”

Fili roughly ran his hands through his hair and paced the study in the Manor House. He was aware of how he looked. He hadn’t properly slept in over two weeks. He could barely eat. He was wearing his belt a notch tighter than when he and Kili had arrived what seemed like an age ago.”

“I would give everything I have to find him.”

“Dwalin’s right,” Thorin said. 

“We can always increase the amount in the future. It’s harder to decrease the amount.”

“Why would I want to decrease the reward?” Fili snapped.

Dwalin and Thorin shared a look, but said nothing. 

—

“They’re saying that if I don’t take up my post with the new term then they’re going to find a replacement!” Fili shook the letter on the University letterhead.

Thorin looked up from his book. He closed it on his thumb. “It has been two terms…”

“But we haven’t found Kili yet.” Fili dropped into an open armchair. Most of the flat surfaces in the study were covered with books, papers, and other detritus of academic life. He scowled and stared out the windows at the snow capped hills and the low clouds that threatened more.

“There’s nothing to do but wait now.”

“I still look!”

“Those hills have been scoured. You can wait for news just as well at Oxford as you can here.”

“I don’t know…”

“I’ll keep you up to date. I’ll send along any news no matter how small. You need to start living again. Refill yourself a bit rather than just pouring yourself into this search. I know you love him, but you can’t just stay like this forever.”

Fili’s voice was small when he spoke, “I don’t know how much more I have to give.”

Thorin does not push him to explain.

—

Fili leaves in the end.

He moves into the small flat above the bakery that they had picked out together. It was a short walk for the college where Fili would be teaching and only a handful of steps from a grocer and a pub, and a bit further along there was the library and the green.

Kili had been excited to begin exploring the town; absorbing inspiration for his work from the architecture.

—

Fili did not jump up when the phone rang.

He would have leapt to his feet when he first arrived here. But he’s well settled into his faculty apartments at this point having been teaching for several terms already. The snow doesn’t stick around for long here. But even those dustings have ceased now that  spring has started to creep in. The apartment is less cold and drafty than it was a few weeks back.

But he sat down heavily when he heard the words that came down the line.

“We found him. He’s here.”

“Is he…?”

“He’s alive.”

—

Fili was on the next train north. 

He thought that this was the end. He thought he had given all he would have to give.

But it was just the beginning. 

Fili would give and  he would continue to give until he was no longer breathing.

--

Everything @silvermoon-scrolls @metztlilua @I-am-pinkie

Fili/Kili @dubhlachen

[bobbinrobins]

fic/Au idea. It takes place in a fantasy or normal Au where Wayne manor is considered a local myth nobody can find do to it being curse(and the magic mist). Bruce lives in the manor with Alfred, both can't leave. When People manage to find and get into the manor it becomes gigantic to them(they shrink). Also Bruce looks Like a shadow monster(think darkest knight). It would be top bad if children started showing up one by one.

Ooh 👀 I adore AUs where Batman is some kind of mysterious/spooky eldritch being, especially if he still has a soft side.

Rolling with this idea, what if the reason no one can find Wayne Manor is because it only reveals itself when someone is in great need, or something along those lines?

So Dick, after witnessing his parents' murder, is filled with rage and decides to try and avenge them by going after Zucco and his gang. Without Batman to help him channel his anger more productively, this does not go well, and he ends up deep in hot water with the mob on his tail. He tries to shake them off by venturing into the woods, but they're persistent, and in his desperation, when he comes across some kind of enormous, eerie, abandoned-looking manor he decides to sneak inside. (His pursuers only see trees and a rapidly-growing mist, and are forced to head back.)

Dick is thanking his lucky stars that his pursuers seem to have given up, but now he has a new problem: the entrance through which he came is definitely not where it just was several minutes ago. In fact, he can't seem to find any kind of exit anywhere, forcing him to try and navigate this creepy old building full of shadows. The ceilings are definitely getting taller, too, and he's really starting to panic when suddenly the shadows coalesce into a hulking, living silhouette, and Dick is certain he's going to die.

Batman, however, is just confused/curious about a child appearing in the manor when there haven't been any visitors for years. (Alfred is thrilled he has a chance to break out the fine tea sets). It's very hard to convince Dick he's not going to hurt him when he looks like an eldritch shadow-being, but thankfully he's got Alfred in his corner, who prepares Dick some hot chocolate and coaxes a story out of him.

Dick ends up staying for awhile. Eventually, one by one, more and more lost children wind up appearing in the manor's entrance, and before long the house is livelier than it has been in years.

[professor-walnut]

Spoopy Fic for Spoopy Night

Hello it is still probably halloween in the US so TECHNICALLY I’m not late somewhere. Please have this silly goofy wholesome Pokemon Go halloween spookfest story of Professor Willow and his three assistants spending the night in a house that may or may not be a little haunted, that I potentially spent the entire day hyperfixiating on and writing; forgetting to eat or rest in the process.

TW: Mentions of gore, death, rude language, mild body horror (It’s a goofy fun time just with some spooks splattered in) Read below the cut or on Ao3 HERE

“Damn it’s really comin’ down tonight,” Spark jokes loudly over the harsh sound of rain crashing against the metal van roof, nearly falling off his little office chair as the vehicle tips to the side dangerously, his back hitting Blanche’s chair and nearly knocking them over, “heh- and windy too I guess.”

“Please keep to your own space,” Blanche mutters in irritation as they right themself without glancing up from their book, pushing his wheely chair away with their foot.

“AUUGH! How are we supposed to get any work done like this!” Candela snaps from where she’s thrown against the desk she’s standing by, fruitlessly trying to type data onto a tablet. “Prof can you at least try to drive straight!”

“Sorry Candela, the weather is really taking a bad turn; I can hardly see the road,” Professor Willow calls from the drivers seat up front, letting out a worried grunt as the van hits the curb, “I thought we’d make it to the conference tonight but I think it’s getting a little unsafe, I’m looking for somewhere to pull over.”

“Doubt we’re gonna find anywhere out here in the middle of buttfuck nowhere,” Candela calls back, earning her a stern ‘Language’ warning from the man.

“She’s right, we haven’t even passed a gas station for the past several hours, and parking at the side of the road to wait out the storm in a stretch of forest like this doesn’t seem safe, if we have an emergency on our hands out here we would be in trouble hours away from help without any phone signal. It is within our best interest to reach our destination as soon as possible,” Blanche adds, still refusing to look up from their book even as they nearly topple from their chair at a bump in the road. “…The constant poor road conditions however are making me carsick, I wouldn’t be adverse to a break”.

“Yeah I’m really missing the stops, could do with a bathroom soon,” Spark says tiredly, finally giving up on the paperwork he’s trying to do, “If its not safe to drive though I’d rather we didn’t die in a fiery crash in the middle of nowhere. How long d’you think the storm will last?”

“Unless one of you wants to take over driving, you don’t get a say in this,” Willow says exhaustedly, slowing down just a little, “I think I see lights up ahead, fingers crossed it’s a gas station or something.”

“Out here? More likely to be a murder cabin in the woods…” Candela huffs, leaning on the counter to peer out the window. It’s nothing but trees and mist at first, the darkness of the evening and the vicious rain making their surroundings look like the opening to a horror movie. A flash of lightning illuminates a rocky cliff in the distance, the feint silhouette of a building stood high upon it with a single window illuminated in a feint yellow glow. “…Or some haunted manor bullshit….”

“Language, Candela. Final warning,” Willow grunts, the man clearly getting towards the end of his tether after so many hours on the road. “It looks like a house and it seems occupied, hopefully whomever by will be kind enough to give us some shelter until this storm gives out.”

“You can’t be serious?” She argues, shuffling to the side as Spark nudges up beside her to try to get a glance, “This is how people get murdered in movies.”

“Real life isn’t a movie, Candela,” Blanche says flatly, making the woman give them the middle finger. Not that they notice with their nose still pressed in their book.

Lightning flashes again and Spark’s lips form a brief ‘o’ shape as he spots the house too. “Oh yeah, that’s giving huge ‘a killer vampire lives here’ vibes.”

“Right??!” She sighs, “We are totally getting like…demon possessed or something.”

“Hey, I’ll take spooky ghosts for a while so long as they have a bathroom. This van is gonna become a lot scarier than that house could ever be if I don’t get to one soon,” Spark teases, nudging her a little with his elbow as she pulls a face, “Thought you liked spooky movies anyway?”

“Yeah, because I love pointing out how stupid the characters are for getting themselves into these dumb situations,” Candela complaints, nearly jumping alongside Spark as Blanche silently appears between them having abandoned their book.

“We are very off-route,” they say, squinting out at the trees, “that is a large manor house, is it signposted on the map?”

“I don’t think we’re still within the bounds of the map,” Spark comments, snorting when they tilt their head a little at him.

“The roads aren’t well sign posted this side of the country, I probably took a wrong turn somewhere, we have uh…been lost for a little while” the professor admits, almost a little sheepishly, “Maybe whoever lives here can give us some directions once we’re ready to get going again.”

Blanche breathes a sigh through their nose that Candela recognises as a sound of irritation from them. They’ve never been good at handling plans gone awry. “I suppose at least we have plenty of fuel.”

As if comically on cue, the van starts to splutter, all three of them bumping into one another as it suddenly halts and slides a few feet in the wet mud of the country road – lights in the portable lab flickering out and the engine whirring to a quiet stop. Once Candela gets her bearings she shoves Blanche’s arm in the dark.

“Oh, you just HAD to say that didn’t you?”

“How is this my fault?” They argue as they fumble a little trying not to fall over.

“I should have been watching the gauge, I was so busy trying to navigate through the fog and rain-“ The professor mutters mostly to himself, knocking his head back against the headrest exasperatedly before letting out a sigh and pushing open his door. “Alright the three of you, guess we’re walking. Let’s hope the residents of this house have some spare gas on them.”

“It’s raining…” Blanche complains flatly as Candela pulls open the back doors with a grunt, standing in the doorway for a few moments wearily before she hops out into the muddy road.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“I don’t want to get my book wet,” they huff back at her, tucking the hardback novel into their jacket protectively before shifting towards the doors, wrinkling their nose in distaste at the weather. Spark jumps out after Candela, flicking a little water at them teasingly, which makes them glare.

“C’mon your highness, if we sprint we’ll be there in like five minutes,” he snorts, offering them a hand for support as they hop down too, the three of them instantly getting drenched in the pouring rain.

The professor and the trio jog as best they can up the slippery mud road through the fog, Willow almost taking a faceplant when his boots slide around halfway, thankfully Candela catching his arm before he can eat dirt. When they finally reach the stony steps of the gothic mansion they stop to catch their breaths beneath the shelter of the awnings. Spark can visibly see Candela shivering with the cold and shuffles closer to lend his body warmth despite being equally as soaked through, as the Professor knocks the grand metal door knocker loudly.

They wait, silence only broken by the loud sounds of the rain and worryingly close thunder, for what feels like an eternity before he knocks again fruitlessly.

“I didn’t see the light still on when we approached, perhaps they retired for the night?” Blanche offers, starting to shiver violently as well. Candela would comment on the usually refined leader looking comically like a drowned rat if she wasn’t sure she looked equally as bad.

“Hey!! Hellooooo! Please wake up in there! We broke down and need help!” Spark calls to the house, cupping his hands around his mouth for emphasis. “Man…”

“Here let me knock,” Candela huffs impatiently, gently pushing past the bedraggled professor and pushing her wet hair from her eyes before banging her fist directly on the grand wooden door.

Which, to everyone’s surprise, promptly creaks open with the force, nearly sending the woman toppling forwards, caught by the professor grabbing the back of her coat.

“Oh…guess they didn’t lock it,” he mutters, peering inside curiously before taking the lead past his three bewildered assistants and stepping in, brows furrowing at the musty smell and dingy surroundings. “…Hello? Anyone here? We don’t mean to intrude but we’re stuck in the storm and really need some shelter?” he calls into the darkness, being met with no response.

“It looks abandoned,” Blanche comments as they follow him in cautiously, wrinkling their nose in distaste at the entryway; floors caked in dust and old furniture covered in white sheets. “Are you certain you saw a light?”

“Guess we could have imagined it…” He mutters back as the other two push inside, Spark jogging anxiously on the spot while Candela strides ahead to peer up a grand set of stairs.

“Man what a dump, if someone does live here they’re definitely not paying for a cleaner,” Spark snorts, “is there even power?”

“We’ll see soon enough,” Candela grunts as she runs her hand across a peeling wallpapered wall in the dark until she finds a light switch. When she clicks it on it takes a few moments, but sure enough a huge chandelier above them slowly lights up with a warm yellow glow and she grins proudly. “Must have an old generator still working at least.”

“We probably shouldn’t enter any further until we deduct whether or not this home has inhabitants, if someone does live here we are intruding on their private property…” Blanche announces, trying to cut the professor off from wandering aimlessly into one of the dim rooms to explore. “People this far out in the country have been known protect their land with guns rather than Pokémon, we should be cautious not to alert anyone should they be hostile to our plea.”

There’s silence for a moment as the professor frowns thoughtfully, clearly trying to think of a point of argument. However before he can continue the conversation, Spark makes an urgent whining sound from where he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I gotta go, I really gotta go,” he complains, glancing around before jogging past Candela and heading up the stairs despite Blanche’s protests, “-sorry! I’ve gotta find a bathroom it’s urgent, I’m sure the house owners will understand.”

“Spark, we should really stay together-“ the professor calls after him fruitlessly, letting out a defeated sigh as the younger man disappears from view, his quick footsteps creaking around on the floor above them. “…I suppose we just take things as they come, if we run into someone then we’ll explain our situation and hope for the best. For now we should worry about our current crisis, we’ll all catch hypothermia wandering around in wet clothes like this, and we should see if we can find some fuel for the van. Blanche why don’t you go and see if you can find a fireplace or something to generate us some heat, and Candela can you go hunting around upstairs to see if there’s any spare clothing in any of the rooms. I’ll explore around down here and see if I can find anything of use, if anyone comes into contact with someone then call out and we’ll come running.”

“Have you never watched a horror movie? Splitting up is always the worst thing you can possibly do in situations like this,” Candela argues, sounding offended at even the very concept. She glances towards Blanche for support on the matter, and for a moment they look hesitant as if they want to agree, but instead they glance towards the professor before turning around to do as instructed.

Little suck-up, she thinks.

“If you don’t want to go off on your own then you can come with me searching the downstairs, I won’t make you go wandering if you’re nervous,” Willow says gently, taking his wet glasses off to rub them dry with the cuff of his -also wet- sleeve and offering her a kind smile, “once Spark gets back maybe the three of us can go hunting around upstairs together. It is a little creepy in here.”

Candela wrinkles her nose in disgust and narrows her eyes, crossing her arms stubbornly as she steps back. “I am NOT nervous!” she declares, offence obvious in her voice, “Like I would be scared of some tacky old haunted house! I’m just trying to be the voice of reason, we’re in some mysterious house in the dead of night with no cell phone reception in the middle of a storm, like is no one else seeing how like….textbook murder story this is? I’m trying to stop you three getting slashed by some psycho.”

“Candela, it’s 9pm, it isn’t the dead of night, and it’s just an old house, it’s nothing to be afraid of,” he reassures calmly, holding up his hands defensively at the fiery woman as she huffs and puffs, “there’s no shame in being a little anxious, but I’m sure everything will be just fine, the three of you are my responsibility and I won’t let anything happen to you on my watch.”

Candela throws her hands in the air dramatically with an annoyed grunt, “I am NOT scared! Look, fine, whatever, get slashed for all I care, I’m going,” she snaps, turning sharply and stomping up the first few creaky steps before hesitantly pausing before taking the rest of them significantly lighter- not wanting to crack the moulding old wood and go tumbling through or anything.

“Just call out if you need anything, I’ll be just down here,” the man calls after her softly, making her roll her eyes.

Yeah right.

The landing area at the top of the stairs spans both left and right down a long thin hallway each filled with old doors, some open some closed. There’s a stray old chair on its side in the middle of the path and several broken boards of wood in the flooring that make her debate the structural soundness of this place. No way anyone lives here, if there is someone in the house beyond them then it’s either a squatter or a criminal hiding out or something – which doesn’t really put her mind at ease. Still, there’s no signs of obvious life around that she can see so far. Maybe they just…hallucinated that one light being on. Or maybe it was a fire type in the window taking shelter from the storm – it’s not uncommon for slugma and magby to take shelter in buildings to get out of the rain; farmhouses where she grew up had endless trouble with hay fires in the stormy season. She could only hope they wouldn’t have to deal with a fire in a dusty old place like this, but at least they had Blanche around with an obscene amount of water types on hand.

To the left, the end of the hallway turns up to another set of stairs, and to the right it curves around a corner along what she assumes is more hallway. She opts for the right, slowly avoiding cracked floorboards as she navigates the dimly lit hallway. Pushing open the first door she finds to only be met with an empty room; small with a single window, no furniture inside except a moulding rug on the floor. The next room looks like a storage room, old empty suitcases and boxes stacked wall to wall, floor to ceiling, filled with books turning black with damp and old yellowing newspapers and all manner of other things Candela deems just trash. 

The third room she pushes into looks like a bedroom, there’s still an old bed in the corner fit with yellowing sheets that don’t seem to have been touched in years, a few pieces of outdated furniture against the walls. Wandering inside she approaches an old dresser, wrestling the top drawer open despite its rusted hinges and smirking in success when she finds clothes and linins still inside – a little discoloured but seemingly dry and free from mould, as far as she can tell in the low lighting.

She picks up what looks like an old nightgown, it’s not her preferred style but right now she’d take anything if it meant getting out of her drenched coat and warming up a bit. If she has to look like a Victorian maiden for one night then so be it.

As Candela is rummaging through the musty smelling clothes picking out whatever seems like it might fit her companions, she’s suddenly taken off guard by something hard slamming into her back, claws digging into her skin- she lets out a panicked gasp, barely restraining a scream as she swings around fast-

“Squeaks no!” Spark’s voice grunts as he rushes into the room, prying the chunky Pikachu off her back “-Sorry, I let him out because the bathroom light was broke and he knows flash but he’s a little zazzed out from the thunder storm.”

“Ow fuck, trim his claws Spark!” Candela snaps breathlessly, trying to regain her composure quickly as she shoves the armful of clothes on top of the dresser to free up a hand to rub her back. “Geez…”

“Pii…” The Pokémon squeak, clearly not in the slightest apologetic as he wriggles in Spark’s grip and lets off little sparks from his cheeks irritably as he tries to free himself.

“Say sorry bud, you spooked Candela,” Spark warns, sighing when the Pokémon in his hands presents a petulant “pikapi” and zaps him a little. “You’re such a little butt when it’s storming.”

“He didn’t spook me he just caught me off guard,” Candela grunts at him, narrowing her eyes warningly before grabbing one of the off-coloured nightgowns and throwing it at him, “and scratched the shit out of my back.”

“You were totally spooked,” he teases, shifting the tantruming pikachu under one arm to wrestle the nightgown out of his face and hold it up with a look of distain. “It’s fine though, this place is giving me the major willies. I walked into a room with a straight-up giant taxidermy ursaring in the doorway and nearly pissed myself like five minutes ago, I am already so over this spookfest already and we only just got here.”

“Who even says willies anymore? You’re so weird,” She grunts, gathering the other gowns into her arms, at least cracking a smirk at the face he pulls, “What? You too proud to wear a dress?”

“I just think a sleeveless number suits my body type better, and look how long this thing is? What am I, a prude? How am I going to show off the results of leg day?” Spark teases, matching her grin with one of his own, “’Least the ghosts might think we’re one of ‘em if we’re dressed the part.”

“Beats being soaked,” she says, nudging him with her elbow, “shove off into a different room so I can change, don’t need you ogling my ass.”

“I would never!” Spark announces, faux defence in his voice as he and Squeaks jog out to find another room to change in, “I seriously can’t wait to see the prof in one of these…”

“Right?” Candela snorts, clicking the door shut behind him and changing, listening in amusement to the muffled sounds of him fumbling around trying to get his soaked skin tight pants off in the room next door through the thin, mildew coated walls. “You need help in there?”

A muffled crash and a quiet curse. “I’m all good!”

He stumbles out into the hallway as she opens the door, throwing his arms out proudly in his new attire. “Am I serving looks or what?”

“You’re definitely serving…something,” she laughs, noting how the Pikachu is once again running around their feet like a caffeinated toddler as she gestures with her chin towards the stairs before falling into pace next to the man. “Are all electric types off their nut like this when it’s storming?”

“Nah, I mean some do for sure. Electabuzz tend to lose their shit the second there’s thunder, it’s like dosing ‘em up with coffee. Some pikachu love it, some don’t care much, Squeaks has always been sensitive to it. Yamper though, I’ve met some that like it and some that are super freaked out by it, my Boltund hides under the couch and cries until I carry him around like a baby,” Spark laughs, “Might be because Zapdos tried to eat him once, though.”

“Interesting choice of attire,” Blanche’s flat voice cuts off Candela from replying as the two reach the bottom of the staircase and the Mystic leader appears from one of the doorways, trying to wring the water from their long ponytail with one hand while holding a few wooden logs under the other.

“Sorry, it’s not like there was a retail store up there,” Candela huffs, “I’ll have you know I slay in any outfit. D’you get a fire burning?”

“I found a fireplace and firewood, a little old but it seems dry enough, though I was unable to find matches. I was hoping you could lend the ability of one of your fire types,” Blanche says calmly, eying the both of them up and down with barely concealed amusement as if they aren’t the one still dripping everywhere. “I have also discovered the source of the light in the window you likely saw.”

“Oh?” Spark perks up curiously, the two of them following as Blanche leads them back into the room they just appeared from. 

It’s a dim library like room with a few lounge chairs and an old couch covered in mildew, bookshelves lining the walls leading up to a grand fireplace. It’s slightly lighter at one end of the room due to the immediately obvious little cluster of nervous litwick hiding beneath a coffee table. The more Candela looks around, the more she spots stray ones hiding between books on the shelves and peeking out from under the couches.

“I tried to convince them to aid me in lighting the fire but they seem anxious of people. It is best we give them some space,” Blanche explains, “They do not seem hostile but all Pokémon can be unpredictable when frightened.”

“They’re so cute,” Candela coos, blatantly ignoring Blanche’s words as she approaches a smaller than average litwick on a shelf and crouches down to eye level, the tiny candle nervously flickering its flame at her in a weak display of threat. “Guess there are some ghosts in this place.”

“I’m totally okay with a creepy mansion only haunted by sleepy little ghost-types like this,” Spark laughs, smiling and waving at one who watches him curiously. “Think we can catch a few before we leave?”

“Candela. Fire type.” Blanche asserts impatiently, gesturing at the fireplace as they drop the dusty wooden logs into it before hugging themself to retain some body heat. “I wouldn’t risk it, there could be a protective chandelure around somewhere.”

“A ‘please’ would be nice,” Candela grunts as she parts herself from the cute little candle to toss out one of her pokeballs. Her neat little flareon lands gracefully on the wooden floors, immediately glancing around curiously at its surroundings and blinking a few times at a litwick close by as if asking a silent question. Candela offers her a reassuring little smile, “Mind helping us with the fireplace, Cayenne?”

With an enthusiastic “Flare!” the little pokemon turns and spits a powerful ember into the dry wood of the fireplace, lighting it instantly and bathing the room in a warmer glow.

“Go become a creepy Victorian ghost like us before you freeze to death,” Candela teases as she tosses one of the nightgowns in her arm to Blanche. They linger close to the fireplace trying to warm some feeling back into their hands for a few minutes before reluctantly stepping away with the bundle of fabric. “Any sign of the prof?”

“I haven’t seen him since he left to explore,” they murmur as they leave the room.

“What’s the bet he’s somehow gotten lost and stumbled on like some secret crypt where he’s uncovered some deadly monster that’s been sealed for several centuries,” Spark laughs as he throws himself dramatically onto the couch, sending a cloud of dust into the air that makes him start coughing.

“Don’t even joke, he totally would,” Candela snorts back as she comes over to fan the dusty air around him, patting his back as he wheezes for air through coughs, “geez why would you jump on that, you’re probably inhaling like six billion years’ worth of spores.”

“House can’t be that old if it has electricity, someone must have lived here until at least like- man when was electricity invented? Like the 40s?” He coughs, rubbing dust out of his watery eyes. “Eww don’t say that…”

“Like the 1700s, dumbass. Electric lights have been around since like the late 1800s,” Candela grunts, “You need some water or something?”

Spark looks about to respond when the both of them are interrupted by a loud, terrified yelp accompanied by quick footsteps. The professor bursts in through a door, looking almost white and making them both jump, Spark leaping to his feet and Candela rushing to the man’s side, Cayenne at her feet, fiery scruff raised in alarm.

“What happened?” She asks as she grabs the older man’s shoulder, giving him a slight shake as she glances around warily. “Are you okay?”

Eyes wide, Willow fumbles for a few moments as if processing who he’s run into before putting a hand onto her shoulder as well with a heavy breath. “-I think I just- there was a ghost!“

“I’m not a ghost,” a particularly irritated voice sounds as a figure follows him through the door he just came through, almost making Candela jump too – then making her wheeze out a breathy laugh.

Blanche narrows their eyes at her in irritation before shooting Spark a glare as he starts snort laughing too. In the white gown with their long white hair free from its usual ponytail to allow it to dry, it’s not hard to see how the professor could mistake them for something scary – they remind Candela a little of a ghostly white version of the creepy woman from the ring.

As the professor gets a proper look at them he holds a hand to his heart as he lets out a deep sigh, the colour quickly returning to his face as he releases a sheepish chuckle. “Ah…sorry, Blanche.”

When they don’t respond, giving him an irritated scowl instead, Willow awkwardly turns to put a bag in his hands down on the armchair closest to him, pulling out a few odds and ends from within to show off to the trio as if nothing had just happened. “Not much here, seems over the years people and Pokémon have picked it clean, but I found a few un-damaged cans of soup in one of the kitchen cupboards – not sure if they’re still palatable but it’s something. There’s running water still, and I found a little pack of bandages and a few bottles of alcohol should anyone sustain an injury. No gas, however.”

“I found some dry clothes, and it seems like there’s still beds and stuff here if we need to stay the night,” Candela adds, scratching the side of her neck thoughtfully before tossing the prof the last nightgown, “I still think this whole situation gives huge ‘we’re gonna get murdered like in a horror film’ vibes, but if our only other option is freezing to death in a van with no power, guess dying in a haunted house is at least a more interesting way to go.”

“I’m kinda into it actually. Hot soup, warm fire, chilling with friends in a cool haunted house this close to Halloween, it’s kinda fun,” Spark teases as he sits down again, at least more gently this time to avoid spreading more dust. “Not how I thought I’d be spending my Friday night, but I’ll take it.”

Blanche, disinterested in the conversation, has wandered over to one of the bookshelves to carefully remove a leatherbound book, eyeing it in their hands appraisingly as if curious about the reading material available here, “Once the storm gives out, if we are unable to find any petroleum to power the vehicle, we may have to travel to the nearest town by foot to seek roadside assistance due to the lack of phone signal in the area. This time I shall lead the way, given it has been proven to me that certain members of our party cannot correctly read a map,” they announce, side eying the professor with a frown – which makes the man laugh nervously, “for now I suppose we should be grateful that we came across appropriate shelter in our time of need, and should make the most of what fate has provided us.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Willow laughs gently, tossing a can of soup to Spark and then one to Candela. “Why don’t the three of you see if any of this is edible so we can rustle up some dinner while I go and get changed and join the costume party.”

--

Within half an hour the four of them are sat around the fireplace with mugs full of warm soup, Candela and Blanche huddled together on the carpet while Willow sits across from Spark on the old sofa. Although the soup – leak and potato, she thinks – is a little bland and gritty, it’s not unappetising and doesn’t smell expired, and Candela enjoys the feeling of the warm crockery mug beneath her palms. It feels surprisingly cosy, the sounds of rain hitting the windows outside and deep thunder rolling overhead, the quiet crackling of the fire and the soft sounds of her friends sipping and occasionally murmuring to each other.

Cayenne is curled up in fireplace, she’s pretending to sleep but Candela can tell she always has one eye cracked open to keep an look out for dangers, and Squeaks is still bouncing around on one of the armchairs, a little bundle of energy  - a couple of young litwick seem curious of him and have climbed onto the arms of the chair, seemingly enjoying being jolted around by his bouncing.

It’s not the clean, well catered hotel at the Pokémon convention centre she was expecting to spend the night at, but she has to admit, it’s not so bad here.

“I admit, I was a little disappointed we wouldn’t get to attend one of your famous Halloween parties this year due to the timing of the convention,” the professor says to Spark with a soft chuckle as he swirls the thick soup in his mug around as if it’s a fine whisky, “At least we’re getting some Halloween spooks after all this year. Perhaps we should pass the time with some scary stories? Blanche, you’re good at those.”

“Since when does dweeb central know scary stories?” Candela asks teasingly, bumping Blanche with her shoulder and almost making them spill their soup.

“I’ll have you know I used to be very enraptured by gothic fiction during my adolescence,” they remark back huffily, putting their half empty mug on the floor to free up their hands – then watching cautiously as a couple of small litwick approach curiously to sniff it. “In fact as an act of rebellion against my father’s dislike for the Halloween season, I used to sneak out to the local graveyard to read works of gothic horror fiction by candlelight in the dead of night. I am very well versed in the horror genre.”

Spark lets out a snort of amusement, leaning forward in interest. “I can’t imagine you as a little goth teen,” he notes before suddenly looking kinda thoughtful and waving his hand, “…actually I totally can. You like, never smile and use tons of long words. Dye your hair black and you’d slay the emo goth vibe.”

“Oh my god now you say that I can totally see that,” Candela giggles, making Blanche give her an exasperated frown, “Blanchey Dark’ness Dementia Raven Way”

“I wasn’t into gothic fashion, I just enjoyed the literacy genre, it was a guilty pleasure,” Blanche shrugs, tucking a strand of hair behind their ear grumpily.

“They regaled a great tale about someone haunted by a phantump last year while we were working late the night before Halloween, kept me up for days,” Willow laughs cheerfully, the compliment making the Mystic leader blush. “Why not share a few other spooks and scares? This is certainly the place for it after all.”

“Yeah c’mon, give us the best you got. I’m warning you though, we don’t spook as easy as the professor,” Spark encourages eagerly, pulling his legs up onto the couch to get comfortable.

“While I’m sure some Edgar Allen Poe would do nothing but put you to sleep, I suppose the current surroundings do bring to mind a true tale I remember from childhood which some may describe as eerie,” Blanche begins thoughtfully, placing their hands in their lap politely as they shift around to face Spark in the dim firelight. Candela shifts too, turning around on the carpet so that she’s facing them, a smug grin painted on her face.

“What? Did you see a spooky ghost in that graveyard you were hanging around in?” She teases gently, making Blanche roll their eyes.

“Thankfully, it is not a story in which I was a part of. Do you remember the Graveler house?” They say slowly, looking somewhat pleased when the mention of the place makes both Candela and Spark’s faces fall a little.

Growing up in Trichroma town, every kid in the area knew about the Graveler house. It was an abandoned old state-house behind the hospital with bordered up windows and old tattered police tape wrapped around it’s grand steel fences. Rumour had it that it had been home to the rich old man who had founded the hospital in the 1830s, no-one went inside for all the stories that it was cursed or haunted. It had been a popular spot for teenagers to visit on Halloween nights to scare each other for a while, until several missing-persons reports had started to come about – people going in and never coming back out, the police never finding them. After that, even the bravest teenagers avoided the place.

“What do YOU know about the Graveler house?” Spark asks curiously, glancing at the professor as if he could give some answers, only to look back to Blanche when the older man looks just as confused.

“As a child I had taken a particular interest in some of the more violent parts of history, and at one point I had a special fondness for collecting books and journals on Victorian serial killers,” Blanche admits, looking a little sheepish when the professor looks somewhat disturbed, “…It was just a phase. At age twelve I remember being fascinated with H.J. Graveler, the initial owner of Graveler house. He had been a philanthropist in the eyes of the townsfolk, though he had hidden a dark secret. In constructing the hospital so close to his estate, he had designed a tunnel between his home and the morgue, in which he would pay doctors to deliver corpses to him. For what reason, it was never discovered, and the bodies he stole were never reported recovered. To this day no one knows what he did with them all, and there were supposable hundreds in total, he reportedly confessed before his execution that he ‘needed to feed it’, never clarifying what ‘it’ was; and people speculated he was feeding the bodies to a Pokémon, though again, no evidence was ever found to support this. I was fascinated by the mystery of it all, though books could only take me so far. My curiosity was insatiable and for weeks it distracted me from my schoolwork just thinking about it. Eventually I could take it no longer and turned to the only source I could think of for more information on the mysteries, I went to pay a visit to Mr Albert Calgary.”

When Sparks eyes widen a little, Willow frowns in confusion. “Who’s Mr Calgary?”

Candela snorts and turns her head to glance at him, “Crazy guy who lived on the outskirts of town, real nutcase, had one eye and claimed he could see dead people and stuff, everyone used to say he was normal as a kid, but one night he went into the Graveler house and vanished, only to return years later completely off his rocker.”

“I was terrified of him growing up. My mom used to say if I didn’t behave she’d sell me to him and he’d make me into soup,” Spark laughs awkwardly, scratching his head a little, “seems kinda mean now, poor old guy was probably just dealing with some mental stuff yanno?”

Blanche watches them quietly as they silence themselves for them to continue, the eerie glow of curious litwick and the flickering fireplace illuminating their white hair and gown in a ghostly ethereal glow.

“He was a nice man, jittery and nervous but kind. It’s impossible to know how mentally sound his story was, considering his unstable general mental health, but the tale he regaled to me that night I visited him stuck with me for years,” they explain slowly, eyes serious and voice cold. “It had all started the night he went to visit the house; he had been fourteen, fifteen the following November, and him and two other adolescent boys, Raphael Carver and Michael Stevens had made Halloween plans to break into the abandoned house to explore. It had seemed like fun and games for the three boys, nothing more. They had entered at ten, roaming the hallways and hiding in broken old closets to try to scare one another. It was only come midnight when Albert discovered a patch of uneven floorboards beneath the carpet and the boys pulled them back to find the old hidden stairway to the hospital tunnel beneath the house that things took a dark turn.”

Slowly, Blanche lifts back up their mug of soup and takes a sip, allowing their words to settle before they continue, closing their eyes calmly almost as if meditating while they speak. “The three boys had gathered flashlights and climbed down into the unlit abyss, noting it’s musty vile smell and unnatural darkness they had each felt a tinge of fear, however each had neglected to mention it in fear of inciting mockery from the others. The long concrete tunnel seemed to stretch for miles, further than their flashlights could light, and when they each reached the bottom of those stairs they found the floor to be oddly wet. Albert recalls the words in his mind; “Go back. Go back now,” voicing that they did not sound like his own – despite this he chalked it down to simple nerves playing tricks on his subconscious. The three boys decided amongst themselves to explore the tunnel in its length, to see where it may lead, so they began, Albert leading the way as they entered the dark abyss before them. He recalled it feeling like walking into a black hole, the darkness so intense it almost seemed to swallow the beams of their flashlights, engulfing them the further they ventured.”

Thunder rumbles outside loudly and the chandelier on the ceiling flickers dangerously for a moment, making Willow jump slightly. Candela sniggers at him.

“Minutes passed, then hours, the boys seemed to walk until their feet ached in their shoes and there was no sign of end in sight, yet no-one suggested turning back. As Albert described it; ‘It felt like something was there in the darkness. Following us. At first I thought it just in my mind, there were no footsteps, no breathing or sounds of life, just a feeling as if something lurked behind every step we took. However, none of us dared to speak, none of us dared to look around. We all felt it, the feeling of danger, the immense dread creeping up our spines. If we stopped, if we so much as looked, we would come into contact with…something, and it scared us, so we continued in silence, praying we would find an exit’. The stench in the tunnel grew strong and sour, like the rotting sludge in the bottom of a compost bin, it turned their stomachs, and the more the ground squelched uncomfortably underfoot, the more he wondered what exactly was causing the moisture in these sealed catacombs.” Blanche continues, “Eventually the three boys walked for so long that their flashlights ran out of power, flickering out one. by. one. until they were left walking in pitch darkness. No sounds but their footsteps, the sensory ability of sight being void causing them to hallucinate faces and figures in the darkness. He said they were hearing voices echoing from the walls – voices that sounded much like nurses and doctors, speaking in hushed tones, sometimes they’d see figures rushing past with hospital beds – like lucid glowing dreams. Eventually Albert and his friends thought they were saved when a quiet breeze began to blow against their faces from ahead – ‘an exit’, he’d thought. The three held hands as they continued forward, cautious about separating in the pitch black void that had become their prison for many hours now. Frightened and weary they stumbled blindly towards the source, his friends reaching out until their hands found the edges of a creaky door, cold air seeming to ooze through its cracks. They knocked – no, slammed their fists and palms against the wood, calling out for whomever may be beyond the other side listening; praying someone would hear their plight and set them free. For a moment, Albert thought they may be alone, but then beyond the door he heard a click – like a switch being turned on, and suddenly the tunnel erupted into light so bright it blinded him after being in the darkness for so long. He shut his eyes tight, crying out in pain, reaching out for his friends but finding no-one at his sides. After a few moments he fearfully forced open one eye, suffering the bright light to try to see what had become of his companions – however what he was met with instead haunted him enough that viewing it for but a second caused him to reach up with his icy cold fingers and dig the tainted eyeball from its socket with his bare hands, screaming as he felt the tendrils twist and snap, warm blood running down his face. So afraid of the sight before him that he feared it would be imprinted into that eye forever.”

“This got real gory real fast,” Candela says quietly, briefly glancing at the professor who’s turned an ashen pallor. “Maybe a little less brutal with the details for those of us with weaker stomachs, hm?”

“Sorry,” Blanche says gently as they turn to the professor, holding up a hand in a polite gesture of apology.

“What….did he see that made him tear his eye out?” Spark asks quietly, and they note that Squeaks has stopped his frantic zoomies to crawl into the man’s lap as if sensing his trainer’s desire for comfort suddenly.

“There is little way to re-tell of the imagery he imparted upon me that day without delving into gore filled language that would sour the strongest stomach. He spoke of human remains lining every wall and floor, stretched out with their skins knitted together, like a long tunnel of flesh, unable to tell where one person began and another started. On the wall opposite his eyes locked with two familiar faces, fresh in comparison to the shrivelled and dried up others – his friends, Raphael and Michael, their bodies unmistakable yet flayed open and joined together on the wall. Something large and dark was crouched there, too many legs like a spider, slowly joining them together with needle and thread using it’s too-long arms.” They explain slowly, locking eyes with Willow the entire time almost apologetically as the man looks a little green around the edges, “Albert felt a hand once again re-take his own, and he knew in that moment that the hands he had been holding in the darkness all this time did not belong to his friends – in fear, he tore away and began to run, refusing to open his other eye should he see more of the horrors around him.”

They finish their soup, placing the mug carefully back on the floor and brushing invisible flecks of dust from their lap calmly as if this was nothing more than an interesting story from the morning paper, “Albert claimed he never stopped running, blind and afraid and alone until one day he stumbled through a door into a hospital morgue, terrifying the staff. Years had passed since he had vanished, yet he claimed he had never stopped to eat or drink or sleep. When police explored the remains of the tunnels they found no sign of anything Albert had described, and no sign of his missing friends either. He was chalked up to being insane, driven mad by fear – some even theorised he slaughtered his two friends and hid their bodies somewhere in that tunnel. However, the man remained insistent until the day of his death that his story was true, convinced that he entered some strange pocket dimension within the tunnel where a person or creature darker than anything we could ever imagine was hunting him.”

Thunder crackles once more, rattling the old walls of the house, and Blanche turns to Candela with…eerily empty eyes. “Some say if you walk through that tunnel today, sometimes – just for a moment, you’ll catch the drifting smell of rotting flesh, or hear the cries of the lost echoing through the concrete walls. As if something lingers in the darkness just beyond sight, something sinister we may never understand.”

As if on some creepy cue, the chandelier above flickers out, plunging the room into shadow – furniture and faces only lit by the eerie glow of the fire. Spark yelps and Candela can’t hold back a snort.

“It’s just a story, Spark.”

“A possibly TRUE story!” he snips back a little defensively, letting out a nervous chuckle to lighten the mood. “You gotta admit the timing of that was creepy as hell…”

“Power cut, the lightning must have caught the surge protector and blown a fuse,” Blanche offers casually, eyes turning to the ashen white professor. “Are you okay?”

“….Just fine,” Willow says a little too quickly, offering them a tight smile as his eyes dart around the dim space. “…Perhaps you wouldn’t mind searching out the basement to….switch the fuse box? See if you can get these lights back working again?” He chuckles anxiously.

“Me?” Blanche asks, sounding almost a little taken back and glancing quickly between Spark and Candela. “…Candela has fire types and Spark has electric types, I do not possess any Pokémon capable of generating light. It would make far more sense for one of them to go instead.”

Despite their calm demeanour, Candela notes easily that the Mystic leader usually jumps on the chance to do anything the professor asks like the little teacher’s pet they are, and it makes her smile grow wider. “Aww, Blanche. Are you scared to go by yourself?”

They glance towards her sharply to argue, though hesitate for a moment too long – which only fuels Candelas delight. “I am not scared, I would simply prefer not to be fumbling around in the darkness unnecessarily.”

“Why don’t all three of you go? Blanche is right, you’ll need Pokémon in order to see what you’re doing down there, and we don’t know how safe the structures in this building are – it will be safer if you go as a group, if anyone gets hurt then one of you can stay with them and the other can come back and get me for help,” Willow instructs gently, which earns him a distressed look from Spark.

“I have to go too?!”

“It’s just a creepy dark basement in a creepy dark house on a creepy dark night, “Candela teases as she stands up, offering a hand to Blanche as she grins at Spark, “…Not unlike that story I guess. Maybe the three of us will find walls covered in human flesh down there?”

“Man, don’t even,” Spark whines as he stands up too, shuffling over to the other two reluctantly, “If I see so much as a glimpse of anything flesh-y in this place I am out of here so fast. You won’t even see me go, I will just be GONE. Bu-bye, you are on your own. Absolutely no way.”

“Wimp,” Candela snorts, “You gonna be okay on your own for a hot minute, prof?”

Willow glances around anxiously, seemingly taking comfort in a few small litwick that have curled up close to his side for a nap. “…I think so, I’m fine – perhaps a little rattled by that…colourful… story, that’s all.”

“Shout out if you need anything and we’ll come right back,” She reassures him gently before waving Cayenne out of the fireplace, the little flareon padding over to her heel obediently. Squeaks on the other hand looks as unwilling as his trainer – Spark scoops the Pikachu up like he’s a sack of flour and tucks him into the breast of his nightgown protectively.

--

Even with two Pokémon providing light, it takes the trio a good ten minutes to find the doorway leading to the basement stairs, discretely tucked away beneath the grand staircase back in the dark lobby. Blanche is the one to wrestle it open, the old hinges rusted and sticking. The rickety wooden staircase seems to stretch down into a dark abyss that even flareons warm glow doesn’t reach from the top, it’s almost looking like a surreal pathway into nothingness.

The three stand in the doorway staring for a solid while, almost enraptured by the eerie staircase as wind whistles through the windows around them and harsh rain clatters against the rooftops. There’s a quiet creak from the darkness below – likely old plumbing or rotting wooden beams crumbling under their own weight, but Candela feels Spark jolt a little next to her from the sound and she rolls her eyes – though makes no move of her own to continue forwards.

“Well?” She asks Blanche – who turns to give her a confused look.

“Well what?”

“Get going. We haven’t got all day.”

They screw their nose up a little. “Why do I have to go first?”

“Cayenne will be right on your heels, don’t be a baby. The prof DID ask you first, and besides, you’re the youngest.”

“What does that have to do with anything?!” They ask, irritation clear in their voice as they squint at her a little before shuffling forward. They take a step into the doorway, foot hovering above the first step for a few moments before they hesitantly pull it back, as if unable to pass some invisible barrier. “…You’re the oldest, you should go first.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark, Mystic?” Candela teases, grinning widely as they turn a little pink and shoot her a glare. It’s so fucking easy to get under their skin.

“I am not a child, Candela. Of course I’m not afraid of the dark,” they say sharply, turning back towards the gaping doorway when Spark also starts muffling a laugh. Tilting their chin up a little stubbornly they take a step forward and start down the creaky staircase slowly.

Candela is about to follow when Spark puts his hand on the door in front of her, a barely restrained look of mischievous glee in his eyes, and she covers her mouth with a little grin as she watches him slam the door shut behind them. Both of them listening as Blanche’s slow footsteps scramble back up the steps immediately and they pound on the door with their hands in a panic.

He tugs open the door with a giggle as they stumble back out, wide-eyed and looking slightly ruffled and breathless, then turning quite red when the two of them start laughing at their break in composure.

“That was not funny,” they grit out in distaste.

“It was pretty funny, “Spark wheezes, shoulders quivering as he tries to regain some composure, “You’re totally scared of the dark, that is so rich after you nearly scared the pants off me and the professor with that dumb story.”

“I am NOT afraid of the dark,” they insist frustratedly, shoving his arm away inelegantly when he tries to pull them into a reassuring one-armed hug. “You are both such children.”

“C’mon enough messing around,” Candela chuckles, shaking her head as she gathers up her long night skirt in her arms so she won’t trip and starts down the stairs confidently as if she’s merely heading to do laundry, Cayenne hopping down each step after her. “Let’s get these lights back on before the prof gets spooked by a shadow or something back there.”

Spark follows tentatively, Squeaks still held firmly against his chest, and the man doesn’t miss how Blanche silently grabs the back of his nightgown as they follow too.

“We’re looking for a breaker box, it’s likely located on one of the walls at eye level – it should be a large metal box containing rows of switches,” Blanche says slowly as the three of them reach the bottom of the staircase, squinting around in the dark at all they can see with only the light of Squeaks and Cayenne.

It’s a much larger room than expected, their small bubble of light doesn’t reach all the way to a wall on three sides, instead illuminating high stacks of mouldering cardboard boxes and  unidentifiable pieces of oddly shaped furniture covered in old sheets. There’s a few rolled up carpets, some old cabinets, many rows of shelves stocking all sorts of unidentifiable things, what looks to be a grand piano covered in dust and cobwebs – whoever used to live here must have been a hoarder.

 “Man what a dump, this is gonna take forever,” Spark mutters as he wanders a little to the right, squinting to try to figure out just how big this space is. He passes a dirty old mirror, pausing to watch his reflection curiously, “-damn this place is creepy.”

“We should split up, I’ll head left, you head right, Blanche you go straight ahead, we’ll cover the space quicker, which means we can get out of this dump quicker,” Candela says casually.

“You were totally against splitting up earlier! What happened to ‘horror movie characters doing dumb things’?!” Spark argues, swinging back around at the idea.

“I do not have a light. Going off by myself would be inefficient,” Blanche adds with a dismissive grunt, staying fairly close to the man.

“You have a phone right?” Candela says playfully.

“We have no signal here.”

“…Blanche your phone has a flashlight on it.”

Spark’s anxiety seems to fade as he lets out a snort at the Mystic leader’s face as they send Candela an embarrassed glare before reluctantly taking out their phone. “…So it does…I failed to think of that.”

  “Sure you did,” Candela says cheerfully, delighting in their sheepish frown before turning to Spark. “It’s just one room, and so far there’s been no sign of anything weird around, just pull up your big boy pants and go, Instinct, it’ll take like five minutes with us all looking.”

“Aw man c’mon, I don’t wanna wander around in the dark after that freaky flesh tunnel story,” Spark complains, though reluctantly stays put as Candela starts walking off anyway.

“Don’t call it the ‘flesh tunnel story’, it sounds dirty,” Blanche tells him flatly before shining their weak phone flashlight down a narrow path between stacks of boxes, hesitantly starting towards the far side of the room.

“You’re right, pretty sure I watched a weird porno called that once…” he mutters back, cracking a tiny smile at the disgusted sound they respond with as they disappear into the dark. “…Will you guys at least marco polo with me so I know you’re still there?”

“Fine, just don’t be annoying about it,” Candela calls from the darkness, voice bouncing off walls and boxes and making it hard to figure out where she even is in the space.

“Just you and me then,” Spark whispers to Squeaks, the Pikachu pulling his head down below the collar of Sparks shirt petulantly. “…Or just me, I guess.” He turns to the right and starts walking.

--

The basement, as it turns out, seems to span the width of the entire house. Candela finds herself walking for what feels like an absurdly long time, weaving in and out of rows of shelves full of unidentified things and stacks of boxes haphazardly blocking her path at every turn. Never seeming to come across a wall. It almost feels reminiscent to Blanche’s eternal tunnel story and leaves a sour taste in her mouth despite knowing full well this is a perfectly normal place only made eerie by the darkness.

Cayenne pads along by her feet, every so often stopping to curiously sniff a box or hop up to walk on a low shelf. The faint glow of her scruff and tail doesn’t provide much light, but it’s enough to navigate the immediate surroundings and stop Candela falling over stray items littered everywhere. Occasionally she’ll hear a faint “Marco!” from Spark, somewhere from afar in the vast room, and she’ll call back “Polo!” loudly to reassure him – rolling her eyes despite the fact his voice is also putting her at ease too.

The whole room smells musty, like old rotting papers and moth-eaten clothing; it sort of reminds her of her great grandmothers attic as a kid.

Pushing past what seems to be an old dress mannequin, she walks face first into a spindly cobweb and stumbles back a little with a splutter, thrashing her arms to get it out of her hair. “Eww- shit- how many spinark do you think live down here?” She asks the flareon breathlessly, screwing up her nose a little when the Pokémon looks up at her almost in amusement.

“Cram it, I’m not scared of them or anything, they’re just super gross. Too many legs – and they run at you out of nowhere,” she huffs, almost feeling a little embarrassed when Cayenne steps in front of her to keep walking diligently, “who even invented those things?”

When the two of them finally come to a brick wall she feels herself let out a sigh, slowly reaching out to put a hand against it in the darkness so she can feel around for any sign of a fuse box.

The moment her fingers brush the brick she pulls away sharply.

It’s warm.

Candela stares, holding the hand close to her chest in bewilderment, eyes darting to Cayenne who is watching her in confusion. Slowly she reaches out again, palm hovering an inch or so away from the brick for several moments. It looks normal- it’s just her mind playing tricks on her.

She presses her hand forward, the moment it comes into contact with the wall she feels it squelch wetly, something warm and pulsating under it like skin. This time she stumbles backwards with a breathy gasp, tripping on an old suitcase and falling on her behind sharply. Cayenne bristles a little, unsure what’s happening but reacting to her trainer’s distress.

Candela’s eyes are wide as she holds her hand out at arm’s length as if whatever she’d just touched was poison. “What the actual FUCK,” she whispers, glancing around the little bubble of Cayenne’s light as if looking for some sort of answer to all the questions buzzing through her horrified mind.

“….Marco?”

When a few seconds pass and she hears nothing back, her stomach turns cold.

--

Blanche watches the way the artificial phone light illuminates the thin winding paths between stacks of furniture and odd mazes of shelving, unnerved by the way it occasionally catches a grimy broken mirror or an odd jar of unidentifiable preserves on a shelf. They try to ignore the way their heart pounds a little faster with the sounds of their footsteps clacking against the cold cement floor, echoing throughout the dusty chamber.

They’re not nervous, they tell themself resolutely, almost embarrassed that they even need to say it. They’re twenty five, a fully grown adult, not a child – this is merely a dark room, with nothing existing within it except inanimate objects and mould. To be afraid would be illogical, and they are not an illogical person.

A quiet rustling behind them makes them tense up, swinging around sharply to shine the phones flashlight across the path. It remains void of life, no signs of movement – they’re imagining things. Their mind playing tricks on them, unsettled by the eerie surroundings. There’s nothing of danger down here… except potential unstable structures…and unspecified fungal spores….and there could always be rabid Pokémon, or even people hiding in the darkness. The thoughts are more unsettling than comforting and they unconsciously shudder a little before slowly turning back around to continue on the path, squeezing through a tight gap between two wall-to-ceiling shelving units.

Their phone light flickers, dims, and suddenly winks out.

Heart lurching as they’re suddenly plunged into a black abyss of darkness, Blanche hits the side of their phone with their palm, frantically tapping the screen. “No, no, come on come on- you useless piece of….” They curse, biting their lower lip as they press every button to no avail, unable to even see the dark screen in their hand a foot away from their face. It wasn’t even low on batteries!

The sense of uneasiness turns to a quiet panic as they lower their hand, fumbling for their pokeballs to release a companion- only to realise they left them in their regular clothes and this ridiculous nightgown doesn’t even have pockets. They close their eyes, not that it makes a difference, trying to take a steadying breath.

They shouldn’t move, the paths through the storage are winding and unsteady, they’ve had to step over and weave under boxes and furniture multiple times, trying to continue blindly would only result in injury.

“My phone has died, I am stuck,” they call out hesitantly, refusing to betray their nerves in their voice and keeping a steady tone despite their hands quivering slightly around the phone.

No response comes and they frown a little. “…Spark?” they call out, “Candela?”

Nothing.

“This isn’t funny, Spark!”

They open their eyes again as if hoping something would change, that their vision would adjust or somehow a light would flicker on above them, but all their met with is a thick darkness clouding their senses. It’s suffocating and claustrophobic, and makes the sweat on their neck turn cold.

Without meaning to they take a small step back, spine knocking against a shelf, they subconsciously stumble forwards a little, hands reaching out and hitting what feels like a wall, something falls over and knocks into their side. Their breath comes in shallow beats and instinctively they lower themself to crouch on the ground, making themself as small as possible. The darkness is so quiet that they can hear their own heartbeat in their ears. It feels as if the walls around them are closing in, there’s no room to move without hitting something, soon the ceiling will crush them, the air will be sucked out of their lungs.

Something topples from a shelf above, falling onto their head and coating them in something dusty, they instinctively move their hands up to frantically try to brush it off but only one arm moves, the other feeling suddenly trapped as if held in place by powerful hands.

They lash out to try to grab the invalid arm, only succeeding in knocking more things around them, something heavy falling down close to their leg.

“Help-let me out-”  they mutter, the words barely audible above shuddered breaths. Heart beating all too fast they hold their hand over their head to make themself small.

It’s the panic making their mind generate terrifying things in the darkness, they know it is.

But for a moment they’re sure they can see two eyes in the darkness with an eerie yellow glow watching them, accompanied by a slowly growing toothy grin.

--

A small cough wracks Sparks lungs as he trails his hand along a cold brick wall, fingers searching for metal as he carefully tries to weave around and step over things in his path. The dust in here is driving him crazy, he hasn’t needed an inhaler since he was like five but if they have to stay in this house much longer he’s definitely going to have some issues.

“Pika” Squeaks says from inside the bust of his nightgown, the pokémon’s chubby face sticking out of his collar, cheeks giving off a soft glow in the dark.

“Yeah I’m fine bud, dust is just irritating my lungs, this place really needs a spring clean, huh?” He teases gently, coughing once more into his hand before ruffling the pikachu’s soft fur. “Think you can get any more light?”

“Pii,” Squeaks replies, screwing up his chubby little face as his cheeks glow a little brighter. Spark kisses the top of his head with a grin.

A soft sound drifts by his ears, reminiscent of a distant sounding ‘marco’, and he turns his head in the general direction he remembers Candela heading in curiously. It was so quiet, almost faded like a surreal echo in a dream, he almost certainly imagined it, Squeaks doesn’t even react. Still, something in Sparks gut sits uneasily and he pauses for a second, hand still on the wall.

“Marco?” He calls out, waiting patiently for a reply. Then again, a little louder “Marco??”

Nothing comes and he frowns, glancing down at Squeaks who mimics the anxious look. It’s probably Candela messing with him.

“…She’s probably just being a jerk, c’mon, quicker we find that switch, quicker we can get our butts out of this creepy place,” he says probably as much to himself as to the little pikachu, once again starting to move forwards.

His hand continues to follow the wall – until it suddenly meets cold air in its absence, nearly making him stumble. Spark’s mind tries to process what just happened, squinting in the darkness at where the wall just….ends. It makes no sense, they’re in a room, the wall can’t just end, it has to join up to…something.

Squeaks makes a small confused sound, sniffing the air and wriggling out of his nightgown to hop down to the ground curiously, sniffing around at his feet.

“Is it like a divide? Maybe the basement is bigger than we thought,” he mutters quietly, reaching out forwards to continue without the wall, Squeaks only managing to light the few feet around them. “That would suck.”

“Pika pii” The small Pokémon agrees.

The two of them fumble forward, the path seemingly becoming a little wider. After a few moments his eye starts to catch Squeaks light reflecting from what looks like broken shards of glass, and he gestures to the pikachu to watch his little feet. 

The reflections of them both in the glass are…eerie. Misshapen, obscured – in the darkness it looks oddly nightmarish. The more he watches, the more the distorted reflections seem to move and shift in a way he finds nauseating.

Are they…even walking straight anymore? Spark pauses, suddenly feeling a little light headed. Which way he came from suddenly feels like a mystery, everything looks the same wherever he turns. How is a basement even this big?

Out of the corner of his eye he sees something move in the darkness, just out of sight, almost like the fold of clothes on a moving body catching the feint light.

“Candy, c’mon this isn’t funny,” he laughs, eyes darting around the darkness. The feeling of Squeaks little paws holding nervously onto his leg is oddly reassuring at least. “Can we quit the jokes now, I’m not feeling so hot…”

He can’t see a person, but the feeling of something moving around sits heavy in his gut, as if something or someone is circling him like prey. Squeaks must sense it too, the little pikachu’s cheeks start to flicker with anxious sparks and he growls threateningly.

“Show yourself!” Spark insists a little more firmly, spurred on by his partners nerves.

Still, nothing happens. His eyes keep being drawn back to the shards of mirror-like glass littering the floor around them, some as long as his arm and others small as pennies. His face seems eerily reflected in every one. It looks like it’s smiling back at him.

He isn’t smiling.

Spark’s hands fidget nervously at his sides and he takes a slow breath, “…Squeaks, use thunderbolt.”

The Pikachu eagerly zaps a powerful jolt of electricity into the darkness, lighting up the space for a second and hitting a box. He swears he sees something move in that split second and it turns his heart ice cold.

“Again”

“Pika” Squeaks shoots another. The light flickers for a second, illuminating figures – they’re everywhere.

“Again, again, again!” He demands, voice raspy with panic as the pikachu’s back presses against his shin with a shiver. It continues to fire off electric volts.

And he continues to see them. Dozens of them. Figures. Figures that look just like him, standing behind shelves and between furniture. Watching. Smiling.

“AGAIN. AGAIN. AIM AT THEM,” he rasps out, voice quaking as he takes a stumbling step back.

The thunderbolts blast off wildly in un-aimed directions, by almost a miracle one hits one of the figures and it moves, barely reacting to the shot but stepping closer, something about its face so horrifically unnerving – as if it’s smile is a little too wide, it’s eyes a little too sunken to look human.

Breath getting caught in his throat, he turns and runs. Stumbling on boxes and crashing into corners of furniture, not caring as he smacks into things and knocks over shelves and hears things smash. The only reassurance he has is the sound of Squeaks frantic panting as the little pokémon runs besides him in terror.

His foot hits something unmoving and he nearly screams as he’s sent toppling over, hand grabbing something warm on its way to the ground.

Something which yelps back – thankfully, a yelp he recognises.

“BLANCHE-“

A breathy gasp and a cold hand finds the fabric of his gown and grabs it so tight their nails pinch his skin.

“Spark?”

“It’s me, is it you?” He breathes out an almost manic little laugh of relief, blindly patting his hand around to feel for them until Squeaks scrambles into his lap and illuminates the space.

They’re both on the floor, Blanche’s eyes are blown wide and they’re white as a sheet but it’s definitely them.

“….My light went out, I-“ they fumble quickly, squinting a little at the light after being in pitch darkness for a while, eyes struggling to adjust to being able to see again. “No one would answer my calls for assistance…”

As his heartrate slows a little, Spark pauses before he can spit out his panicked experience.

He…surely he didn’t just see half a dozen creepy doppelgangers in the dark. That wouldn’t make sense. A wave of shame comes over him at the panic; he was just freaking out and imagining things. Squeaks was just reacting to his fear, that’s why his buddy couldn’t hit the targets – it was only him seeing things. This spookfest got the better of him.

“Sorry I…I never heard anyone call out-“ he laughs awkwardly, realising he’s partially landed on top of the Mystic leader and sheepishly climbing off of them, offering them a hand as he stands up. When they take it he notices that they’re trembling. “Although I tried to call out Marco and no one responded either, I thought Candela was messing with me but…I dunno, maybe the sound travels weird in here or something?” He reasons weakly. “Are you okay?”

“F-ine, completely fine,” they answer a little too quickly, swaying a little as they stand and pulling their hand away from his quickly in embarrassment, fighting to regain their composure for a brief moment. “Are you okay? I heard you scream before you…landed on me?”

“Heh, I uh- just got caught off guard….that’s all. Tripped and…cried out in surprise,” he lies, biting his inner lip as he fights the urge to glance anxiously behind him, quickly changing the subject, “I had no luck finding the breaker box on my end.”

“I never even reached the back wall. This is a large basement, it seems,” Blanche says slowly, their shoulder brushing him by how close their standing.

He reaches out to take their elbow, and they don’t push him away. The two just catching their breaths quietly  together for a few moments.

They both jolt sharply and knock heads when a red glow suddenly rounds the corner before them – then both breathe a sigh of quiet relief in unison is Cayenne scampers towards them, Candela in her wake.

“You two jerks are messing with me! Why didn’t you reply when I called?” The woman snaps as she storms over, throwing her hands in the air almost threateningly.

“We didn’t hear you call out- we both called out and you didn’t hear us either!” Spark argues, shuffling a little behind Blanche as the woman comes at them like an angry rhyhorn, fully prepared to use his friend as a human shield.

Candela looks fully about to go off on him when she suddenly seems to take in the ashen pallor and tense expressions of her two companions, rage fizzling into something akin to concern. “Shit you guys look like you’ve seen a ghost…”

“I am assuming you did not find the breaker box either?” Blanche asks, changing the subject immediately.

“That’s because it’s by the door” – The voice doesn’t come from any of them, and it’s sudden proximity scares the ever-loving shit out of all three leaders as they yelp. Candela instinctively lashing out as they all swing around and catching the professor right in the gut, winding him so hard he doubles over.

“…Oww.”

“Oh my god, Professor-“ She gasps, flailing with her hands for a moment before using them to steady him, hearing Blanche and Spark struggling to catch their breath behind her. “-Sorry”

“It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have snuck up on you…” he wheezes out a weak chuckle, forcing himself to stand up partially straight and putting a hand over his wounded gut. “You have a good punch on you.”

“Wh-at? We- you were waiting upstairs-“ Blanche fumbles out, obviously struggling to process what happened but inching forward to check the man is okay.

“You three were gone for half an hour and I began to worry, I came down to check on you and found the breaker next to the door. The lights are back up again upstairs now. None of you had resurfaced though and I heard yelling. Is everyone okay?” The man asks gently, glancing between the three of them in curious concern, clearly noticing their ruffled demeanours.

“We…must have missed it. I never saw it by the door….” Candela grunts, peering past the prof where she can now see the feint glow from upstairs the way they came in.  Sure enough, there is a metal box right at the bottom of the stairs next to the door – she feels a little silly. “….We’re fine, must have….just gotten a little lost.”

“Yeah- we just- it was dark and stuff-  tripped up and got all uh- mixed up,” Spark laughs sheepishly, “We’re good.”

“The look on all your faces I was worried you’d seen a real ghost down here or something,” Willow laughs, gesturing gently with his chin before leading them all back towards the door. “It’s getting late, we should probably retire for some rest. Clear our heads.”

“…There are no such thing as ghosts beyond ghost-type pokémon,” Blanche asserts quietly, sounding confident despite glancing over their shoulder every few moments until they all reach the top of the stairs.

--

The nice thing about a house this big is the sheer volume of rooms available – even if they are a little musty and outdated. In a hotel they’d likely all have been sharing, two to a bed, but here there’s plenty enough space for everyone to take their own room.

Candela sits on top of the off-white covers of the double bed in her room, listening to the sounds of wind and rain raging outside as she watches the chandelier on the ceiling sway slightly, casting jagged shadows of the furniture dancing across the plainly painted, mildew-y walls.

She wonders if she were to touch them, if she’d feel a heartbeat.

The thought sends a shiver up her spine.

It was her mind playing tricks on her in the dark, it must have been. But it had just felt so…real.

Something about the atmosphere of that basement had felt so jarringly wrong that it still sat in her belly like a rock. Thunder groans outside and she closes her eyes to let out a long, slow breath.  She should really get some sleep, but the strange itch of danger still tickles her bones and makes her restless.

Candela is not a child, she can sleep one night in a creepy house, she’s not going to lose rest the night before the most important convention of the year because of some cheap spooks. Forcing herself to stand she stretches a little before pulling back the covers-

She shrieks when she’s met with a spinark the size of her flareon just sat there – so close to where she had just been sitting. The sound makes it skitter frantically, leaping off the bed and crawling across the floor speedily.

Quick footsteps slap the wooden floors of the hallway for a moment before her door slams open, almost making her jump again, Spark bursting in with wide eyes and a walking stick in his hand held up like a bat. “What?!”

“Geez, fuck, Spark don’t do that!” She hisses, feeling her ears turn a little red as she waves him off dismissively and catches her breath.

“You’re the one who screamed!” He hisses back, slowly lowering the stick.

“I didn’t scream! It was a…a yelp at best!” She huffs, screwing her face up a little petulantly, “…dumb spinark caught me off guard okay. Hate the things, especially those massive ones.”

The man props his dusty makeshift weapon on the floor and leans on it lazily, eyes flicking to the large spinark which is now hallway up a wall, crawling eerily. He cracks Candela a tired little smirk, “Don’t tell me that you, Candela, leader of team Valor, are afraid of spiders?”

“I’m not afraid of them, dumbass – it just jumped out at me,” she grunts, storming over and smacking his arm to try to shift the smug look on his face, “I just find them…gross. Way too many hairy little weird legs, and why do they always sprint at you full speed? Ugh-“

“…You want me to catch it for you and put it outside?” He asks teasingly, chuckling when she glares at him bitterly but doesn’t turn down the idea. “This place has all of us on edge I think.”

She watches a little sulkily as the man grabs a dirty old vase from on top of her dresser and sizes it up before heading towards the creepy little Pokémon, hesitating for a moment to aim before clunking it down on top of it, catching the critter inside and tilting it uptight so it can’t skitter free.

“I tried to hide a spinark in Blanche’s desk last year on April fools as a prank, but they just ended up identifying it as like – some rare variant species based on its colourations and then kept it as a pet so they could breed it for genetic mutation colourants or something weird. I should’a done it to you instead, at least I know for next time,” Spark laughs as he peers into the top of the vase at the creature inside, smiling at it gently to try to put it at ease, “Don’t worry little bud, you’re safe with me.”

“You ever put one of those in my desk and I’ll end you, Instinct. Mark my words, that is not something you want to do,” she threatens coldly, stiffening a little at the thought. “…How did we never notice the goth thing? They have such weirdo goth vibes sometimes. Who keeps a spinark as a pet?”

“You’re such a weenie, they’re just little guys,” Spark snorts. “I’ve had one on my team before, they’re cute.”

She’s about to retort when the door suddenly cracks against its hinges as if someone slams it, making them both jump so hard that Spark drops the vase and it shatters – the poor terrified spinark darting under the bed for refuge.

“The fuck was that?” He wheezes breathlessly, letting out a nervous little laugh when Candelas mouth moves wordlessly with a lack of answers as they both stare at the door – now unmoving.

“…Maybe the wind?” She offers, neither of them quite believing it.

“…I don’t know if I can get that guy back out from under your bed…maybe you should just come stay in my room instead?” Spark mutters, a teasing lilt to his voice out shadowed by his obvious nerves. This is more for him than her.

“…Sure, you better not snore though or I’m smothering you with a pillow again,” she says slowly, struggling to tear her eyes away from the door.

The two of them edge towards the door slowly, stepping through one by one as if it could slam on them at any moment, then Candela follows Spark a few doors down to his chosen room.

He doesn’t open the door, just stands in front of it turning progressively more pale by the second.

“…Is….that a handprint?”

She follows his gaze down below the doorhandle, where on the dark polished wood, an eerie hand-shaped stain is smeared on the door as if someone was dragged by unwillingly. She can’t tell what it is – but in the dim light it sure does resemble…blood.

“It’s….that’s…probably just your handprint, idiot,” she laughs quietly, trailing off when he doesn’t laugh too, just tucking his hands nervously under his armpits to conserve heat and glancing around anxiously. “You probably got all dirty down in that gross basement and left a mark when shutting the door.”

“Heh….yeah, you’re right,” he chuckles back, still making no move to open the door.

After a moments silence, Candela bites her inner lip, the cold air blowing through the hallway making the tiny hairs on her body stand on end. “…Maybe we should check the prof is doing alright? He was pretty spooked earlier.”

“Yeah,” Spark agrees a little too quickly, turning away from the door to glance down the other end of the hall. “Yeah he was pretty freaked out by that story, poor guy is probably struggling to sleep. Maybe we can keep him company for a bit or something.”

“You know what the guy is like with spooky stuff,” Candela affirms, falling into quick pace next to the man as they head towards the professors room. “Better make sure he rests well, big day tomorrow.”

Spark is the one to knock on the professors door, and the both of them seem to release tension in their shoulders as they hear the sounds of feet hitting the floor as the resident within stands out of bed, bones cracking as he stretches. Moments later the half asleep man opens the door, looking almost comically ruffled but smiling kindly as he looks between them.

“Everything alright?”

“We just thought you might be still a little shaken from earlier,” Candela blurts out, tilting her chin up a little as she meets eyes with the older man, “We came to see if you wanted some company… you know, to make sure you’re not like… too creeped out to sleep.”

Willow raises a brow at her and then at Spark, “…Well I feel fairly comfortable actually. In fact, Blanche already kindly offered their company too,” he chuckles gently, pushing open the door a little to let the two in. Candela meets eyes with Blanche who has made a little bed for themself on the floor from blankets, and they pretend not to notice her and turn to the book in their hands, ears turning pink. They’re definitely not here because the professor is scared, she thinks smugly. “The more the merrier though I suppose. Though we are a little limited for space.”

“I call the bed,” Spark says immediately, almost throwing himself onto the unruffled side of the double bed the professor wasn’t sleeping on, faceplanting into the pillow dramatically.

Candela watches him, shaking her head fondly before glancing over the Professor’s expression. He knows she’s spooked and she hates it. She could walk away now, head to any other room in this place and prove herself as the only brave one in the group.

Floorboards creak ominously from somewhere in the house and her pride fizzles out, she quickly shuffles past the older man, keeping her head down stubbornly as she grabs a bundle of spare bedsheets from the dresser and tosses them on the ground messily next to Blanche’s neatly made little makeshift bed.

Willow chuckles tiredly, closing the door and heading back to the bed to sit beside Spark. “Perhaps we should keep the lights on tonight?”

“Not necessary,” Candela huffs as she straightens out a thick quilt like a bedroll and rolls up another to use as a pillow, her jostling around clearly irritating Blanche as they try to return to their book. “We’re not little kids, prof.”

“I know you’re not,” he reassures carefully, tucking himself back in next to the sprawling form of Spark taking up ¾ of the bed. “Alright then, feel free to wake me if you need anything,” he says as he reaches for the light switch at his nightstand, turning off the single lamp lighting the room, plunging the four into darkness.

Moonlight seeps through the window, distorted rays making almost pretty patterns across the sheets and floor where it refracts through the raindrops. Candela lays down, and stares at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Blanche rustling to tuck their book under their pillow, and Spark climbing reluctantly under the blankets.

Then quiet. Soft breathing, heavy rain, rumbling thunder, eerie creaking from somewhere above, odd sounds like footsteps from somewhere below. She stares at the ceiling, in the dark the filthy old tiles seem to twist and morph into faces, with piercing eyes and screaming lips.

Fleshy, pulsing walls. Like the skins of a hundred victims stitched together.

She nearly jolts upright when Spark breaks the silence.

“…Hey so like….that story earlier. It wasn’t really true, right?” He asks earnestly.

She hears Blanche shift uncomfortably onto their side and pause. “…I mean…my recollection of the retelling is true. However, the original story is unlikely to be. The poor man was no longer in his senses,” they say slowly, “As a child it definitely shook me for a long time, but as an adult it is easy to look back and see his story for what it was. The sadly warped ramblings of a traumatised, sick man.”

“It was just a story, Sparky. People don’t just cross into creepy pocket dimensions with gross skin tunnels and weird spider people, dude was probably tripping balls at the time and got kidnapped or something, twisted the whole thing in his head to be some creepfest,” Candela says gently.

“Yeah…yeah I figured, heh,” Spark mutters humourlessly.

“It’s an interesting concept though. After all, paranormal events do happen to people from time to time, those who go missing and claim to have been abducted by aliens or have visited hell. It does make you wonder as a scientist whether it’s possible. Whether strange things really do occur,” Blanche says thoughtfully, “Perhaps our world is one of many, or the frequency we exist in is parallel to countless others on slightly different wavelengths, and when people see ghosts or hear voices they’re tapping into that, or something is trying to come through from somewhere else. Perhaps when people vanish without a trace, it is simply like….a tear, a hole they’ve stumbled through, and entered another frequency entirely.”

“Sounds like something out of a bad Sci-Fi to me,” Candela grunts, trying to cover the nervous undertones in her voice, “Fascinating concept I’m sure but if you’ve got nothing to back it up then it’s just dumb.”

“Scientists are allowed to theorise the unknown, it’s not like I’m writing a report about it or anything, it’s just interesting to come up with creative solutions to the worlds mysteries sometimes,” Blanche huffs back.

“When I turned out the lights, that was my polite way of saying I am going to sleep now,” Willow mutters exhaustedly. “Perhaps we can wrap up the conversation?”

“Sorry,” Blanche and Candela mutter together.

Silence follows for a while afterwards.

Until; “…So like, do any of you believe in ghosts?” Spark mutters thoughtfully. “Like ghost-ghosts, people ghosts, not ghost-types.”

The professor sighs heavily and rolls over, pulling a pillow over his head.

“Not in the traditional sense,” Blanche murmurs in the dark, “however, I won’t deny anything without evidence. The concept of the conscious of the dead continuing on, or resonating memories replaying themselves as if stained into our timeline is an incredibly interesting concept, if an unlikely one.”

“Ghosts aren’t real,” Candela grunts, turning over to press her face into the makeshift pillow so she’ll stop making shapes of the ceiling tiles. “Anyone who claims they’ve seen ghosts has just had a ghost pokémon messing with their heads.”

“Yeah that checks, my uncle had a gengar in his vent system for a few months once. Thought he was seeing his dead wife for ages but turns out it was just the gengar messing with him,” Spark mumbles, “he did a lot of therapy after that.”

“Some people rumour that ghost type pokemon are derived from the spirits of humans. That gastly are malicious spirits that couldn’t move on, that Phantump are children who died in the forests still looking for their lost parents, and Yamask being lost souls carrying around their past human face in hopes of being reunited with their body again,” Blanche says flatly, “There’s no proof in it, but no proof against it either. Ghost-types are as much a mystery to us as legendary pokémon. That is to say, on a biological level they do not make sense.”

“Go to sleep,” Willow says, voice muffled in his pillow.

Spark murmurs an apologetic sound.

The silence this time goes on for so long that Candela thinks they’ve all gone to sleep. Blanche’s breathing evens out next to her, and the professor eventually starts to snore gently. She lies awake, though feels almost soothed by the sounds.

The door slams open loudly, cracking against the wall with a bang that makes them all jump up. Spark lets out a pitchy yelp and Candela feels Blanche reach over to instinctively grab her wrist.

There’s nothing in the doorway. The door swings a little before stopping slightly ajar.

Professor Willow sits up wearily in bed and clicks on the light, rubbing his palm against his eye. “It’s just a breeze, the windows are falling apart in this decrepit place and the winds outside are harsh.”

“…I knew that,” Spark says voice cracking slightly, then letting out a sheepish little laugh.

The man sighs through his nose, shaking his head exasperatedly as he pushes himself up from the bed once again, grabbing a wooden chair from the corner and clicking the door closed, propping the chair in front of it this time. He turns back to the three of them with a reassuring smile. “All sorted”.

“It was just loud- shocked me awake,” Candela grunts at him, gently shaking her wrist to remind Blanche that they’re clinging to her. When the other leader seems to snap out of their minor daze and notice they quickly let go, turning a little pink.

Willow scratches the sharp bristles of his four o’clock shadow as he slowly makes his way back to the bed, pausing before he sits down and letting out another tired sigh. “…The poor windows make it very cold in here. There’s plenty of room in this bed if you don’t mind squashing together a bit.”

He almost expects at least a little push back, however both Blanche and Candela nearly scramble off of the floor, climbing under the blankets next to Spark. He shakes his head fondly as he climbs in next to them once they’re all settled.

“Wouldn’t want any of you to freeze,” Candela mutters, “’Sides, the floor was a pain for my back. Don’t need a crick in my neck tomorrow.”

“Get some sleep,” the man says softly as he reaches up once again to click off the lights, feeling someone tense a little as his finger hovers over the switch and instead opting to just leave it. He lays back and closes his eyes.

The bed is warmer with four, at least.

--

Candela doesn’t remember sleep coming for her, however one minute she’s hearing rain and the next her eyes are groggily opening and she hears birds chirping instead.

As she sits up sluggishly, she remembers the other occupants of the bed. Spark is still sprawled next to her, drooling a tiny bit into the crook of his arm, and he grunts whinily when she shifts the blankets. Blanche and the professor however seem to already be awake, the Mystic leader still sat beside her neatly, quietly neatening up their hair the best they can with only their hands, while the professor has left the warmth of the bed and is staring out the window with his hands on his hips.

“Sounds like the weather has cleared up…” She mutters, voice still groggy from sleep as her eyes drift around the room.

It looks almost totally different in the daylight. Apart from the peeling wallpaper and mildew moulding curtains, it’s not that much different to an outdated cheap hotel really. She almost feels silly to think she’d found it creepy in a different light.

“Clear skies and clear sailing, hopefully,” Willow chuckles, picking up his lab coat from where he’d hung it by the old dresser appraisingly, “Clothes seem to have dried off too. Thank goodness for that, I wasn’t looking forward to walking for miles in a night gown.”

“I’d nearly forgotten about the walk,” Candela groans, flopping back into her warm pillow. “Stupid van.”

“I can send my frosmoth to fly above the trees and navigate us to the nearest town, there we should be able to pick up some fuel and go back for the mobile lab,” Blanche says slowly, giving up on their futile task and instead defeatedly plaiting their hair into a braid. “Honestly I am just glad for the chance to leave this house, the mouldering smell is giving me a headache.”

--

An hour or so later, the four have packed up and changed back into their – mostly dry – usual attire. Heading down the crumbling stone front steps to follow the muddy path back towards the van, Candela can’t help but glance back over her shoulder at the grand manor house.

For a moment she swears a figure stands in the window, yellow eyes watching her.

She blinks and it’s gone. A trick of the mind.

The professor stops a few yards short of the mobile lab, lips curled into a frown, and one by one the three leaders pause behind him as they each see what he is seeing.

A gas canister sits neatly on the hood of the vehicle, full to the brim.

“…Perhaps…a helpful Pokémon heard our plight?” The professor says slowly. Though no one quite believes it, even him.

They refuel and head off once again, leaving behind the gothic house on the cliff and the eerie aura within it. It would become a funny story someday, a tale to tell at parties or to share inside jokes about.

But as they drive away, Candela fights the urge to look behind her. Unable to shake the feeling that something silent was following. Watching them.

Warning against their return.

[dictacontrion]

Draco's passions are perilously seductive. He teaches Harry spells that would be illegal even under a Voldemort regime and takes Harry to the Knockturn Allies of the world where Draco buys him beguiling things: a saifani-handled jambiya used to cut out the tongues of apostates, potions that smell of twilight, and iridescent seashells whose voices murmur necrologies of people yet to die. They visit places that later become the backdrops to Harry’s worst nightmares and darkest fantasies. The unmarked graves of suicides and the scenes of unsolved murders. Cafés that serve Mandrake tea with their Belladonna scones. Circles of standing stones that from a distance look like broken teeth. Monastic crypts, the winter gardens of Drumbeg Manor, and the mass crematoriums for London’s Victorian whores. Moors haunted by the ghosts of doomed lovers and wind-gnawed mountains littered with the bones of Sherpa. Mist-shrouded fens, ancient forests roamed by wolves, and the ribcages of ships that foundered on rocks so jagged they rend the waves that thunder into their waiting jaws. Draco’s tongue and cock and fingers dowse for the bottled up desire in Harry’s veins. His hips move between Harry’s thighs as he moans promises which, if kept, would force him to sell his soul to the lowest bidder. He’s a prophet, divining Harry’s needs before Harry himself even feels them. He’s an ascetic surrendering austerity for the moment of oblivion when he comes. Draco’s gentlest charms sting like hornets, and his taunts are spoonfuls of vinegar. Twice Harry’s submitted his resignation to the Minister and once he told Ron to go fuck himself just because Draco dared him to. He gives Draco passwords and charms and the addresses of criminals. He lies and denies and then turns a blind eye. Draco often fucks him too hard and binds him too tightly. He sucks stormy bruises to the surface of Harry’s skin, and the scratches he leaves are deep and sometimes get infected. Come on, Potter he urges into their kisses.  Stop being a git, Potter he says as he rolls his eyes.  You’ll love it, Potter he says when he knows Harry will hate it.  Are you scared, Potter? he asks despite knowing the answer is yes. Draco has a dozen Muggle passports and a dozen aliases in a dozen different languages, but he once told Harry that Harry’s the only one who knows who he really is. Harry’s desires are unfathomable in their ordinariness. He comes home with blood on his clothes and a wand humming with curses, but all he wants are puppies and kittens and babies and breakfast. In the winter, he wears lumpy jumpers and a Gryffindor scarf and in summer he wears faded shorts and scuffed leather sandals. He whistles Muggle pop songs and sings – not altogether badly – in the shower. He likes old films, pub quizzes, flying in the rain, and holding Draco’s hand. He takes Draco to boring places that later become sweet wistful memories. Muggle museums full of dusty crystals and dinosaur bones, Quidditch matches, and unremarkable parks with sad-looking trees. Pubs with mirrors advertising lagers and hand-written notices on blackboards of karaoke on Thursday nights. Beaches with boardwalks and carnival rides, zoos with lots of snakes and bats, restaurants where at least half the menu is fried, and bars decorated with Premier League memorabilia and televisions the size of Lichtenstein. Harry strips his t-shirts off over his head, blushes when Draco growls, and smells of skin and sex and shampoo. He whimpers when Draco kisses him and goes down on Draco eagerly, and when Draco finally thrusts against the resistance of his body, he shouts pleas into his pillow that would make the devil blush. Harry insults are childish and his temper is terrible. Twice he goaded Draco into fucking in loos and once he demanded Draco send flowers to Granger after he’d called her a Mudblood. He bakes him cookies and can recite Quidditch statistics going back to the War of the Roses, but the bruises he leaves on Draco’s biceps are dark and painful and don’t fade for weeks. Damn it, Malfoy he grumbles when Draco teases a Muggle.  Piss off, Malfoy he says when he’s had all he can take.  C’mere, Malfoy he beckons when he lies on his stomach and opens his legs.  Scared, Malfoy? he asks even though he knows the answer is yes. Harry has a fan club of hundreds and friends who would die for him, but he once told Draco that Draco’s the only one who knows what he really wants.

Let Me Have You and I’ll Let You Save Me by Frayach

[whereflowersbloom]

Alfred’s farewell

The sky had begun gloomy since even before the sun had the chance to rise. Mist was overshadowing the city of Gotham, and drops of dew are still littering every surface. The birds were unusually quiet, nestling safely under the warmth of their nest. A large group of grey clouds lingering above the place, promising unpleasant weather to deal with later on. Lighting crackled in the grey sky and snatched away any hope of a golden day. Only songs of sadness spread around, feeling the sorrow taking place. Even the world is holding its breath and everything is still, the earth seemed to be mourning as well the unexpected loss. The atmosphere was exceptionally dark and lifeless, each face filled with silent and bitter grief and regret. Tears do not fall, there’s a blackhole forming in place of his heart. This date…this date would be burned into his soul for the rest of his existence, it would be a permanent reminder to himself of how foolish he was, how everything…could change in matter of seconds. Seconds only a few more seconds would have made the difference. The tree that was once full of life, the one Alfred looked after kindly, because he planted it himself after coming to work for Thomas and Martha Wayne, was now barren as the weather grew colder and the icy wind blew the leaves away.

There’s people gathering, familiar faces and unknown ones. The solemn mode had settled between them, and soon the ceremony comes to an end. It’s time to say farewell.

Will I always, from now on, be this cold? Was Pennyworth really gone? He didn’t dare to pronounce his name. He discerned the sounds of footsteps slowly fading away and all that was heard afterwards was the thud of knees hitting the ground. Grayson. Even Dick was so lost and crushed, the man who always looked so high-spirited and brave, so even-tempered and filled with honor, seemed so weak now.

“Alfred, I am so sorry…” Richard whispered with a low-pitched and desperate sob as he caressed the stone with his trembling hand. His face, marred for life, had an even more painful expression plastered on his face as tears started to fall slowly onto the dirt. But it’s not your fault. Damian wanted to let him know. He wasn’t there to stop it. Unlike you his mind whispered.

Jason Todd remained silent. Todd had always been quick to emotion in general, to tears when someone else was sad, to contagious laughter when their siblings were smiling, quick-tempered, choleric when provoked. Surprisingly an empathetic sensitive soul, spent many years alone, hungry for tenderness and familial ties. And yet he was wearing an expressionless mask, but his body betrayed his affliction, shaking so badly that Tim had to grasp tightly at his arms to prevent him from going down. Drake. Tim was clearly having so much invisible burden on his shoulders. His curved jaw clenching tight, and his dark blue eyes cast downwards and unblinking. He didn’t have his daily cup of black coffee. No, he didn’t have a single drop of his precious caffeine today. He kept his head low the entire ceremony, maybe he didn’t have the heart to look up at the crying mess everyone was. Perhaps he thought somebody had to tough it out, specially considering Father’s absence.

Stephanie standing close to him, blonde curls dancing with the autumn wind, biting her lips the entire time. Stephanie who tried to be strong and now, after holding in for too long, the tears break out like a leaking dam. She was devastated and weeped openly, clinging to Tim’s coat as if her life depended on it, as if she were drowning, the sight made the hole in Damian’s chest squeeze around his heart. Guilt. Distress.

Cassandra was hardly moving from her spot. She had a deep crease on her brow, and face as hard as rock. She hugged herself in the arms, shielding her frame from the icy wind, when Duke swiftly placed his Armani cashmere coat on her shoulders, her hands were going cold, and the moment Duke noticed the way she shivers with small movements. He considerately held them between his, providing temporary warmth, trying to find some kind of comfort in each other, but Cassandra avoided making eye contact with anyone, her mind was really blank as a void. Possibly still attempting to process the reality. Duke Thomas, the only one that hasn’t lost his mind amid this consequent emotional instability, drops of tears still hanging from the corner of his eyes, while the rests were slowly drying on his cheeks. Damian wasn’t exactly close to Duke but he wondered how he managed to carry on. Where did he find the strength to persist? Damian walked closer to the tombstone, feeling resignation seep into his bones.

Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth, beloved father, grandfather, mentor, friend, heroic veteran, a talented cook, a man of family, with a great big heart. Alfred Pennyworth had been a man with many facets. He brought balance to this dysfunctional family, he was the peace and voice of reason. Alfred who made Dick stay in bed when he was badly injured and encouraged him to eat proper meals, lectured Jason for his vulgar language, introduced Jason into the culinary arts, trusting him with the top secret Pennyworth recipes, who secretly switched Tim’s coffee for decaffeinated when he had too much, who prepared Stephanie waffles after a night out patrolling, didn’t say a word of the nights she sneaked out with Kara, who enjoyed the company of Cassandra lurking around the manor, when she’s having a bad day he used to watch the stars with her, listening to Cass make up stories about each star, Alfred who never had to fix anything Duke broke because Thomas instantly apologized and offered to fix it himself, Alfred that found intriguing sudden Duke’s interest in gardening. Alfred... who who spend each and every Damian’s birthdays with him ‘every birthday is special and must be celebrated Master Damian’, gifted him a cat because it made him think of him, offered him a cup of hot chocolate or tea sleepless nights. Alfred, who told him he was proud of him. Alfred, who raised him and loved him wholeheartedly until his last breath.

Damian ran his hand down a large polished stone, ‘Wayne’ carved into it expertly. He sighed wearily and stood beside a gravestone, right next to the family stone, he absentmindedly ran his fingertips along the engraved letters.

‘Alfred Thaddeus Crane Pennyworth’

August 16, 1943

-

October 10, 2019

‘The light of our household is gone. Leaving only haunting echoes lingering in this home. A place is vacant in our hearts, which will never be filled.’

It was indeed fitting. Their light was Alfred and he was gone for good. For good the words echoed in his head like an incessant prayer. He felt a pang of pain surge through him as he recalled his last moments with the man who raised him. It felt as if his life was torn apart just yesterday.

‘I miss him already.’ Cassandra gestured in sign language, a single tear rolling down her cheeks. Damian didn’t know if she was saying it to him or his siblings, maybe she just wished to get the weight off her chest, when he didn’t think it could, his heart broke even more.

“Fuck.” Jason swore with pained voice, his turquoise eyes blurring with angry tears that he wiped away roughly. Not particularly at his siblings but himself. For not being able to protect the man who offered a ray of kindness to him, who nurtured his severely malnourished body to health. He didn’t blame Bruce or the others. He was supposed to be better, strong enough to defend his father. Dick was a fucking mess in the dirt,embracing the tombstone with all his strength, like it would somehow bring the dead man back to life. Steph wouldn’t stop crying. Tim was silently punishing himself in his own way, and Cass had been in a mental limbo until a a minute ago. Bruce wouldn’t leave his room for Pete’s sake. He isolated himself from everything and everyone, he simply existed in his bedroom. Not surprised. He should be here, saying goodbye to Alfred, who dedicate his entire life to help him, instead of retreating to a dark room and lying in bed, brooding over his problems. Damian. Damian was so young, he looked like hell, devastated as everyone else. Jason could detect the shadow of regret in his green eyes. He’s seen it before because he experienced it and he saw it every day in Bruce’s eyes. But at least Damian was here, dealing with the crude reality and his anguish.

It felt unreal, like this was only a horrible slow-motion nightmare and they would wake up any minute, a sharp knife that bore a hole through their hearts yet they kept on standing still.

Perhaps it was time to fulfill Alfred’s wishes. He wanted Bruce to set his thirst for justice aside and find happiness, maybe a companion, spend quality time with the children, who clearly weren’t children anymore. The youngest being Damian, who just turned fifteen a couple of months ago. He wanted Richard to start a family of his own with Barbara. He wanted Jason to come back home and stop fighting with a Bruce. He wanted a Tim to seek professional help, see a counselor, quit drinking that damned coffee in excess. Stephanie to stop denying her feelings for Tim and give their relationship a chance. Cassandra constantly suppressing her emotions, fearing to get attached, she was human not a machine trained to commit murder when ordered. Duke should leave behind any doubts to forge his own path and accept he was loved by their family. Damian who Alfred loved like his own grandchild, no matter what he did or what type of person he decided to become, Alfred would always be proud of Damian. ‘In the end, you makes you. No one else, Master Damian.’

“How are you holding up, shortstack?” Jason asked him unexpectedly, snapping out of it, he didn’t know how long his mind had been replaying fond memories with Alfred, he felt the weight of Jason’s hand falling on his shoulder, wearing a genuinely concerned expression.

A cold wind passed by, gracing the leaves and making some brief sounds. The wind leaving with a trail in the form of chilly, close to freezing air. Damian weighted the question in his head. There was only ever-growing emptiness in his chest. After a long moment he spoke.

“I will live.” Damian answered softly, eyes completely fixed on the stone. “I’ll miss him, too...brother.” The young Robin unreservedly confessed, Jason looked slightly taken aback at the words Damian muttered. Damian’s emotions were expressed with snarky comments, throwing daggers and knives, making deadly threats and intimidating stares. He had an aggressive and confrontational demeanor. Damian has never called Jason brother, but it made his lips curl into a small smile. Yes, he was his brother.

Damian was vaguely aware of Jason’s body heat now at his side, followed by Richard who was helped by Tim to stand up, his chest sore from sobbing, black suit covered in dirt but he didn’t seem to care. Meaningless material assets, nothing compared to the irreparable loss they suffered hours ago. Steph took a couple of steps closer to them, her eyes, twins pools of sadness, red and swollen, soon the Wayne siblings gathered around their youngest brother. Embracing tightly the teenager into a group hug.

They shared the same deep numbing pain, but it's more agonizing for Damian because he had been there when it happened, they all knew Damian was suffering so much. The feeling ate him inside, consuming and breaking every part of him miserably. But he isn’t alone anymore, he has his family with him. Damian’s tears are hot and travel down his tanned cheeks, he didn’t want to cry but he couldn’t hold it in any longer, the heartache, the loss, agony, guilt, everything was hitting him all at once. It hurt so much knowing full well that Alfred won't wake up ever again from this neverending deep sleep, buried under the ground lonely and cold and breathless. His grandfather.

It'll be just the the eight of them and it is frightening to accept the truth, that Alfred wouldn’t be around anymore to look after them like he did after all these years. Ever since he first set foot in the Wayne manor. He would me missed every single day. Rchard’s heart broke at the sight of Damian in such crumbling state, his characteristic composure fallen and so alien after living together so many years. Damian was broken too. Dick did the only thing he could think of, patted him affectionately on the back, rubbing it soothingly, mumbling quietly “We are here, Dami.” Letting him know they were all there for him in every possible way. They would try to carry our Alfred’s last wish, for them to get along, integrate, be an harmonious family. Be true siblings. Always Alfred’s children. Together they sang farewell to Alfred with broken chords.

I am not sure if I want to edit this later but here s the progress. I might add Bruce’s part later or tomorrow. My tribute to Alfred 💜❤️❤️❤️

@sofiii @chromium7sky @deep-in-mind67

[motiveandthemeans]

Laurelworth

Chapter I: Mrs. Holmes

Margaret Louise Holmes (nee Hooper), known as Mrs. Holmes, Mistress, Missus ‘olmes, Missus Molly, Doctor Holmes, Doctor Molly, or just Molly, woke to early spring mist clouding the large, frost-tinged window adjacent her bed in her room at Laurelworth Manor. The room was quite large and one of her favorite in the entire 13,000 square foot house. Complete with a lovely window seat overlooking an ancient oak tree and side yard, a large fireplace (currently nearing embers), an impressive closet for her everyday clothes and shoes, a wardrobe for her finer things and a vanity. Several book shelves lined the walls littered with books, pictures and knick-knacks, a sitting area and a beautiful marble tiled en suite; she really could not ask for more. Her large canopy bed served as the loveliest of escapes from real life and each night she looked forward to her feather mattress.

A little over a year ago, Molly had come to Laurelworth seeking refuge and had not returned to London since. The 23 room manor upon a 10,000 acre estate was a wedding gift from her brother-in-law, Lord Mycroft Holmes. The estate was a three hour carriage ride from London, it contained two lakes and a large pond, 16 orchards and grew (that they knew of) 59 varieties of plants. Surrounded by mountains, Laurelworth Manor itself was at an elevation of 1,400 meters. The sweeping landscape never ceased to take Molly’s breath away, no matter how many times she saw it.

Her husband, the infamously brilliant (and equaling infuriating) William Sherlock Scott Holmes, spent his days in London at 221 B Baker Street solving crimes and conducting experiments with his closest friend and confidant Dr. John H. Watson. Her father Sir Charles Barrett Hooper, a respected and knighted Colonel Physician in Her Majesty’s Royal Army, God rest his soul, had arranged for the marriage with the hearty consent of Lord and Lady Holmes. Her father had been a war hero and his living children were considered to be the most eligible bachelor and bachelorettes when they had been introduced to society.

Molly let out a sleepy chuckle, remembering the letter her father had sent while she was abroad in America at the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania informing her of the engagement. She was stunned, she’d never met the man, only reading about his many cases and brilliance in newspaper articles. Begrudgingly, she left at the end of her spring semester and returned to England within a fortnight. Two months later they married, she twenty and Sherlock twenty-five, in a small ceremony, much to the displeasure of the paparazzi and gossips in London society.

With the apathetic blessing of her new husband, Molly returned to America five days after their wedding to complete her education. She attempted to keep in regular correspondence with the Consulting Detective, but found he only wrote short replies back to satiate her desire to know he was doing well and breathing. After two more years of continuous study, Molly returned to England a Doctor. However, she was only allowed to practice in obstetrics at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital as it was a “womanly profession”. She was grateful to be able to put her skill to use anywhere and enjoyed her career, but her heart had always been in the field of pathology.

In the fourteen months she’d been at Laurelworth, Molly had made a happy life for herself, free from the constraints of social niceties and peerage. She ran the estate like a well-oiled machine and was loved by all in its employ. Every third day she spent at the village surgery looking after the women of the surrounding areas and delivering their babies if on duty at the time.

 Molly’s gaze drifted to the pictures on her bedside table which contained four framed photographs close to her heart. The first in an old, simple frame was a picture of her family when they lived in India before her mother and younger brother Rupert had died of Malaria. In her mind’s eyes, she could still see the fiery red of their hair.

The second photo in a lovely painted frame was of Mrs. Hudson and their dearest friends John and Mary Watson (nee Morstan) on their wedding day. Mary was a nurse midwife she’d met during Molly’s time at St. Bart’s, the two had become instant friends. Sherlock and John had been on a case involving the murder of a heavily pregnant woman who had been under Molly’s care. Despite the rather gruesome circumstances, love had blossomed between John and Mary and within six months, the pair were married. The blonde beauty had visited her at least half a dozen times while their husbands had been out for days on end chasing a case. However, she’d not visited since entering her third trimester at the behest of both John and Molly, not wanting to risk her well-being during this delicate time. Mrs. Hudson, the beloved landlady -not housekeeper- of 221 B Baker Street had visited three times and would have come more often had it not been for her troubling hip.

The third photograph set in a gilded frame was of Molly and her two living siblings in the parlor of their London townhome 10 days prior to the announcement of her engagement to Sherlock was put in the papers.

Standing in proper English fashion behind his two seated sisters was her elder brother, Mr. David Charles Hooper, his cocoa-colored hair slicked back and mouth set in a firm line. He was an Oxford educated solicitor and now a founding partner in one of London’s top law firms.  At twenty two he married Sarah Jane Turner, the daughter of the Lieutenant Colonel in their father’s regimen. The pair were childhood sweethearts and would have married sooner if David hadn’t been so determined to make something of himself to support Sarah on his own without the financial aid of their parents. Molly loved her sister-in-law and their three children dearly. Their eldest Andrew David was 6 and a half, Margaret Jane (known as Maggie), four, and Eleanor Kaye was now 18 months old. The family had come to visit twice and only two weeks ago Sarah had written they were expecting their fourth in October!

Her younger sister, Viscountess Camilla Marie Poitier had visited for three months while her husband, the Viscount Raul Poitiers was in Parliament at Paris ardently fighting for the rights of the lowest class. Molly could only roll her eyes and smile indulgently, remembering how sixteen year old Camilla had begged David to let her marry the obscenely handsome, romantic, enlightened, artistic twenty-one year old aristocrat who was in England visiting his mother’s family. Raul had fallen hopelessly in love with her beautiful golden haired sister at first sight; they spent the evening dancing together as if they were the only two in the ballroom.

The older siblings, however, were not ignorant to the Frenchman’s reputation for being a serial philanderer. So it came as no surprise that when the offer of marriage was made two weeks later, Molly sought out Mycroft for his opinion on the Viscount’s character. She was disheartened to discover that even the British Government’s sources had reported that while he was a religious man and much loved by the people, fidelity was not in Raul’s nature. David had reluctantly given his consent (after many rounds of tears and threats of elopement) and the two were married within a fortnight in a grand ceremony. The pair had not yet been married a year and were already expecting their first child in August.

The last picture was of her and Sherlock on their wedding day. Molly’s chest constricted at the impassive expression juxtaposed with the earnest hope so evident on her face as she gazed up at him. Sherlock had only stayed at Laurelworth twice since she’d taken up residence there permanently, the first time was at Easter, the second at Christmas and neither were of his own volition. In the year she spent at Baker Street, the young obstetrician had fallen deeply in love with his genius and (under several layers of sarcasm, impatience and a surely disposition) kindness. The latter had never been directed towards her but she’d witnessed it on several occasions in his interactions with Dr. Watson, Mary (who he’d taken a genuine, friendly shine to), Mycroft’s wife Anthea, and even on occasion Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Molly’s reminiscing was broken when a knock sounded at her door.

“Come-in!” She called, rising from the warmth of her sheets as her ladies maid, Anna, entered with a tea tray in hand.

“Good Morning, Mistress Holmes. Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you. I dreamed of lemon cakes and swimming on the moon.” Molly laughed at the amused expression on Anna’s lovely face, her wheat colored hair in a tight bun, the standard black ladies maid dress she wore was adjusted to accommodate the slight swell of her belly. “What did you dream of, Anna?”

“Ducklings, ma’am. Odd, I know but I’m told it’s normal to have funny dreams when expecting.” She replied, setting the tray down on the coffee table and helping Molly into her berry colored dressing gown before scurrying off to replenish the fire.

“No stranger than swimming on the moon, I assure you.” Molly chuckled, settling down on the chair with her leather bound diary, sipping her tea. “Anna, if you so much as put a log on that fire I will force you to take an extra week’s leave fully paid when the baby arrives.”

“Mrs. Holmes, you know I’m perfectly well enough to lift a few logs.” Anna admonished. “I like to earn my keep, ma’am-“

“Anna, you do not have to prove your worth to me.” Molly said earnestly, rising to grasp her hands. “Your place at Laurelworth is set in stone, my dear. Having a baby will not prompt me to eject you from your positon, I assure you.”

Anna’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Yes, Mrs. Holmes…Thank you.”

Molly nodded with a smile. “I think the blue riding habit with the white linen blouse will do today, a bit dressy for me, I know, I’m scheduled to inspect the orchards and ensure none of those confounding beetles have eaten away the peaches, but I’m also to visit the estate’s accountant so I suppose some effort couldn’t hurt.”

“Yes ma’am.” The lady’s maid gave a rueful smile. “What would you like for breakfast this morning?”

“Scrambled eggs, sausage, tomatoes and porridge with cinnamon sugar. I’m positively famished this morning. In the sunroom as well, it’s too lovely a day not to look out at the view.”

“Right away ma’am. I’ll be back in a mo’ to help you dress.” Anna smiled once more and left the room.

Molly went to the washing bowl and splashed her face, cleaning herself with a soaped wash cloth. Anna returned just as she had finished, helping her into her petty coats, corset and blue riding habit. They had just finished brushing Molly’s thick, sandy auburn locks into a simple ponytail when a knock resounded followed by a series of barks.

“We’re decent Mrs. Lyle, you can come in!” Molly called.

First through the door were Molly’s three favorite companions, her beloved pets. Brutus, her 90 pound three year old Great Pyrenees-Shepherd who always wanted to play and somehow always managed to find mud puddles to jump into (frustrating Mrs. Lyle to no end). Freida, her 30 pound seven year old beagle mix that loved to cuddle and worm her way into places she had no business being in (much to the amusement of the groundskeepers). Third was Toby, her 10 year old tortoiseshell Calico cat that spent his days lazing in the sun, ignoring everyone (save for Molly, he always made a point to know her location if she was in the Manor) and chasing mice for cream.

“Good morning, my loves!” Molly greeted each with several loving belly rubs and affectionate kisses, laughing at their licks on her cheek. “Shall we go and see what wonders Mrs. Honeycutt has made of our breakfast?”

“Mrs. Holmes, I wanted to inform you that Mister H-“ Mrs. Lyle, the head housekeeper, started but Molly was already gone, racing the dogs down the main staircase, greeting various members of the household staff by name and with a warm smile. They in turn greeted her happily and chuckled watching their mistress race her beloved mutts, Toby - aloof as ever- maintained a decent pace behind. The glowing smile was still upon her face as the four rounded the corner to the sunroom; laughter echoing in the halls of the house, she entered to see a familiar, yet estranged figure seated at the head of the table. He looked just as he had the last time Molly had seen him, dressed in a finely tailored dark suit under a scarlet dressing gown, sipping coffee as his blue-green eyes looked up from his paper and locked with hers.

They never ceased to take her breath away.

“S-Sherlock!” She stuttered confusedly. “I-I mean, Mr. Holmes. Welcome back.”

He smirked, obviously satisfied with his surprise appearance. “Good Morning, Mrs. Holmes.”

[shirewalker]

🎂 + crime/mystery + passionate, adventurous, silly + csenge/theleiaskywalker (happy early birthday vee!! 💖)

thank you csengeeee!! :D :D :D

book blurb:

Adventurous and with endless passion for travelling to unknown places, Csenge finds it extremely silly to be forced to spend her summer in a aunt’s elegant manor. Surrounded by friends of said aunt and whatnot, Csenge soon realises there’s more to these people than appearances tell.

When her aunt’s favourite ring disappears and the butler shows up with his throat slit, she knows her gut was on to something.

Pairing up with her aunt and her young protege, Csenge will have to race time if she wants to find the ring and the murderer before anything else happens. And it looks like the murderer won’t stop.

blograte:

⏲️ time: dawn / dusk / noontide / twilight / midnight / to shine / eternal

📚 book: magical standalone / duology of feels / the perfect trilogy / neverending series yes / short and sweet novella /  the first manuscript of legend  

🎡 magical place: coffee shop au / ancient forest / private garden / cathedral of legend / time museum / meadow in spring / rooftop under the stars / magical library / a lake at midnight / crystal cave / theatre with floating candles and live music but no orchestra / old cinema where you can step into the film / noir train station

✨ element: air / energy / water / fire / earth

🎼 sounds: rain falling outside / ocean waves / thunderstorm / owls in the night / crackling of wood in the fireplace / train in the distance / wind through the trees / rustling pages of an open book / blissful laughter / birds at sunrise / music from another room / wind chimes / howl of a wolf / purring kitten / footsteps in a cathedral

🍂scent: petrichor / wild flowers / sea mist / freshly brewed coffee / lavender / vanilla / wood / clean sheets / gasoline / cookies in the oven / almonds / burning fire / cinnamon / parchment / freshly cut grass / pinewood

🌸 fabric: silk / cashmere / velvet / satin / egyptian cotton / vicuña wool / cambric / muslin / shot silk / chantilly lace

🌌 space: comet / starry night / mini black hole / milky way / pluto / full moon / meteor shower / supernova / nebula / constellation / black hole / sun / asteroid / spaceship / antimatter / dark matter / quasar / zodiacal light / cosmic dust

want your own?

[multifandom-damnation]

He Remembers pt2

He remembered feeling tired.

A tiredness that ran through his veins and shifted his bones, which carried him by muscle memory to his old room in the Manor.

He remembered that no one followed him as he made his room through the darkened hallways that never seemed to end, warping into a maze of fear and regret and exhaustion. He didn’t remember walking to his bed, discarding his clothes in a mess on the floor, or locking the door behind him, but he remembered falling into bed and feeling liquid, like his body had melted.

He tried to think back to all the things that had gone wrong since leaving the court of Owls and their brainwashing. He thought he was getting better. But after listening to all the things his family had done for him, had sacrificed for him…

He’d been getting worse all along.

He wanted to cry, but he felt that all the crying he did downstairs had made him desert dry and empty. His tongue was dry, his eyes were dry and all he wanted to do was sleep. He wondered if his family and the people of Gotham City would ever forgive him for the wrongs he did to them? He hoped so.

That night, he dreamt of blood. Deep crimson and flaky brown, there was enough blood to fill the River Nile. And he was surrounded by it, the knife in his hand dripping a constant flow of red and filling the river to overflow. He was wearing the mask, that dreaded mask of black layers that flowed around him, the brass covers over the eyes, the metal beak that took on the real form of an owl. The blood felt like it was on his skin, making it slick and dripping down his face to the tip of his nose.

He heard that nursery rhyme, in the sing-song voice of a child.

“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time—”

The river was rising, swirling up to his knees. He couldn’t move.

“—ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch—”

Hands started rising up out of the river, grabbing onto his legs, his arms, anything they could reach and tried to pull him down.

“—behind granite and lime.”

There was a tree above his head and he leapt up to catch it, arms outspread towards a branch, but every time he got close, the branch pulled away.

“They watch you at your hearth—”

Eyes appeared from the darkness, bright yellow and dripping malice.

“—they watch you at your bed—”

He was drowning, blood filling his lungs as the hands succeeded in pulling him down.

“Speak not a whispered word of them—”

He saw bodies floating when he opened his eyes, he knew those bodies. He remembered plunging his knife into them and the warmth of the blood on his hands. He wanted to gag.

“—or they’ll send The Talon for your head.”

There was a body above him and he didn’t know who it was but it was right above him and he was drowning, drowning, drowning…

He woke with a gasp. Well… he thought he did. He must still be dreaming. The mask was still on his face, the knife still in his hand. The body he didn’t recognise was still above him. He felt blood, dripping from above him to soak into the fabric and land on his forehead. He couldn’t move.

He remembered the horror, the petrification he felt as he watched the corpse on his ceiling open its eyes, glowing a stoplight red. It opened its mouth to speak and a dark green mist escaped. “You are a Talon,” it rasped, voice deep and hoarse. “And you will never leave the Court of Owls as long as you live, Grey Son!”

Jason heard Dick scream from the front door. He was leaving for the night, giving up his room for Harper and Cullen. The shrill sound stopped him dead, and he was already halfway up the stairs when the rest of the family started rushing out of the library.

The door was locked. He spun on his heel and backed up to the other end of the hallway so he could run and ram his shoulder into the door. It still didn’t budge. He did it again. Nothing.

Dick’s screaming was getting worse, and when Jason finally broke the door open with a thump, he thought he was hallucinating.

Dick was on his bed, Talon suit on like he had slept in it. There was a knife on his hand, the one he used to murder so many people. He wasn’t moving, and Jason couldn’t understand because if there was a body on his ceiling, he sure as hell would be running away.

There was a steady dripping of blood coming from the body and it looked like it was falling on Dick. Jason rushed forward and grabbed Dick by his shoulders, yanking him off the bed and out of the room. He slammed the door behind him.

Dick fell to his knees in a crumpled heap, reaching up to claw desperately at the mask. It wouldn’t budge.

Dick remembered the fabric of the mask burning his face like acid. He thought he could feel it melting through his skin, burning and bubbling and dissolving his bones to mush. Through his screaming and his fingers working desperately at the edges and folds to find the latches that would unclasp the mask, he was dimly reminded of a man who he had poured acid on to get him to stop screaming.

He screamed harder.

He remembered Bruce rushing up the stairs and blocking the landing so nobody else could see. He remembered the needle in his hand, which he threw to Jason and his brother put in in his neck, pulling the plunger and holding his shoulders. Dick’s sight faded and his hearing fizzled out like a dud bomb. He saw a man on a noose in the corner, arms outstretched towards Dick’s throat. “Join us.” He hissed and Dick’s world went black as he screamed his fears of the dark.

He remembered waking up cold, his face no longer burning. His wrists and ankles had been tied to a metal work bench by chains. It felt strangely familiar. Is vision dimmed and green smoke danced around his eyes. Men and women in white masks and black suits, blue dresses and fancy ties were standing around the table. One was holding a needle full of green liquid in one hand and a knife in the other. Both the needle and the knife came down upon his chest and he drew in a gasp to lose his last ever scream as a free man-

A blink and the image was gone.

He was in the cave, the Batcave, and he was on the medical bed. Not a sacrificial stone. Not a dank cave in a mountain where nobody would hear his cries. He was chained to a med-bay bed.

He looked around, straining his ears to hear any movement in the cave. He could hear the pitter-patter of fast typing from the space to his right- Tim. He swallowed and started testing his chains quietly.

They were metal, not the soft padded ones they usually used in the med-bay, more like the ones in the containment chamber. He let out a soft curse as he relived images of Bruce, high off his head on Ivy’s cocktails, thrashing in those cuffs. Dick would never break out of them. He needed help. He needed to get out of the cave. He can’t…Jesus, he can’t hurt his family anymore.

“Tim.” he called hoarsely, his voice was scratched and small, so he tried again, “Timmy.”

The fingers stopped on the keyboard, his brother hesitating for several minutes, then Dick heard the sound of the chair across the stone floor, and Tim was at Dick’s side, still in his Red Robin suit, sans mask, his hand gravitating to Dick’s forehead to check his temperature, Dick felt a hysterical laugh brew in his chest, as if only he could take a few antibiotics and wake up better; he leaned into the touch anyway.

He let Tim see him struggle to turn on his side, and rattled the chain harder than it needs to, Tim flinched.

“Tim what happened?” he asked, willing his voice to be scared and low, he noticed the slight shift behind Tim’s eyes when he decided to lie.

“You were screaming, nightmares, I think. We were scared you would hurt yourself.”

Dick hummed and rubbed his hair further into Tim’s fingers. He shifted again and let out a deliberate small moan of pain. Tim frowned, then checked his cuffs. Dick repressed his grin and manoeuvred his fingers into Tim’s glove as he leaned to check across the bed.

“It’s fine Timmy. Where’s Jason?” he asked, letting his eyes well up in tears, and looking around the room. Tim hugged himself and took a step back.

“I’ll go find him for you, he’s still here.”

Dick nodded several more times than he needed to and Tim was gone in a second, feet running across to the entrance of the Cave.

It took Dick four minutes to get rid of the lock picks around his hands and feet, and he quickly got dressed, forcing himself to stop imagining how betrayed Tim would be when he got back.

He slipped into his boots, put on his mask and grabbed his spare escrima sticks, then walked to his bike. He slowly walked it through the tunnels and out through the mouth of the cave, into the dirty Gotham air. When he was far enough out, he jumped on his bike and rode off, away from the house with concerned glances and worried eyes.

Tim froze, the breath knocking out of him when he heard the roar of a bike echoing across the cave walls. He started running, and he could hear Jason’s heavy footsteps behind him. Jason, who was about to see the empty bed and kill Tim where he stands. How could he be so stupid? He could feel his teeth clenching painfully, and he didn’t even glance at the med-bay before he sounded the alarm through the manor.

Jason’s muttered curses hit him like wounds, and he didn’t look up from the computer as he ran his search algorithm for Nightwing’s uniform around the manor and the surrounding areas.

Bruce’s sharp breath hit him even worse, as the man himself reviewed the security footage of Dick’s escape.

“I’m so sorry.” Tim forced himself to look up at the two men. He wished fiercely for his mask to be covering his face. Nobody should have to withstand Bruce’s disappointed glare this exposed, he thought.

Jason sighed, and Tim turned to look at him, “It’s fine replacement, it’s the puppy dog eyes, anyone could fall for those stupid baby-blues.” and it sounded sincere, if a little reluctant, and Tim felt his limbs moving before he realized he was barreling into Jason for a hug. He felt the gloved fingers in his hair and let out a little sob into the older man’s chest. This night has been way longer than it had any right to be.

The alert broke the moment, and they all turned to the computer where Dick, in his Nightwing uniform, stood in an ally ten minutes away from the Manor in front of a cluster of children with torn clothes and blood stained skin, huddled together as he shielded them from the men in front of them. His face was a mask of fury, his hands and escrima sticks covered in dark splashes.

The men approached and the children shrieked.

Dick lunged.

Lightning flashed from his escrima sticks, exploding on each impact. Thuds, cracks, thumps, whacks, men went down in a flurry of electricity and pain. Blood welled up and bruises boiled to the surface of their skin. Men went down, red soared, blue and black lashed out to collide with dark green and brown. Gun shots and the littering of bullet casings hitting the floor. A bullet flew straight at the surveillance camera, smashing the screen and turning the picture dark.

Jason was out of the cave before the bullet hit

Dick’s vision was shrouded in a wave of anger, deep red covering the world in a fury burning hot as fire. His hands, tingling, shaking, waiting to be used at his sides. He thought he could hear himself growling, snarling as he stood in front of the children. Felt the screaming in his head of enough is enough.

He remembered the satisfaction he felt when his sticks make contact with a man’s face and he crumpled to the floor like a tonne of bricks. Out cold and bleeding.

He couldn’t remember what happened next, except for the slick feeling of warm blood turning his skin slippery and the sounds he made when he buried his foot into a man’s ribcage and felt a sickly crunch. The pressure when he lashed out and connected somebodies face with his stick and the electricity that bounced around the alley lighting the darkness in deathly white and illuminating the bloodbath that Dick was creating.

The last man fell to the floor as the children from behind him whimpered out of fear. He stayed out of the light so they couldn’t see the blood caking his uniform and told them that they were safe. They stopped shaking and they fearfully thanked him, almost as though they thought he would hurt them too if they didn’t. He would never hurt them, he was Nightwing, the uniform meant hope, didn’t it? Something deep in the pit of his stomach stirred and he steadied himself with a shaking hand on the brick wall. His hand was so bloody. When had that happened? He felt sick, and when he looked to his side again, the children were already at the end of the alley, sprinting on trembling legs into the cold Gotham night, not even looking behind.

He remembered hearing a rumble from behind him and he spun around, escrima at the ready. Dick remembered that he saw the blazing red of Jason’s bike and saw the headlights glisten as they came up to the ally.

He started running towards the dead end at the other side of the alleyway, ignoring Jason’s desperate pleas of “Come back please we can get through this together, you don’t need to do this!”

Dick leapt off of the wall and connected with the next one, using the momentum to carry him up, up, up until he could catch hold of a fire escape and swing off of a clothes line and barrel roll onto a roof. He didn’t look back as he sprinted away from his brother, didn’t look back as he dived off of the edge of the building and out of sight of Jason’s desperate eyes.

Jason made it to the opening and got off his bike just as the last flecks of blue disappeared over the edge of a far away roof.

Hi! So, I wrote this for the amazing @fishfingersandjellybabies, who waited ever so patiently for part 2! Bee, I hope this is ok. Thank you as always to @goshparticle and @the-casual-cheesecake for helping me edit xx. I love all three of you!! Everyone else- here. Have some broken Dick, some desperate batfam and a tired D’Arcy. Love you!  Bye!

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Decoy

Summary: When Lady Belle’s father betrothes her to Sir Gaston, it seems that her plan to marry the spinner she truly loves will come to nothing. Her friends, however, have other ideas, and are determined to ensure Belle and Rumpel receive their happy ending in the most ingenious of ways… Lady!Belle x Spinner!Rum, with a side order of Scarlet Queen.

Rated: T

Happy Valentine’s Day! Have a slightly belated fic for Fluffapalooza! Silliness abounds! I got the idea for this whilst writing one of my many Monthly Rumbelling fics...

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Decoy

The Marchlands were currently experiencing what the scholars would call ‘the perfect day’. The sun was shining, with just enough of a sweet May breeze to make the temperature pleasant, rather than stifling. The birds were singing in the trees, there were no signs of any ogres anywhere near the horizon, and the scent of honey-blossom hung thick in the air. In the castle stables, the horses were languidly munching their feed, flicking away the flies with their long tails, and in the cool, dark hayloft above, a young couple were having a bit of a fumble.

Everything would have been pretty much idyllic, were it not for the very loud and very shrill and very heartfelt scream of frustration that echoed through the stables.

The young woman in the hayloft popped her head up out of the straw on hearing the scream, and looked around, hastily relacing the front of her dress. Her paramour followed her up a few seconds later, and they looked at each other with a mixture of worry and amusement.

“That sounded like Belle,” they said, in almost perfect unison.

A few moments later and they were both down the ladder from the hayloft and venturing further into the stable to find the source of the scream.

It was indeed, Lady Belle, who was standing in front of a large grey horse, clenching and unclenching her fists and breathing heavily, a somewhat murderous expression on her face.

“Belle?” the young man ventured. “Everything all right?”

Belle’s shoulders sagged from their angry hunch, and she let out a long breath, letting her hands fall limply to her sides.

“Sorry, Will, I didn’t mean to disturb you two.” Belle turned away politely as the young woman surreptitiously picked bits of straw out of her hair. “I’ll just take Philippe and go out for a ride to clear my head.”

“Are you sure?” Will asked. He had known Lady Belle long enough to know that for all she was impulsive and easily frustrated with the injustices of the world, it generally took a lot to get her to the screaming stage. “You know you can tell us anything.”

It was a strange little motley crew that they had formed. The lady, the groom, and the lady’s maid. They’d all grown up together, grown close in spite of the differences between their ranks, and even as they had grown into the roles that society had imposed upon them, they had remained at heart the three mischievous children who had always played together in the stables. Naturally, that was before Belle’s mother had died, as she was the one to recognise her daughter’s need for companionship her own age, and for freedom to be a child, rather than a young lady. Lord Maurice didn’t take such a sensible view of proceedings and after Lady Colette’s death, Belle’s time with her friends had decreased dramatically. But as long as she had Anastasia as her maid, and as long as Anastasia could sneak her out of the castle, then the three of them continued to be as thick as thieves. When Anastasia and Will had shown signs of being more than friends, Belle was all too happy to encourage their courtship in any way she could, including contriving the flimsiest of excuses to get the two of them alone together. Naturally, Belle was rather put out to discover that she had just interrupted one of those very occasions, but neither Will nor Anastasia seemed to mind. Ana came over and put an arm around her dejected friend.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Is it Sir Gaston again?”

Belle nodded.

“Your father’s still nagging at you for an answer?” Will suggested, taking a moment whilst the two ladies were hugging to check the front of his trousers for decency.

“It’s worse than that.” Belle could hear the wobble in her voice and she tried to swallow it down and stay strong in front of her oldest friends. “He’s taken it upon himself to accept on my behalf. The wedding is in two weeks.”

“Can he even do that?” Ana asked. “Surely he can’t just make you marry someone without your consent?”

“Ana, he’s lord of the manor,” Will said, his voice despondent. “He can do just about anything he likes. And since Belle’s nominately part of his estate, well, it doesn’t really matter what she thinks. His decision goes.”

Ana grimaced. “Sometimes, just sometimes, I’m glad I don’t have any family.” She turned back to Belle. “So… Sir Gaston.”

“I’m sure he’s not that bad,” Will said, trying to put a positive spin on the situation. “Maybe once you’ve got to know him, he’ll grow on you a bit.”

Belle shuddered. “I don’t want him doing anything on me, thank you very much. Besides, I don’t think that you can really get to know a man who possesses neither an ounce of common sense nor any intelligent conversation. At all. The only things he knows how to talk about are himself and his hunting triumphs. If I have to spend the rest of my life listening to lists of dead animals and deeds of impossible - and I mean physically impossible - daring, then I’ll throw myself in the lake.”

“Now, let’s not be drastic here,” Ana said hastily. “There’s got to be something that we can do.”

For all the three of them might have got into childish scrapes when they were younger, there was definitely something to be said for their combined intelligence, resourcefulness and cunning. As the other servants around the castle had quickly found out, individually they were a handful, and together they were lethal.

Belle gave a long sigh. “I don’t know what there is. I can hardly go to my father and say that I won’t marry Gaston because I’d rather marry a spinner from the village. Moreover one with a son and a reputation as a coward.”

Ana squeezed Belle’s shoulder. “I think you need to go and see him,” she said. “Rumpel, I mean, not your father.”

“What can I say to him?” Belle exclaimed. “Sorry, I love you so much but this can’t go on, because my father’s practically sold me to Sir Gaston and I’ll be off to Avonlea to bear him six children?”

“Just… tell him what’s happened,” Ana soothed. “He’ll understand that you’re not happy about it and don’t want to go through with it. We’ll cover for you if anyone comes looking.”

Belle gave a melancholy nod, and moved away to saddle Philippe.

“In the meantime, we’ll think about what we can do.” It would be untrue to say that they had never yet failed to get each other out of the various scrapes they’d found themselves in over the years, but they had never yet failed to try.

After watching Belle ride off furiously towards the village, Ana and Will returned to the hayloft, but neither of them held any desire to continue what the afternoon had first promised. The threat of Sir Gaston, and of Belle being made to marry in general, had been hanging over them for a while, but it was not one that any of them liked to think about, and so they had spent more time mulling over the possibility of Ana marrying Will and thinking about a happy future in which that had happened. Now, the thing they had avoided thinking about was upon them, and more suddenly than they had expected. They had so little time in which to plan things, and so much to plan.

On the face of it, it seemed to be impossible, but if there was one thing that had always characterised the trio, it was determination.

X

Philippe’s hooves thundered against the ground as Belle galloped towards the village, knees digging into his flanks and spurring him on. Tears misted her vision, but Philippe had raced along these roads often enough that he didn’t need her to direct him. It was on one of her frantic rides away from the castle that she had first met Rumpelstiltskin. Philippe was not as used to the roads and trails, and Belle had turned him sharply to avoid splashing into the river. Philippe had reared, and it was all Belle could do to hold on. A man had been there, washing sheep fleeces in the river, and he had helped her to calm Philippe down. He had seen how distraught Belle was, and although she had long since forgotten the exact cause of her distress on that particular occasion, she would never forget the kindness with which he had treated her, leading her back to his home and giving her sweet tea and sympathy.

That man was Rumpelstiltskin, the village spinner, and over time, as Belle had escaped from the castle more and more and come down to the river to think, she had got to know him. Over the last few months, this friendship had turned into something more, with Will and Anastasia covering for her ever more frequently as she slipped out of the castle’s confines under cover of darkness to make her way down to the river to meet Rumpel; to take tea with him in his small cottage and share soft, slightly nervous kisses once Rumpel’s son had gone to bed.

Slowing Philippe to a walk as she neared the village, Belle wiped her eyes and made sure that her hood was pulled up to hide her face. Bae was outside the cottage, and despite her meagre precautions at concealment, his face lit up in recognition immediately and he rushed inside to alert his father. By the time Belle had tethered Philippe to the fence a few yards from the cottage, Rumpel was standing in the doorway, waiting for her. There was such a hopeful smile on his face, and it pained Belle to know that all too soon, that smile would vanish as she told him her terrible news.

As soon as she saw her face, the expression dropped.

“Belle?” He could tell that she’d been crying. “Belle, come inside, whatever is the matter?”

Belle didn’t even get to a chair before the entire sorry story came gushing out, her words falling over themselves in her haste to get them out before she finally collapsed into a fresh round of shuddering sobs, burying her face in Rumpel’s chest as he held her close, stroking her hair and murmuring soothing nothings to her. He was trying to keep her spirits up, she knew that, but at the same time, she knew that it was a lost cause. He had never been a good liar, Rumpel, and she knew that when he said that it was all going to be all right, there was a distinct lack of conviction in his words.

“What are we going to do, Rumpel?” she asked once she was finally sitting down, Bae making tea and looking on, worried.

“We’ll think of something,” Rumpel said desperately, but there wasn’t much hope in his voice. “You’re the cleverest person I know, Belle, I’m sure you and Ana and Will together can think up something.”

Belle could only hope that he was right, and take what comfort she could from the warmth of his arms around her.

X

It was dusk by the time Belle made it back to the stables, and she knew that she was going to have to hurry if she was going to make it back into the castle and change in time for dinner with her father and her fiancé. She shuddered at the thought, hastily unsaddling Philippe and hoping that at some point in the next two weeks someone would think up a solution to this terrible situation. Although Rumpel had given her his reassurances that no matter what, she was always welcome at his door, he did seem to be embracing the inevitable, and most of their talk during the afternoon had held the veiled feeling of making the most of the limited time that they had left together.

Belle squawked with alarm as a strong hand around her arm pulled her out of her melancholy train of thought and into the tack room at the side of the stables.

“Shh!” The voice, and indeed the hand, belonged to Anastasia, and in the dim light of the lamp in the tack room, Belle could see that Will was also there. She could also see something that made the tiniest flicker of hope spark in her chest from where she had thought it extinguished forever. Both of her friends were grinning from ear to ear.

“We’ve been thinking,” Anastasia began, “and we think we’ve got a plan.”

Belle felt a smile begin to break over her own face.

“What is it?”

“It is a bit far-fetched,” Will warned. “And it does rely on Rumpelstiltskin’s co-operation.”

“I’m sure Rumpel would be persuaded to help,” Belle replied, “as long as it wouldn’t put Bae in danger.” For all her spinner was decried as the village coward, she knew that he would do anything for the ones he loved.

“Not at all,” Will said. “We’re just going to need his particular expertise.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. Rumpel was a spinner and he had been a weaver; he knew sheep and textiles but there wasn’t much more he was especially well-versed in. “Well, any plan is a good plan, no matter how farfetched.”

The church bells chimed out the hour, and Anastasia sighed.

“We’d better get back to the castle, but I’ll tell you on the way,” she said. “We might have to get slightly creative with your wedding dress, but that’s where Rumpel comes in.”

As Anastasia outlined their plan, Belle began to see what they meant about it being rather out of the ordinary.

“So you can slip out of the castle unnoticed, and we’ll meet you at Rumpelstiltskin’s cottage once we manage to escape from the crisis.”

Belle shook her head, even though inside she was rejoicing at the thought of this harebrained scheme going ahead.

“Ana, I can’t ask you to risk yourself like that. You know that if it all goes ahead, it would be legally binding.”

“I know.” Ana grinned. “That’s why I won’t be putting myself in the line of fire. Besides, I’d need to be out and about lending credibility to the entire situation. Don’t you worry about that.”

“Even so, Papa will turn you out of the castle when he realises what’s happened.”

“Yes.” Ana’s face was earnest in the flickering firelight of Belle’s bedchamber. “Yes, we already knew that. But we know, we’ve always known, that we’re destined for other things, me and Will. We’re adventurers at heart, all of us, and this is our chance. And after all, as long as we’ve got each other, I know that everything will be all right.”

Belle smiled and pulled her friend into a hug.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you so much. I’ll make sure that you get the best start in your new life.”

The two women stayed in their embrace for a long moment, until the bell for dinner sounded.

“Go on,” Ana said, releasing Belle and giving her a little push towards the door. “You go on and play nice with Gaston. We’ve got a lot to organise.”

X

The gown was beautiful, and Belle was a little bit rueful that she would not actually wear it to get married in. The best seamstresses in the realm had worked around the clock to produce such a splendid ensemble in the short time available to them, and Belle had felt heartily sorry that their work had then been tampered with and pulled apart by Rumpel’s needles and threads and shears. Still, the end result was something entirely spectacular, and hopefully it would serve their purpose well.

“It’s a shame that we’re sabotaging today,” Ana said as she finished brushing out Belle’s curls and placed the heavy veil down on her head, clipping it in place. “Because you do look truly beautiful.”

“Thank you, Ana.”

She glanced at herself in the glass, and tried to smile, but her expression was pensive instead. It was the last moment, only a few short minutes before the ceremony in the castle’s main hall was due to begin. The guests had been arriving all morning, and Belle had already got a glimpse of Sir Gaston in his full finery. It didn’t add anything, it just made his ridiculously large frame look even more out of proportion.

“Can’t we get it over and done with now?” she asked, turning to Ana, who shook her head with a smile.

“No, no, your father has to see you in your gown first. We can’t give him any reason to suspect that something’s not as it seems.”

Almost on cue, there was a knock at the window, and Anastasia rushed over to open it. Will fell into the room, having clambered up the climbing ivy up the wall outside.

“You know, you could just have come in the normal way,” Anastasia observed as she pulled him off the floor.

“I was trying to be surreptitious!” Will exclaimed, most put out at the slight against his efforts at secrecy.

“Yes, because a young man climbing the castle walls and throwing himself into the lady of the castle’s bedchamber isn’t at all suspicious,” Ana said dryly, brushing him down. “Did you bring the things?”

“Of course.” Will handed her the package of clothing he was carrying. “We’re all set.”

There was a knock on the door and Belle recognised her father’s voice.

“Bluebell? Are you decent?”

Anastasia bundled Will under the bed for concealment and went over to open the door. Maurice was wearing his best clothes ready for the ceremony, and his smile grew even wider when he saw Belle in her wedding dress.

“Ah, Belle, you look as lovely as your mother did on our wedding day.” He came over and wrapped his arms around his daughter, drawing her in close against his chest. Belle breathed in the dusty smell of his best jacket and closed her eyes. For all they did not agree and for all she might never forgive him for the engagement to Gaston, her father was her only family and after today, she might never see him again. It was still hard to come to terms with, although her decision had already been made. “Forgive an old man his sentimentality. This is the last time we’ll have together like this, and then you’ll be lady of a different castle.” As he pulled back, his brow furrowed, and he turned Belle’s face up towards him with two fingers under her chin. “What’s the matter, Belle? You should be smiling today. Can you give your Papa a smile?”

Belle managed a weak smile, knowing that she probably wouldn’t smile properly again until they were completely out of the woods, which might not be for a while.

“I’m just nervous, I guess,” she said. “You should get back to the guests; they’ll need directing.”

Maurice sighed. “Yes, you’re right. If only Colette was here. She’d know what to do.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage, Papa.” Belle kissed his cheek as he moved away towards the door again. “I love you,” she added, feeling that it really needed to be said before the grand scheme was enacted. “I’ll always love you, Papa.”

Maurice smiled indulgently. “I love you too, Bluebell.”

As soon as he was out of the room and his heavy footfalls had faded away along the corridor, Belle let out a long sigh of relief that she didn’t even realise she’d been holding, and Ana came over, rubbing her arm gently as Will extricated himself from under the bed.

“He’ll understand, when it all comes out,” Ana said. “I’m sure he will, in the end.”

Belle nodded. “I know. That doesn’t make it any easier, but at the same time, this is what I want.”

“Yes. This is it. Come on, we don’t have much time.”

Will politely turned his back as Ana got started on unlacing Belle out of her gown again, and soon she was dressed in the soft trousers and jerkin of a stablehand, her hair tucked up under a cap.

“Go!” Ana said, fiddling with the dress and gesturing frantically towards the door. “You need to get a head start!”

Belle peeped out of the door and checked that the coast was clear before slipping out and turning back to her friends.

“Thank you both, so much.”

Will winked at her.

“You’d do the same for us.”

And with that, she was gone, speeding unnoticed through the castle as she weaved through the crowds of guests and out into the fresh spring air.

A few minutes later found Philippe’s hooves pounding the path that they had taken so many times before, with no-one any the wiser.

X

If anyone thought that Lady Belle’s maid was wearing a rather too-smug smile when she entered the great hall, holding up her mistress’s long train, then they put it down to the fact that it was a joyous day that she had an important role in, and she was happy to be a part of such a wonderful celebration. If anyone looking at the bride thought that perhaps Lady Belle was looking a little different to usual, then again, they put it down to the effects of the day and the cut of the gown - such a beautiful gown, truly breathtaking to behold. If anyone thought that Lady Belle’s voice sounded a little high and squeaky as she repeated her vows, they put it down to the choked tears of happiness that every bride was supposed to have on her wedding day.

So no-one really, truly noticed anything out of the ordinary, and if they did, then they put it to the back of their minds.

It was only once the ceremony was complete and Sir Gaston was pushing back Lady Belle’s veil that anyone really realised that they should have listened to their gut feeling that something wasn’t quite right about the entire thing.

For a start, the bride was not Lady Belle.

More importantly, the bride was in fact a man wearing a wig and grinning wickedly at Gaston, who looked as if he was about to faint.

“Can’t I get a kiss, husband?” the young man asked without a hint of irony, puckering his lips.

Sir Gaston’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell backwards, landing on the stone floor of the great hall with a loud thud.

It took a good half a minute for the guests to realise what had happened and for the uproar to begin, and in the midst of all the shouting and demanding of explanations, Lady Belle’s maid grabbed the imposter bride’s hand and pulled him away, wig and all.

X

Belle was looking out of Rumpelstiltskin’s cottage window nervously, and had been doing ever since she had arrived there. She had smuggled some of her things out of the castle over the course of the past two weeks, just the things that she would truly miss. Some of her books, and the small portrait of her mother. Rumpel had passed the fine silks from some of her gowns to a trader he knew at the market in the next town over and had received a good price for them, keeping a little money aside for their life together and using the rest to make their home ready for her. She took a step back from the window and looked around the small cottage. Home. This was her home now, and Belle couldn’t be happier with the situation. Well, she’d be happier knowing that Ana and Will had suffered no repercussions from their plan.

She had not taken any of her father’s money, preferring to find her own capital since she was already deceiving him. This was the path she had chosen and she was going to make her own way down it. She had Rumpel and Bae, after all, and they were all that she needed. Of course it wasn’t going to be plain sailing, but life never was, and at least in this life, she had love to help her through. Beautiful, pure, true love, borne from friendship, not a relationship forged in the name of politics and alliances.

The sound of hooves alerted her to the window again, and Bae was already going to open the door. Ana and Will stumbled in, giggling all over.

Will, Belle noticed, was still wearing the wedding dress that Rumpel had so deftly altered to be able to expand and fit Will’s broader frame.

“Well, I think that went about as well as can be expected,” he said. He’d lost the wig at some point during their journey, and set about pulling out the padding that had been stuffed down the bodice. Wryly, Belle thought it something of a blessing that she was not particularly well-endowed in the décolletage.

“Tea?” Rumpelstiltskin asked, setting the pot over the fire.

“That sounds lovely, but we’d probably better be getting on our way soon,” Ana said. “They’ll come to their senses and start looking for us soon. Provided they’ve picked Gaston up off the floor…”

Will and Ana described the scene in hilarious detail as they drank their tea and Will continued to divest himself of the wedding dress and return to his usual attire; Belle having changed into plain, peasant clothing that Rumpel had been making for her. The tale almost made Belle sad that she hadn’t been there to see the entire spectacle.

At length, though, it was time to leave before they were discovered, and Belle pressed a bag of coins, proceeds from the sale of her smuggled out silks, into Ana’s hands.

“Be safe, and send word when you can,” she said, pulling her oldest friends into a fierce hug.

“Of course.” Will turned to Rumpelstiltskin. “Keep her safe,” he said, his tone somewhat warning.

“I intend to do nothing else,” Rumpel said. “Good luck, Mr Scarlet, Miss Tremaine.”

It was a bittersweet moment of goodbye as Belle watched her friends ride off into the setting sun together, but then she felt Rumpel’s arm come around her back and she turned to him, smiling and leaning in to capture the kiss he readily provided. (Bae excused himself to the other side of the room at that point.)

It was all coming together, with happiness snatched from the jaws of despair. Despite everything, Belle knew that she had made the right choice. It was not running away, she reasoned, welcoming Rumpel’s lips against hers once more. It was running towards something, running towards a life of love and contentment.

Running towards a life that was hers to share with whosoever she chose.

She smiled at Rumpel, and he smiled back.

She’d chosen well.

[the-broken-truth]

The Ghost of the Departed

Broken Truth: What's common but important in every person's life who's willing to kill any and everyone who talks down upon the person they love more than life itself? Someone to tell them they are going down a dark path. But what happens when it's not a person...but a fragment of them that still lingers with you - remaining unseen?

Behold - The Beneviento Family Portrait (Before Diedre By Snowwy): Link

[Diedre closed the door to Beneviento Manor late one morning as she needed to head into the village for something. The young girl smiled at the nearly dead trees of the forest that surrounded her home as well as the dark mist that suffocated the air. She loved it - it was just like her mother: Mysterious and calm. But...thinking of her mother made her think about what happened this morning.]

[During breakfast - Diedre looked at her mother and saw her eye trained on the portrait of the young mother and newborn that hung on the wall - it was painted the day the heiress was born. While Diedre would be happy that her mother was looking at the past, thinking of her time together with her daughter; something wasn't right. Her mother looked at the portrait with a sadness in her eye, as if she saw something that Diedre could not see and it made her angry to see her mother upset. Diedre asked her what was wrong but the Matriarch of House Beneviento dismissed it and continued to eat. This angered her further - she didn't like it when her mother hid things from her.]

Broken Truth: But aren't you doing the same thing?!

Snowwy: Senior, no breaking the 4th wall!

Broken Truth: Sorry! [Repairs Fourth Wall]

[After breakfast - Diedre told her mother she was going into the village to meet up with Eliza - stating that the girl was going to get something for Daniela after accidentally hurting her feelings. Donna wished her daughter a good day and the girl was gone.]

[Which returned us to now - Diedre was walking down the long path, where the gate over the forest and the other side were thick dry bushes. Her mind couldn't stop thinking about her mother's face as she looking upon that painting: was there something else there that she couldn't see? Was her mother hiding something from her? Whatever it was, she would find out and if her mother was hiding something from her that was making her sad then Diedre would find it and rid her mother of it.]

Diedre (Thinking - With a sinister smile on her face): 'There is nothing I won't do for mother...nor is there anyone I won't hurt to make sure she's safe.'

??? (Echoing Voice): And that is your problem, Heiress Beneviento.

[The sudden voice made the girl stop in her tracks as she began to look around frantically for whoever made that voice]

Diedre (Angry): WHO'S THERE?! HOW DARE YOU TRESPASS IN BENEVIENTO TERRITORY?! SHOW YOURSELF AND I'LL END YOU QUICKLY!

??? (Echoing voice): So quick to anger. So eager to kill. I didn't think the little baby I laid my eyes on would turn into this.

Diedre (Began summoning her Puppeteer Strings): Come out!

??? (Echoing Voice - coming from behind Diedre): No need to scream.

[Diedre turns on her heel and sees a figure - A tall man, at least 6 feet tall; her other is 5'10 and he was a few heads taller than her. He was dressed in a grey dress shirt with a black vest over it with a black tie, black pants, and shoes. His hair was black and was pulled into a back ponytail. His eyes - they were white, soulless, void...dead. He stood there, looking at Diedre who just glared at him.]

Diedre (Growling): Who the hell are you and why are you here?

Man: So vulgar. I know Donna didn't raise you like that.

Diedre (Growls): That's Lady Beneviento to you, bastard! You shall not speak of my mother so casually as if you know her!

Man: But I do know Donna, very well. Just as I know you, Diedre Beneviento.

Diedre (Eyes widen then narrow): How do you know my name?!

Man (Stands there with his hands in his pockets): I know more about you than just your name - You are Diedre Beneviento, 20 Years Old, Only Child...and a mass murderer.

Diedre: WHAT?

Man: As I've said, I know everything about you, child. I've seen all the lives you have taken with those strings alongside your cousins - and for what? To 'protect' your parents from rude words? No - I can see it in your eyes, Diedre; you love the power to kill, to take someone's life because, besides your cousins, you see yourself as small and weak.

Deidre (Grinds her teeth): No, I'm not weak. I'm a Young Lord.

Man: Just a title, child; it's worth nothing unless you prove you have the worth to make it something but all you and your cousins are doing...is staining the names you have been born into.

Diedre: Shut up...

Man: You know I speak the truth, Diedre. Why don't you stop this meaningless slaughter and make something more of yourself isn't of a murderer who gets offended by words? For your mother's sake.

Diedre: Everything I do is for her! Never question me!

[In her anger - Diedre lashed her hand out to let the strings attack the man but before they could touch him, an unknown force caught them before they would pierce his skin.]

Diedre (Wide-eyed): WHAT?!

Man (Lifts one hand to the strings): Impressive...but as you are now...useless.

[The man flicked the strings and they shattered, the backlash sending the girl to the ground.]

Diedre (Grunting as she lifts herself off the ground, a small string of blood out of the corner of her mouth): Who...the hell are you?

Man: There's so much you don't know. Speak to Donna, ask her about Adam and you shall know everything. It's never too late to change.

[With that - the man disappeared in raven's feathers that dissolved, leaving the girl alone to pick her aching body off the ground and continue on her way. The Cousins would need to know about this...but not before she tailed to her mother.]

Thoughts, @snowflakestree

[jeremiahdowney]

I found a lost little girl at a Halloween attraction

God, I wish we hadn’t changed our Halloween routine last year.

For three years, ever since they have been old enough, we have done the same thing, go trick or treating in the village with some of my daughter’s school friends. Last year we decided to mix it up a little and try a local Halloween attraction. The girls are bit older now, so we thought we could up the scare factor.

We live in Yorkshire, England, and a manor house near us puts on an event each year. There is a spooky forest walk, a haunted maze, pumpkin carving the works. The highlight is the ghost tour, the house has a long and bloody history. Murders, assassinations, and suicides have all taken place there. Actors take you around the house and grounds to bring the macabre events to life. Tickets are expensive and limited, so we were really looking forward to it.

It is pitch black by five-pm at that time of year. It was a bleak, miserable day with driving rain and a biting wind. A small road takes you to the forlorn and uninviting gatehouse, with its carved stone gargoyles and high spiked wrought-iron fence.

A track then leads to the house through a dark and foreboding stretch of woodland, before opening up to provide the first vista of the manor house. A dark sentinel alone on its hill. A grey stone monolith, master of all it surveys from its lonely isolation. It has a haunting beauty, the type that drives men to murder and worse.

Scarecrows had been set up along the side of the track, each pointing the Halloween revelers to their fate, every head a carved and lit lantern of increasingly gruesome intricacy. I will say this now, we have grown blasé to the sight of a Jack-o-lantern, a symbol of candy and fun now. But here, on a bleak Yorkshire hillside, they instilled a primal fear. Their leering faces shifting and alive in their flickering candlelight.

In the short drive through the covering of the woods, the weather had changed dramatically. An eerie stillness had replaced the buffeting winds and, as is so often the case at this time of year, the ground had given up its moisture to form a thick mist that blanketed the earth reaching out with wispy tendrils and beginning to climb the trees and outbuildings.

The children sat in uncharacteristic silence and I wondered if this was a little much for Seven- and five-year-olds, a little much for me even. Still, once we made it to the parking area the mood changed. People were walking about in costume and the area glowed warmly with the light of hundreds of pumpkin lanterns.

We got out and blended straight in. I’m a traditionalist, so it’s a zombie costume every year for me. I say costume, but truly, all I do is cut up whatever clothes my expanding waistline have made too cozy and liberally douse them with fake blood. The girls dressed as a devil / witch, and as Elsa, with dia del muerto-style face paint. My daughters have eclectic tastes and are far too opinionated for their own good; they get it from their mother.

It was worth the steep ticket price. The girls carved pumpkins and the haunted maze was a blast. Everyone loves a hog roast, and there were hot, baked cinnamon apples.

The night was going great and everyone gathered for the ghost walk.

I was skeptical before the event, but I have to say being there, on that foggy Yorkshire night in such a bleak setting, really added to things. The actors were excellent, sometimes these things get hammed up too much, but they really nailed it. The stories were fascinating and gruesome in equal measure; people really can do the most horrific things to each other.

We were out of the house heading towards ‘the hanging cottage’ when my eldest whispered those fateful words that all parents dread on trips out. “Daddy, I need a poo.”

Going back to the house was a non-starter. It was too far, and we would miss the rest of the tour. We quickly headed into a thicket of trees at the side of the track. We could catch up to the group easily enough. We only went in a little way, just enough to get us out of sight of the group.

It was dark and tangled, I used my mobile phone as a torch, its meagre light allowing us to navigate. We finished and cleaned up, wet wipes are a parent’s best friend, and were about to head back to the group when I heard crying.

It was very close, just a little further into the woods. I took my daughter’s hand. “We’d better see what that is, in case someone needs help.”

The noise was easy to follow despite the oppressive overgrowth and we arrived at an arched gateway, part of an old crumbling wall. The gate itself hung crookedly from just one of its three hinges.

It was a small graveyard, presumably for manor house family members back in the day.

The tombstones were ancient, bent crooked as hags at all angles where the earth had moved and subsided over the years. The blanket of fog was so thick it covered our feet as we walked. At the far end, we could see a small figure behind one of the headstones. It was small, plain stone and unmarked, no engraved name to honor its resident corpse.

“Hello, are you okay?” I asked.

The figure turned, it was a little girl, about my daughter’s age. Her costume was excellent, old fashioned clothes, from the 1960s maybe. But it was the makeup that made it. Her skin was marble-white, her eyes ringed in black, and blood-red tear streaks ran down her cheeks. Across her throat an incredibly realistic slash with just the right amount of fake blood trickling from it.

She didn’t reply.

“Are your mummy or daddy here?” I asked again.

Nothing, she just looked down at the floor. I noticed she had on one of the wrist bands we all received on the way in. It had a space for writing a parent’s phone number on for just such an occasion.

“What’s your name little one?”

Still no reply.

“Can I look at your wristband please sweetheart, see if I can call your parents?”

She held up her arm, her skin was icy to touch when I held it to see the number clearly. Poor thing, I took off my jacket and draped it around her whilst I dialed. It was a landline number which worried me. The parents would have to be at home to take the call which would be impossible if they were here for the night.

The phone rang three times then

“Hello” croaked an old-sounding voice, a grandfather perhaps? The line was crackly and poor, reception not great in this remote location.

“Hi, can I just check I’ve dialed the correct number please, is this 01936 416428?” I wanted to make sure I was talking to the right person before giving out details of a lost child.

“Hello, can you speak up?” he asked. He sounded so old, not what I was expecting at all.

I repeated myself slowly and this time he confirmed I had called the right number.

“I’ve found a little girl who is lost. This was the number on her wristband. Are you missing your daughter or granddaughter?” I said.

“I don’t have a daughter, I don’t have any children” he replied.

“She’s about six or seven, all dressed for Halloween. Vintage 60’s clothes, and a slashed neck.”

There was a long pause, I thought he hadn’t heard me, and I was about to repeat myself when he started to speak.

“I didn’t…. It was an acci…. I never meant it to be like that, to happen that way.”

“Sir, is this your child?”

“She looked so perfect, I wanted her to be mine, but then she struggled. How did you know it was me? All those years, how did you find me now?”

I stood in stunned silence, my mind was reeling. I wasn’t sure what was happening, what I was hearing.

Suddenly, from behind us in the clearing the evocative hoot of an Owl and a flapping of wings. I turned, momentarily distracted, when I turned back the girl was gone.

My coat lay draped over the gravestone. Written on the previously unmarked stone in fresh blood was the name Sally Turnbull.

In my shock, it took a moment to register that the phone had gone dead.

I spent a panicked few minutes looking for the little girl, eventually conceding defeat. I took a photo of the gravestone before scooping my daughter onto my shoulders and running back to find the main group. Every time I tried to redial the man’s number the phone gave an engaged tone, as though the phone were off the hook.

The evening was drawing to a close anyway, so it wasn’t long before I was telling my wife about the incident in the car. My wife googled the name Sally Turnbull; she found an article from a few years ago in the local paper talking about the tragic and unsolved case of six-year-old Sally who went missing in 1967.

We agreed we should call the police, hoping that somehow, this was all some elaborate Halloween prank. They didn’t come out until the next morning, Halloween is a busy night for the police. They took a statement and I saw the annoyed look on their face when I pulled up the photo of the gravestone on my phone and it was unmarked stone. There was no name written on there.

They asked my daughter what happened and that didn’t help. She told them that she and daddy had been in the woods, so she could go to the toilet, but that she couldn’t hear the crying that I could. She said she didn’t see a little girl in the private cemetery, just daddy looking at a gravestone before putting his jacket on it.

The police gave me a lecture about wasting police time, but I insisted they took down the number I had dialed and agreed to follow up on it. I thought they were humoring me until three weeks later when I got a call from the office who had visited us. She said that they identified the number I had dialed as belonging to Mr. Brian Carter a retired widower who lived a couple of villages away. The police went to his house as a routine follow up, but after getting no response and based on an overpowering smell coming from the small cottage forced entry.

Brian was found hanging in his lounge. Next to him, still beeping, the phone, its receiver on the floor. He had written two words on a pad “I’m sorry” and police had timed his death as within an hour of the phone call I made to him on that Halloween night.

[gardnerffox]

Read chapter One from The Gentleman Rogue

Chapter One

  He was garbed in black, from the tricolor hat that shaded his masked face to the jack boots on his legs.  A long cloak, falling from the widespread of his shoulders to the loins of his black mare, rippled in the faint breeze that came swirling down off Hounslow Heath.  The moonlight that fell in dappled patterns across the road did not touch him in the shadows, or the long-barreled horse pistol he held in a gloved hand.

  The sack and canary he had consumed in the Brentwood Arms were still warm in the middle.  It held the whimsical smile fixed on his mouth, which showed wide and humorous under the lace frill of his mummer's mask.  Ian Montrose told himself, I look like Nicks the tobyman, with this barker in my hand and this domino on my face. John Nevison, known as Nicks all over England, had been a highwayman before they hanged him high on the gallows at Tyburn, years before.  He had been a hightoby rider for the gold and jewels he could steal. Ian Montrose was here to steal a garter.

  The English countryside was still at this hour of midnight.  Faintly, across the lea that separated Strand Green from Hanger Hill, he could hear the mournful ke'wick of a tawny owl.  Crickets chirped from patches of course grass, and once he heard the faint whinny of a distant horse.  The moon was a slim crescent, touching the bracken and the gorse on the heath with silver radiance. This was open country, filled with mists and great barren trees reaching upward like brown skeletal hands, and rocks the size of boulders.  Only in the far distance was their mellow light, from a farm cottage.

  "Lud!  It's a lonely place, this heath," the lone rider whispered to his black mare.  "Cold and damp and probably haunted, too, by the highwaymen they hang here. Still, it's good to be home again, even if I find myself poor as a church mouse, and asked my half brother's parties only because of my name."

  It had been at such a party, at Brentwood Arms on Fleet Street, that he had matched thirsts with the Duke of Amberston and the Earls of Lorwich and Kent.  There had been a sack, heavy with its Spanish grapes, and Madeira, and gins and whiskeys from the north countries, and hot posset drunk in chinaware pots. He remembered singing,  and dancing the gavotte with Lady Diana Loring, Viscountess of Blasfordshire, and of being warmly aware of her powdered arms and shoulders, disclosed so modishly by a daringly low bodice.  Her body had been soft and disturbing to a man who had stepped off a sailing bark from India less than a week before. He had kissed the Viscountess in the shelter of a garden hedge, and the taste of her moist lips on his own, and their heat as they trailed a path from the corner of his mouth to his ear had aroused a slow fire in him.

  That fire, and the sack and rich wines, had brought him here at midnight, onto this open stretch of barren heath.

  It had been Lady Diana that suggested the prank.

  "Most of us try to steal the bride's garter after she's married," she said with a laugh to the dandies surrounding her.  "You gentlemen fancy yourselves as rakehells! Why not steal it before she's wedded?"

  Their laughter was loud, but not so loud as the hammer of Ian Montrose's heart as he let his thoughts dwell on that idle challenge.  More than once that evening his admiring eyes had moved to the woman who was to be the Countess of Southend at the end of this summer of 1714.  She had been introduced as Lady Joan Sheldon, daughter of the late Earl of Harewood, ward and betrothed of Harold Montrose, Earl of Southend, Lord Somerset, his half-brother.  Her height was the height of his heart, and the manner in which her blue eyes had smiled at him above her red, wide mouth, with its beauty patch set so close to the corner of her lips, added fuel to the liquors that bubbled in his middle.

  He drowsed a little in his black leather saddle, waiting for the sound of coach wheels, letting himself dream of the manner in which her thick yellow hair had curled around her bared shoulders, and of the velvet fontange and scented ribbons that bedecked it.  She wore a gown of mulberry taffety, low enough to disclose a hint of her full young bosom. Her satin stomacher and peplum clung to round hips whose sway added mightily to the dizziness already induced in him by the wines and whiskeys he had consumed.

  Ian Montrose was not an envious man, but in this moment of his dreaming, he felt a mad, hot jealousy toward Lord Somerset.

  If his fortune were mine, he thought, I'd not be sitting a cold saddle here in the middle of the night, waiting to steal Lady Joan's garter, but riding snug and comfortable, close behind her in the coach itself!

  The lone rider straightened suddenly, standing in his iron stirrups.  He could hear the creak of coach wheels approaching from the east, from London town.  Lady Joan Sheldon would be in that coach, with Milord Somerset seated at her side. As his fingers tightened on the curving butt of his horse pistol, Ian Montrose grinned.  It was worth the risk of hanging for this night's adventure, to anticipate the look that would cross his half brother's arrogant powdered face when he poked this barker under his nose!  The creaking grew louder. Now he could hear the thud and pound of the horses' hoofs on the hard dirt road. Candle lamps winked in the night, and then the great gilded carriage was sweeping toward him along the Hounslow road, the driver in his blue Somerset livery tall and rigid on the seat, hands holding the reins stretched out before him.

  Ian toed the black mare to a mincing walk.  He came out of the shadows into the moonlight, as an apparition might spring from a witch's herbs tossed on a Beltane fire.  He was tall and black, bulking ominously dark and silent by the crossroads.

  "Stand and deliver,"  he called out harshly.

  His pistol came into the moonlight, aimed at the driver.  

  The coach rolled to a stop in drifted dust powdered by moonlight into silvery motes.  Brakes grated, squealing. A voice cried out from inside the coach.

  "Come down and lie flat on your belly," Ian told the driver.  He walked the mare forward as the coach door opened and Lord Somerset came out.

  "God's wounds!  What's this?" he asked, imperious eyes moving from the dark figure on the black mare to his serving man prone in the road.

  "A robbery, milord," explained Ian with a smile.  "There's no need for worry, however. I've a compunction against shedding blood, providing there's no call for it."

  "A hightoby rider," snapped Somerset.  "I'll see you hanged for this. You may know me for Harold Montrose, Earl of Southend, Lord Somerset, fellow!  I've the Duke's ear, as Boling-broke had Queen Anne's! I've influence at court!"

  The Earl of Southend, Viscount of Pensey and Litchfield, Baron of Borne, Lord Somerset, was a man of arrogance.  It lay revealed in the flaring spread of his patrician nostrils, in the tilt of his handsome face with its thin mouth and dark, flashing eyes.  Looking at him, Ian thought, this is my brother, this man in his fancy satin waistcoat and clocked silk stockings, with his slippers buckled in diamonds and the rings on his fingers worth a small fortune!  Only I know the streak of cruelty in him. I've seen him blind a horse that displeased him. Only I know the lust for money and power that governs his life.

  As Lord Somerset glowered at him, Ian let his memory linger on those days when he and Harold had matched dueling pistols side by side in a Sussex meadow and had stamped across half the halls in Southend Manor with their blunted rapiers.  Dour Harold Montrose, son to the woman the Earl of Southend made his second wife, had always resented Ian's lighthearted, easy way with the wenches. In his envy, he conceived himself abused. Abuse brought hatred after it, and when Ian had boarded the brig Royal William for India, he and his half-brother were not even nodding to each other.

  Ian's trigger finger itched.  It would be easy to put a ball between his half brother's eyes, easy to doff his mask and black clothes and step into his half brother's estates without suspicion of murder.  He acknowledged this temptation that flared in him even as he fought against it.

  Ian leaned forward in the saddle, placing the round muzzle of his horse pistol close to the nobleman's face.  His voice was calm and soft. "Keep your tongue quiet, by heaven, of I'll put a ball in your mouth!"

  He was not aware of it, but his dark blue eyes were bright with drink, and reckless with the dislike that had been building in him for this half-brother who owned the Somerset fortune, and was to wed Milady Joan.  They glittered through the slits of his mask with the feral hunger of a wolf.

  Lord Somerset caught the hot recklessness of those eyes, but he shouted savagely, "Drop that barker, you huff!  Drop it and I'll—"

  "Into the coach, milord, and mind your conduct!  I've no time to bandy words right now!"

  Lord Somerset lapsed into silence, his face reddening above the ruffled jabot at his throat.  In his injured pride, which saw him humiliated before the two women in his chaise, he would have hurled himself at this wolf's head, wrestling with him for that long pistol; but the bright eyes and something in the chin of the man told him he would live only so long as he obeyed his commands.  In his plum velvet coat and breeches he stood rigidly, head flung back, his face taut and hard. At a wave of the pistol, he moved stiffly into the coach, to fling himself against its thick upholstery and gnaw at a thin lip as he watched the highwayman come down out of his saddle.

  There were two women in the coach with Lord Somerset.  Ian let his eyes dwell on the golden loveliness of Lady Joan Sheldon, seeing her pale face framed in the ermine collar of her velvet wrap, studying the manner in which her round bodice hugged the swells of her bosom and the sheer fichu through which he could glimpse the white sheen of its flesh.

  The other woman was leaning forward, her own fichu falling away from the lifting mounds of her scarcely hidden breasts, showing them full and pale above the silver brocade that rimmed her taffety gown.  She was possessed of a sultry beauty, this viscountess, and her green eyes were bold and predatory under their long red lashes.

  "Joan, darling!"  exclaimed Lady Diana Loring.  "Isn't it too romantic? A tobyman!"

  Lady Joan tried to still the trembling of her white fingers by clasping them in a scented lace kerchief.  Her eyes were wide and frightened as they studied the masked face thrust into the doorway of the coach. She whispered, "I-I don't think it's so romantic, Di!  He's a robber!"

  The highwayman laughed softly.  "But not such a robber as you ever saw before, milady!  I take it you're Lady Joan Sheldon, Milord Somerset's intended.  In that case, perhaps I should not be stealing from you, but rather giving you a wedding present."

  The woman with the bright red hair was laughing softly.  "A very gentleman of a rogue! He speaks of wedding presents while he takes our treasures!"  She was busy stripping rings from her fingers.

  Ian looked at Lady Diana Loring and at the wide red mouth that had scorched his lips and face earlier this evening in the little yew garden off the inner piazza at Brentwood Arms.  She was regarding him almost with hypnotic attention, as though she expected him to vanish momentarily before the eyes that studied him so closely. Deep in those green depths, he could read mockery and a vast amusement.

  He turned from that mockery toward Lady Joan, aware that a chill sense of foreboding was gathering in him.

  Ian said, "I'll not attend your wedding, milady.  Unable to remove your garter then, I propose to take it now."

  Lady Joan gasped and threw herself back into a corner of the coach, lifting her ankles to tuck them under her thighs.  Lord Somerset leaned forward, his mouth a thin, hard line. He rasped, "Damn your impertinence! I've said it before, and I'll say it again.  I'll not rest content until you hang for your crimes from Tyburn gallows!"

  The horse pistol swung toward Lord Somerset.  The masked man smiled. "I can kill your bridegroom at a touch of a finger on my trigger, milady.  Do me a favor of removing your garter, before haste forces me to trespass under your petticoats myself."

  "Never!"  whispered Lady Joan, shrinking against the flowered upholstery of the chaise.  "I-I'll never do it!"

  Ian Montrose moved forward, resting one knee on the floor of the coach, heart thudding wildly.  With his pistol gripped in his left hand, he slid the right hand forward under that billowing skirt.  He felt a warm silken calf and knee beneath his fingers, then the swell of the smooth thigh. For one long instant, his palm lay hot against her thigh, so that he could feel it tremble.  Then his fingers lifted and gripped the ribboned garter and slid it down, past the knee and over the ankle.

  It dangled in the moonlight, a round and delicate thing of scarlet ribbon frilled with black lace.  The scent on its silk, and the warmth that had been imparted to it from the flesh it clasped made his hand tremble.

  Lady Joan never took her gaze from the bright eyes of the masked man.  She sat like a cobra before the flute, swaying a little, held by some inner paralysis.  Even the flush on her cheeks looked painted. In the bodice of her gown, her bosom lifted, heaving, as she bent her head forward into her hands and sat like that, her little ears turning beet red.

  The Viscountess moved forward then, thrusting her rings and necklet of matched pearls, together with a velvet purse heavy with golden guineas, into Ian's hand, which still held the garter.  "Please!" she whispered hoarsely. "Please take my things and Milord Somerset's purse, and let us be! Milord was a heavy winner at the piquet tables tonight. You'll find his purse fat enough to please you!"

  Ian said, "But I—" when he realized, with his right-hand heavy with diamond earrings and emerald rings, velvet purse and that frilly garter, that there was nothing he could say to the Viscountess.  If he denied his membership in the ranks of the night riders, he would as good as admit his identity. Yet if he took these riches that were being thrust on him, he would subject himself to pursuit by the queen's men, and a future hanging on Tyburn Tree.

  Milord Somerset said thickly, "Yes, yes!  Take my purse and go! Here, catch it."

  Somerset brought his hand out from under his gold embroidered coat.  There was no purse bulging in his palm, but a small pistol gripped solidly in tight fingers.

  Had he been less shaken with jealous rage, he would have put a ball between Ian Montrose's eyes, but the hand that held so steady on the dueling lawns of Lincoln's Inn Fields at Hyde Park trembled slightly here in the mad fury that shook him.

  His little pistol erupted in a belch of flame and smoke.

  Ian staggered slightly as the ball plowed into his chest, scraping along his ribs.  The pain came up like a red mist around him and drove his breath from his lungs. Then his right hand was sweeping up and the barrel of his pistol came hard against the pointed, arrogant chin of Harold Montrose, Lord Somerset.

  That blow made a sodden sound in the night.  Lord Somerset went back bonelessly, to recline like a dead man against the velvet quarterings of his coach.  Ian stared down, dismayed by the savage fury that had been in him as he swung that pistol.

  Lady Joan Sheldon screamed.

  The Viscountess leaned forward, her slim white fingers moving gently as they fumbled under the many-buttoned lapel of Somerset's plum-colored coat.  They came out with a velvet purse ornate with silver stitching and the iron pheon of the house of Southend.

  "Take this purse," she cried out, thrusting the sack into Ian's hand.  "Take it and go, for the love of heaven!"

  Ian stared blankly at his half-brother, lolling so lifelessly on the cushions.  Despair hammered its way up through the pain racking his ribs. Did I kill him, striking like that in anger?  Am I to end in the hempen rope for murder, as a result of this night's jest? He could see the blood trickling down across Somerset's mouth and chin and dripping redly onto his jabot, and the drunken recklessness of the sack and whiskey fled from him, leaving him shaken and pale.

  He grew aware that Lady Joan had lifted her face from her hands and was staring at him.  Ian found himself unable to read her eyes, but he knew suddenly through the momentary fright in him that there was no fear in them.

  He staggered as he backed away from the coach.  Sliding a boot into an iron stirrup, he tried to lift himself into his saddle.  The wound in his chest throbbed and pulsed, making him bend double. The mare sidled nervously, and he had to grab at her thick black mane.  His teeth grated in the effort of will that lifted him upward and into the black saddle. Reins in a gloved hand, he toed the mare to a canter, aware that the Viscountess was standing in the moonlight, calling to the driver, and turning to stare curiously after him as he disappeared between the oaks and cedars bordering the road to West Action.

  He rode at a canter, bent over to ease the fire in his side.  There was wet stickiness on the fingers that he thrust into the tear in his coat, where they touched his bloody ribs.  A little higher and to one side, he thought, and I'd be stretched out lifeless on the ground back there. The thought made him grimace wryly.  Word would have been all over London, then. Ian Montrose, the poor relation of Lord Somerset, had turned highwayman to add to the fortune of which fate had seen fit to deprive him.  At least, none knew who it was that trotted away from the crossroads tree with two purses, fat with gold, thrust into his saddlebag, with the jewels that had adorned the ears and throat and fingers of the Viscountess of Blasfordshire nestling close beside them.

  He dismounted at a stile to remove coat and lingerie shirt and make a bandage of the shirt, which he wrapped tightly about his chest with trembling fingers.  In the bright moonlight, he discovered that his wound was more painful than dangerous, for the break in his skin was clean where the ball had glanced against a rib and torn out through his flesh.

  My loving brother would give much to see me stripped to my buff before him, he thought wryly.  It would be all the proof he'd need to send me to the gibbet. He wondered if Hal were alive, even, and shuddered at the thought.

  Ian Montrose debated with himself, seated on a flat milestone in the shadow of the stile.  To return now to the Red Hart Inn, which had been his starting point an hour before midnight, would be to reveal to Ebenezer Gunn and his pretty daughter, Nancy, that young Ian Montrose was on the high road, with the black mare and the horse pistols he had brought with him from India.

  Rather ride back to London, where one more late rider will pass unnoticed, then let them see me this way, he decided.

  He owned treasured boyhood memories of the old tavern that stood on the road to Bockhorst Hill, with its timbered walls wreathed in green ivy, its stone lintel smoothed by a hundred years of boots and slippers moving across its surface.  The Red Hart Inn had been built in the days of Drake and Hawkins, and its musty cellars were labyrinths of passageways once used by the smugglers who had brought coffee and tea, canary and Madeira, silks and satins from France and the Lowlands, Spain and Denmark, to their storage spaces.  Behind its sprawling walls were the stables, and a buttery with matching wash house and brewery. In the days when he sought refuge from a tutor who used a ferrule overmuch, he found those cellars and those stables alive with a thousand nooks and crannies to be investigated, always with young Nancy Gunn tagging at his heels.

  Later, when he had come home to Southend Hall from Oxford and Christ Church, he discovered that Nancy Gunn had grown up.  Her lips were like sweet fire, and her soft arms clung with a frenzied strength, to assuage a little of his loneliness. His mother, a Marchioness in her own right, had died when he was two, and his father, the old Earl of Southend, was a sporting buck who thought more of his fighting cocks and racehorses than he did of his son, who was left alone to raise himself according to the dictates of his rebellious blood.

  The Red Hart Inn became a home to him in that first year of Oxford.  Ebenezer Gunn was a more understanding man than the elder Ian Montrose.  When the Earl discovered that young Ian was spending his weekends galloping across the leas of Bockhorst on horses borrowed from the Red Hart stables, he went to the Lord of the Admiralty and made arrangements to secure passage for Ian Montrose on the bark Royal William, bound for India.

  That voyage had taken four years and included the shipwreck of the Royal William, a rescue at sea, and a docking of the rescue brig at Calicut.  There, in the alabaster temples and zenana gardens, silken bazaars and hill forts, he worked long and hard for the East India Company. He made lasting friendships with the naiks of Mysore and the Nawab of Arcot, aiding the Nizam al Mulk to found his dynasty at Hyderabad, and laying a solid foundation for the English against the French, who were penetrating into Pondicherry and the Carnatic lowlands.

  He was aware that the strange fascination of India was in his blood.  He had been the Inglisi khan too long not to acquire a taste for sugared ginger and buttered kichri, and a hunger for coppery women in clinging silken saris.  He found himself dreaming with a touch of nostalgia, on the quarterdeck of the barkentine that brought him back to Europe, of golden howdahs and silver palanquins set with blood rubies, of high silken turbans and the fragile veils of women who wore the circular red caste marks on their foreheads, of mullahs and rupees, and the bronze figure of the Dancer, six-armed Siva.  He had seen black pearls the size of fingertips taken from the seas off Ceylon, precious jade carvings from Cathay, and great bronze chests filled with diamonds and emeralds.

  Those pearls and jades, diamonds and golden howdahs were symbols to him of the natural riches of that vast country stretching from the snowy peaks of the Himalayas to the warm blue waters of the Indian Ocean.

  It was a land of waiting for the man who possessed enough strength in his fist to take it.  Ian Montrose wanted that man to be an Englishman. A colony like India, together with the vast New World over which England and France were fighting, would mean the first rank among the nations of the world for the land that owned them.

  "A nation that strong will need a strong hand to guide it," he whispered to the heath below Mile End Road.  "Anne is a woman grown old with age. A lonely woman, too, now that Prince George, her husband, is dead, and her quarrellings with the Duchess of Marlborough out in the open."

  When Queen Anne died childless, the throne would be vacant for the taker.  Even now, court gossip suggested that the son of James II would sit that throne.  Here and there, men like Lords Stanhope and Townsend were mentioning the name of George of Hanover as an aspirant to the crown.

  In his youth, Ian Montrose had visited at the court of Zell with his father, the Earl of Southend.  He had known Count Konigsmark and the Princess Sophia Dorothea. This George of Hanover was a strong man, a man with convictions and enough strength of character to maintain them.

  And so Ian, in his first flush of enthusiasm about India, had stopped in Denmark for an audience with the Electoral Prince.  He had met the gross, fleshy George, had talked with him five hours and had been introduced to the Earl of Morley, who was in Denmark to explain that Anne of England was a sick woman.  She had not long to live. If George wanted the throne, he must act now, or not at all.

  "I have enemies in England," the Prince of Hanover announced the Ian, staring across the richly paneled audience room with protruding eyes.  "Bolling-broke and Oxford. Enemies who are powerful men at court."

  Ian protested, with the conviction that this man would make a good king strong within him.  "You have friends too, your grace. Men such as Stanhope and Townsend. The Whig party is strong.  All it needs is your consent to work on your behalf. Sire, England is approaching a crisis with destiny.  India awaits a conqueror. So does the world. Great lands. Lands a hundred times England's size!"

  George of Hanover let his thick lips loosen in a faint smile.  "You are an enthusiast, Montrose. Well, enthusiasm is a good thing in a man.  Especially in a man who sees king material in me. Do as you want. Befriend me in London, among court circles.  I'll not be ungrateful if the time ever comes for remembering friends."

  Within two days of his arrival in Bristol, Ian Montrose was being shown the will made by the old Earl, his father.  It left Ian penniless, his father believing him dead on the high seas. The will left the title and the vast Southend fortunes to his half-brother, Harold.

  As he cantered his mare over the wooden arch of Knight's Bridge and along the pasture lands of St. Giles' Fields, he thought back on the high hopes with which he had left India.  Instead of finding wealth and a title, he came back to England to find himself penniless, without funds other than what he had managed to save from his sojourn in Calicut.

  He knew, of course, that, as the old Earl's elder son, he had only to claim the title to make it his.  The Earl could bequeath his estates to whomever he wished, but the title he could not dispose of in so cavalier a fashion.  That could be inherited only by his eldest living son, and that son was Ian.

  Yet, thought Ian, of what use was a title to him without the estates and the money to back it up?  A penniless earl, with nothing but a name and a few suits of clothes to his back, a brace of horse pistols and this black mare between his thighs—he would be the laughingstock of England, and, worse, a man lost in a limbo between two worlds, unable to live comfortably in the society that the title made his, separated from the great mass of men by the same title.

  No, Ian reflected, under the circumstances, the title would be more of a liability to him than an asset.  Let Hal keep it, along with everything else. For the present, at least...

  He dismounted and unsaddled in the small stable under the little townhouse that was his sole inheritance from his mother.  Upending the worn leather feed bag, he dumped out the dried dust and dirt that was the accumulation of the years.

  "There's not even a bit of grain in the bag for you, girl," he said to the mare, stroking her soft nose.  "In the morning I'll visit the livery stable and obtain credit. I'll put a good meal under your hide before we go back to Bockhorst, my word on it!"

  A narrow wooden stair led upward from the stables to the kitchen.  With black saddlebags slung over a shoulder, he mounted past a wide landing fronted by a leaded window to the second story.

  He turned into the bedroom and struck the flint to steel, wincing as the sudden movement sent pain through his wound.  A standing lamp revealed a wide room the width of the house, with a great oak poster bed and wall hangings of Mortlake tapestry.  A marquetry chest-on-chest fronted a section of paneling fitted with frame paintings, opposite a silvered mirror.

  Ian took the saddlebags to a walnut side table with cabriole legs and unfastened the straps.  Shaking them out, he stared down at diamonds and emerald rings, at a pearl necklace worth the yearly rental of a prosperous farm, and two velvet purses heavy with golden guineas.

  Then he lifted out the ribboned garter that had come from the leg of Lady Joan Sheldon.  For a moment he stared down at the tiny lace rosettes and ruffled pleatings. He sniffed the faint fragrance of perfume on its lacy frills.

  "A dainty pretty indeed, Ian Montrose," called a mocking voice, "but a dangerous thing to be caught with, in the privacy of your own bedroom!  It proves you the highwayman who hit Lord Somerset with a pistol barrel a few hours ago, outside Hounslow Heath!"

  He whirled, fingers tensing on the scarlet garter.  The Viscountess of Blasfordshire stood with a knee braced on a Windsor chair, her tippet-edged wrap fallen from a white shoulder.  There was a cruel smile on her wide red mouth.

  In her right hand, she held a small, silver-mounted pistol.  It was aimed at Ian Montrose where the buckle of his leather belt was fastened at his middle.

[rainbow-squirrels-7]

Highlights from tonight’s murder mystery episode of my DND campaign, The Kleos Guild!

-We began with the PCs waiting for word when to go out to set the trap for the Song Thief

-My Druid (Bec, half-orc) was cheating at playing pool

-My Paladin (Gixa, white dragonborn) was eating ice in the cafeteria 

-And my Bard (Alexander, half-dark elf) was actually composing a sincere apology for acting so shady behind Peregrine and Gixa;s backs last episode. It was very sweet actually

-He said that his bardic mentor said ‘words have power, especially for bards’ or something, and that gave me SO much backstory fodder. But it’s kind of ironic because none of them know their backstories actually happened in the future

-Anyway, then Daisy (the orc guildmaster of the Sapphire Division) came in and announced that at the location of the last Song Crystal... there’s been a murder

-So the crew warps out there and ends up in the ski-lodge like town of King’s Reach. Gixa is very happy to finally be in a place that is not sweltering 

-They go up to Bremen manor and admire the Tree of Life and none of my players get the Musicians of Bremen reference I made with the statue of the animals on top of the fountains and I had to explain it to those heathens 

-Agatha Bremen, daughter of the murdered man Edgar Bremen is outside waiting for them. Inside, they meet the suspects: Beatrice the tabaxi maid, Crispin the human who’s a one-armed retired Paladin, Darren the human (Agatha’s child), and Jeremy the halfling chef

-Agatha shows them the scene of the crime, seeing some impressionist paintings on the walls of the portrait gallery just before

-They find Edgar Bremen dead from three parallel slash marks on his throat. I was hoping this would make them immediately suspect Beatrice, but alas

-Right as they left that room, they heard a crash from downstairs and a scream

-Alexander and Bec then Feather Fall over the balcony, and Gixa slides down the bannister

-They go into the kitchen to find that Jeremy the chef has just been murdered in the same way as Edgar was. It was Beatrice who screamed

-Beatrice had a high, very scared of everything voice. She was constantly freaking out (as I was trying to hype up her red herring-ness). Crispin had my very best Barry Bluejeans impression voice. If Darren talked, I don’t remember their voice, and I don’t think Jeremy talked at all. Agatha just had a regular voice, but Gixa’s player said she pictured her with a British accent. I did a British accent for another character back in episode 3, and I didn’t like it, so I didn’t do it again. 

-Crispin also talked with Gixa at one point, as they have Paladin in common, and Crispin explained that he was part of Phineas’ legion when they were defending Bard City a few months back from the monster attack, and the monster bit off his arm, so he retired from being a Paladin. 

-The players then began going through all the Clue-style rooms (my original plan was to just plop down a Clue board, but I didn’t have one) looking for clues

-I did manage to red herring them with the silverware set up, which was really just Jeremy not getting to set the rest of the table, but Alexander thought it was suspicious that six of the knives were missing, and there were six slash marks total. 

-They found Edgar’s will in the study, which included the name Leonard, whom was someone who wasn’t present in the manor, and also had one crossed off name at the bottom. In the lounge, they found more paintings, and found that they were signed by Leonard. Agatha then told them Leonard is her husband and a painter who works in Ferryrock. She also says he’s been into music lately, and that they just got a new piano. In one of the paintings, they see the staff of the manor, and one tabaxi man who isn’t present either, but he’s dressed like a butler 

-In the ballroom, they found a grand piano and some sheet music. It’s described to have been written in pencil and a title was there but erased and rewritten multiple times before the writer just wrote ‘title goes here’. The writer turned out to be Charlie Jones, the bard kid who travels with the salesman Gerald, and who is a fan favorite. He and Gerald came through town recently, and Charlie had been working on this composition, and Leonard had asked for a copy to try to learn to play. The song was unfinished though, and is the first 30 seconds of this:

-https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=arIymDYA2y8

-Anyway, they ask Agatha about the butler, and she says that he’s Virgil, and he worked for Edgar, but he was fired a few years back after he was caught embezzling money

-The PCs then go upstairs to continue the investigation, only after Alexander goes back in the kitchen and finds the flatware that had not been set. He takes the knives

-Upstairs, they find Darren’s room, which is a typical messy teenager room. They also find some papers that we would recognize as characters sheets, and also a set of dice. It’s all from the hot tabletop fantasy game popular across The Land: Suburbs and Sedans

-In Agatha and Leonard’s room, they find a book called Bardic Inspiration: For Dummies. Gixa shows it to Alexander saying “Hey, this’ll be your next birthday present.”

-They also find some messed up wallpaper, but nothing but a wall behind it

-Down the hallway, they find the library, which is the first real library they’ve been to, since the other library in the very first episode in the Town of Heroes was full of fake books

-They find that the wallpaper in this room has been messed up too, and behind it, they find a door that leads to the vault room

-Inside, they find the floating cat ghost form of Virgil, trying to steal the money from the safe. I tried to give Virgil an impression of Jenkins’ voice, but idk if it was accurate. Either way, it was pretty good.

-And it all freaking dissolved into ghost humor

-”Why does a ghost need money? IS THERE GHOST CAPITALISM??”

-But yeah, they fought the ghost Virgil, and I quickly realized that my fights are way too easy. Virgil didn’t even land a hit on them. I made a mental note to make my enemies stronger

-Anyway, after Virgil “went poof into a poof of ghost mist”, there was a bit of banter when Alexander opened the safe and Gixa was afraid he would steal the money. She poked him with her halberd, and Alexander then closed the door on the other two and Mended the wallpaper back. They got out pretty quickly, though.

-Once they got back to the balcony, they heard music coming from outside. Alexander’s player immediately said he was going to the window so he could climb on the roof, but then I realized I forgot to say that it wasn’t piano music (which would point to the Song Thief), but cello and violin music.

-Bec and Alexander Feather Fall off the balcony again and Gixa Misty Steps (or she “BAMFs down to the first floor like Nightcrawler” as I described it) and they all rush outside

-Just in time to see Daisy swing around her cello and konk the Song Thief in the back of the head. Bec immediately falls in love

-Agatha gives the players a 150 gold reward for solving the crime and ghostbusting, and Peregrine reminds everyone of the urgent Song Thief business and they all head back to Ferryrock

-Bec also asked Daisy if when this all is over, if they could get drinks sometime. Daisy was flustered and it was real cute and she said “Yeah, that would be really nice,”

-Though in my head I was thinking ‘oh heck they’re about to be sent to the future I’m wrecking this date’ even though I really want it to happen. I’ll make it happen later, after they save the world. Because I really like it. Reminds me of Aubrey and Danny

-Anyway, they warp back to Ferryrock, and Peregrine calls another town meeting to tell everyone of the Song Thief’s capture. My players manage to find Leonard in the crowd and inform him “your wife’s okay! the butler did it!”

-Oh and the Song Thief is paraded down to the city center, and my players see him without his mask for the first time. So that’s cool

-Peregrine then makes a speech about the hard work of the Kleos Guild and everything good and all that, but that she has to leave and take the Song Thief back to the future

-my players laughed too much at the ‘back to the future’ line

-She then does a magic prayer, making a time portal doorway appear. It looks like a floating rectangle of white light with a circle in the middle. Not exactly a PMD Dimensional Hole

-She was praying to Mother Time, by the way

-And she pushes the Song Thief into the portal and calls up the PCs for heroic recognition. She thanks them and the crowd loves them. And she echoes Alexander saying ‘words have power’ and she says that she wants to play one more song for them

-and she plays the Tree of Life

-which freezes them in place

-and she pushes them into the portal

-they all black out and wake up in complete darkness. not even Darkvision people could see. And they couldn’t hear anything. They tried to make sound, but it didn’t work. Any light spells they cast only lasted for a fraction of the time they’re supposed to. I ‘opened up this can of worms’ when Gixa also tried to pray to her goddess, Selune, but it didn’t work, she didn’t get any response a la Merle in The Suffering Game

-it’s cause all the gods except for Mother Time abandoned the silent future

-They all also decided that Peregrine was the evil one now (no one is evil stop putting my complex morality story into such black and white terms) and Gica tried to stumble around in the dark to release the Song Thief who was still knocked out in the room with them. 

-and I ended with “and thus begins... Arc Three.”

-I want this time in the silent future to be like as bad as the hero and partner felt in their dark future, or maybe even something like The Suffering Game. I want there to be real stakes. I’m planning to make the enemies harder and have there actually be danger. And they’re going to have to decide where they stand and who they trust. Because they thought they knew Peregrine was ‘good’ and the Song Theif was ‘bad’ but Peregrine just pushed them into the portal so...

-I also accidentally established immediate silence, which I didn’t want to do because it’s going to make the next part difficult. I did need some dialogue. But Peregrine and Kes know Drow sign language, and it was already established that Alexander knows a bit of it. So maybe that’ll work. It’ll at least give me the added bonus of the PCs only getting part of the information since they’ll only be able to get fractured conversations. 

-at least I have three months to figure it out. This was my last session before summer vacation. So I left them on a cliffhanger ahah. I really want Kes in the next episode to do K E S in sign language to them, so they at least know his name. 

-but yeah! I’m gonna construct a very bad time for my players in this silent future! fun times!