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velvetchrry · 17 days

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━━━━ WRAITHCLIFF MANOR

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x f!reader

1.8k. it is 1886 and you’ve just been married off, starting a new life in england. supernatural horror anthology.

You wondered what the town would think if you turned around and strangled her with the strings of your corset.

Who would write your life story in the paper? Surely some wretched, balding fool who returns home everyday to a wife he detests and insufferable kids he can’t wait to ship off to boarding school. Knobbled fingers click clacking away at a typewriter as he tells the unseemingly tale of a pretty young debutante turned murderess.

It leaves a soured taste in your mouth and it’s why you ultimately let your mother’s maidservant continue to stuff you into a surely too small corset without acting on your impulsive homicidal thought. Not that these delicate hands could, anyway. You’re fairly certain between you and her, she would have the upper hand.

Every inhale, every string she yanks on, makes the air seem rougher against the membranous lining of your lungs. She knows you’re aggravated, which is why the atmosphere in the room is silent. You’re thankful for it.

When you’re finally dressed and down the stairs, the lecherous look of your stepfather might make you question the validity of his claim that he desires to finally ship you off to a husband. Bile coats the inside of your throat at the glint in his eye, snaking its way up your esophagus from your empty stomach. He tuts quietly to himself and you ignore it, looking instead for your mother who is already drunk, lounging on the chaise in front of the fireplace.

“Mother, you’re not dressed…,” you note — not a question, never a question — voice pitched higher than you intended. She dons only a robe, wineglass stem rolling through her fingertips as she sloshes the red contents around the glass and stares longingly into the fire.

“Your father is chaperoning you tonight.” You bristle at her calling him your father. Though you remember very little of the man who was your father, the sting of the wound still feels fresh. You don’t bid her a goodnight as you assume she won’t remember it anyway.

Back straight, head held high, you keep your composure as you head towards your demise — a freshly painted carriage. The driver tips his cap to you before offering his hand to help you inside. Your stepfather follows soon after, acrid smell of liquor on his breath. One of his hands finds purchase on your thigh and you shiver at the connection, even through your many layers. Gooseflesh travels along every inch of your skin, making the fabric of your shift feel like canvas rather than silk.

The unfamiliar name of your host forces you to tune back into the words coming from his mouth. New money, you overheard one of the servants say earlier. From England, working on some business venture or another with your stepfather. Staying temporarily in the Laswell summer estate until he returns back to England. With a new wife in tow, you think bitterly.

The carriage pulls up and you brace yourself for the oncoming slaughter. Why pretty up the cow when the end result is the same? The frills in your dress, the light dusting of makeup will not change your fate.

You almost stumble when you see him for the first time. Like that new building you’d heard of in Chicago —skyscraper they call it — his massive frame towers over both you and your stepfather. If his ego wasn’t big enough on its own you’d assume your stepfather wouldn’t be comfortable around a man of his stature, much less work with him.

His light hair is slicked back haphazardly, a white y-shaped scar decorating his forehead and another slicing through his upper lip. The skin around his mouth looks freshly shaven, like he doesn’t opt to do it often. Is he unimpressed? Displeased? Inspired? It’s hard to tell by the look of indifference he sports. He’s rough around the edges but still brutishly handsome.

Imposing. Gargantuan. Hulking. The words flow to your lips, the ones currently pressed tightly together. You know he can smell the terror dripping off of you on your approach. You wonder if the tailor might double the fabric he uses for regular sized men on his garments when you place your hand in his — swallowed up by his large palm as you give a small curtsy before ripping your hand out of his and placing it back to your side.

“Simon Riley,” he introduces, voice as gruff as you imagined it’d be. His eyes are so dark you can’t tell if they’re actually brown or black when you give your full name back, craning your neck to look up at him.

The air stifles you, thick and suffocating as you enter the dining hall. You’re aware the weight of a heavy hand pressing on your chest is not from your corset’s impenetrable grip alone. It’s the emptiest you have ever seen this place, the few balls you've been to here over the years in comparison making it seem much more desolate.

He doesn’t speak much. Your stepfather instead fills the silence with chatter. You pick at your food like a bird. Trapped in her cage, about to be sold to the highest bidder.

His rough hand draws your attention. Hands that have known labor stare back at you. New money, you think again, but from what? You wonder what those hands would feel like on your delicate skin. Rough pads of his fingers trailing down your body. Would he be gentle or cruel? Touching you in places that should make you blush to imagine.

The mention of your luggage throws your mind back into the conversation at hand. You blink over at your stepfather as he explains how your essentials had already been packed up and brought over. That Simon will supply whatever need is left. Suddenly the bags at the back of the carriage that you paid no mind to earlier cause a small gasp to escape your lips.

Simon’s head whips in your direction for the first time since sitting down. “Did’n know?” he more so states than questions when his eyes meet yours. “We’re leavin’ for England tonight.”

On reflection of the moment, you’re quite certain your eyes were popping out of your head at hearing this. Your stepfather said nothing, his face emotionless at the news you were receiving.

You’re paralyzed for the remained of the dinner, watching through glassy eyes as your stepfather signs your name and age in the marriage certificate that already bears the signature of the county clerk. He hands it off to Simon, who folds it neatly and stuffs it in his breatpocket. “Pleasure,” he says to your stepfather. Not you. Him. Of whom he hands a very large wad of cash to.

Now that the business is over, your stepfather stands. “She’ll make you very happy,” he comments to Simon, before trudging off without saying a word to you.

Simon gets up, talking quietly to a maidservant standing in the corner who you don’t recognize. She’s older, mellow — helping you rise from your seat and leading you through the estate. You’re in a room you’ve never been in before, where she delicately buttons a light coat over your frame before bringing you out a door to the backside of the estate. After she gets you settled in the carriage she places a blanket over your lap before sitting up front with the driver. Your new husband enters the carriage after that. You’re not sure how long you’d been sitting in there alone — ten minutes or an hour. It made no difference.

You see neither hide nor hair of your husband during your weeklong journey to England. Only the maidservant who you eventually learn is employed by the Riley’s and travelled with Simon to see to his new bride. Mrs. Upton. She’s incredibly kind, especially considering how frigid your demeanor is. Her graying hair is always swept up into an elegant bun when she attends to you, helping you to dress and brushing the knots out of your hair after another rough night of sleep. She’s the one who ensures you eat, bringing every meal to your lodging on the ship.

After Mrs. Upton settles you in the carriage that will drive you to your new home, you are again stunned by the sheer size of your husband as he takes a seat next to you. This is the first carriage you’ve sat in so far to be completely covered, and stuffing both of you into this tiny box reminds you of the unpleasant feeling every morning of being crammed into your corset.

The walls start closing in on you, claustrophobic and suffocating. Your breathing picks up to the point of hyperventilation and you throw the soft blanket Mrs. Upton laid upon you off of your lap. You’re flushed, a dribble of sweat snaking its way down your brow.

Simon says nothing as he reaches over — barely, as he is just as long as he is large — and opens the window on your side. You press your cheek against the grated wood in no manner of elegance, closing your eyes as you breathe in the fresh air coming through the slats in the carriage. The crisp fall morning fills your lungs and the headache that has been pestering you since you left home a week ago finally starts to ease its grip.

Nothing is said between the two of you on the journey. Half a day passes until the carriage begins to slow, finally coming to a full stop after climbing up a rather sizeable hill. Simon finally looks over at you, as if he was taking you in for the first time. The driver opens the door to the carriage, and you can barely make out a manor around the bulk of your husband.

Surprisingly, Simon is the one to offer you his hand on the step out of the carriage. The manor looms ominously above you, ivy mangled and twisting around the weathered exterior. Dead, rotten trees cast shadows along the house. The rooftops are adorned in pointed, intricate ironwork that has started to rust. Tall windows are set into almost every wall, a few shuttered off. The front door — a massive slab of timeworn oak — has faded significantly since its initial installation. You feel as if you’ve been transported into the latest penny dreadful as you stand there, slack jawed.

Something old and sinister lives inside these walls. A shiver trails down your spine at the thought. Even though you’re outside, the air is thick… musty. Time seems to have stopped entirely here. Forgotten secrets await to be rediscovered within the grounds — untold horrors from the specters within.

“Welcome to Wraithcliff Manor.”

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